Matt

~ erotica ~


"Hello Matt."

"Hello Whit."

I know my type. I get it. Tall. Leadership position. In control. I get it.

But there is something about Matt. Something in his manner. Something in the way he bosses us all around that gets me off.

We've never done anything, of course. I like my job and greatly want to keep it. The idea of me fucking the boss probably wouldn't sit right with any of my fellow co-workers.

So, instead, I greet Matt as I always do.

"Thank you, Matt."

He never replies to my habitual farewell. Never lingers until everyone is gone. Never tries to talk to me after the gig is over. Never makes a move.

Sometimes, in the middle of setting everything up, I look over and see him. He'll be shooting the shit with the client. Keeping tabs on everyone working. We never make eye contact. I don't look at him that often. But I usually have a sense of where he is. The hunger in my body often senses him.

Today was not a special day, nor a special gig. It was an easy load out. An easy going client. Everyone was happy.

I especially was pleased with the quickness of our work. I had a party to get to after the gig. People I was happy to see. Chill time to be had. I packed a bag just to change my clothes. No matter the rush, I did not want to show up in my dirty work outfit for what was sure to be a fun night.

When Matt dismissed us, and I said my normal thank you, I made my way to the restroom. Changed my clothes. Played with my hair. Sprayed my favorite scent on my skin. Transitioned from worker to party girl.

As I slung my garment bag over my shoulder, I grinned to myself. This was a first for me, looking this cute after a gig. I wondered what my coworkers would've thought of the switch.

Stepping outside of the restroom, I lazily walked towards the exit.

Passing the room I'd just worked in, I happened to glance inside. And I saw him. Matt, with his bag slung over his shoulder. A small smirk on his face as he walked towards me.

And then he saw me. His smirk got bigger. I waited the few breaths for him to join me.

"Hi Matt."

"Hi Whit. Off to have fun."

"Always, Matt."

We walked out of the building together towards our cars.

Matt had never seen me like this. I knew it would leave an impression. But I had one more gem to impart.

"I'm here," he said as we came upon his Jeep. "Have fun tonight."

"I plan to, Matt. But, before I go."

I reached into my bag, felt around for a moment, and then found it. I pulled out the cigar and handed it to him.

"For you, Matt."

He took the stick, glided it under his nose, and closed his eyes.

"Thanks again, Matt."

I turned and walked away before he could respond, but I could feel his eyes on me. Tracing the lines of my body from toe to tip. I hoped he liked the view, and trusted it would be his preferred thought as he enjoyed the tobacco some day soon.

"Whit."

I stopped. Turned. Smiled.

"Yes, Matt."

He pulled out a knife from his pocket. Flicked it open with a click. Wetted the end of the cigar. Notched the tobacco. Put away his knife. Lit my gift.

"Every time you say my name, it sounds like sex."

"Really, Matt." He wasn't the only one smiling.

"When we fuck, will you scream or whisper my name?"

"Depends, Matt."

"On?"

"What you want, Matt."

His smoke lingered around his face as his grin grew.

"Come here." He beckoned me over, the ember of his cigar's cherry a beacon for my steps.

"Yes, Matt."

Small World

~ erotica ~


Small world.

Is it him? Is it really him?

I see the picture. The tiny image on my screen. The arms. The abs. The smile.

Yes. Oh god, yes. It's him.

"Holy shit," I say to no one in particular.

There he is. Of all the people on this site. Of all the possible faces to come across my screen. His grin beams at me. The power of the internet.

And he sent me a message.

Small world.

What does he mean by that?

I look at our statistics. We line up well. No, amazingly close. Almost the best I've ever seen.

He knows about my life. What I do after work, on vacation. He hears the stories I don't tell anyone else at the office.

And he tells me his own secrets. What he and his girlfriend do on the weekends when a certain someone is in town. Or on vacations to beautiful beaches full of beautiful people.

Whenever we chat, I feel his gleeful face in my flesh. His laughs warming my loins.

The many things I want to do with him. The thoughts of all the things I want him to do to me.

But no. You don't shit where you eat, right? Everyone knows that, don't they?

And yet, he wrote me.

He is nothing if not a trickster. Did he seek me out? Is this just some fun little game of his?

No. He's heard my stories, yes, but he doesn't know my persona. My name outside of the cubicles. What people call me before they make me cum.

But now he does.

Should I answer? Play along?

What if this isn't a game? What if he isn't kidding around?

What if he's thought about his arms around me? What if he's wondered what my face looks like as I cum? What if he wants to feel my lips around his cock? See my eyes looking up into his as he fucks my face? Hears my begging? Tastes my tears? The power he'd have over me?

But what to say? How should I play this? What would he want to hear?

Fuck it.

Indeed, I reply.

Your move.

The Mask

"Stop."
"Dammit."
"Feel that. Whatever you are feeling right now. Just sit with that emotion."

I didn't want to. I was reading my homework for Doc. A few pages typed into my netbook. Very honest words to myself. My pace was measured. I tried to put on my writer-ly voice.

But then I got to two lines. Two deep lines. I hoped he wouldn't notice. He did.

"Close your eyes. Imagine the emotion. How do you see it? Perceive it? What does it feel like? What does it look like? Try not to qualify it as good or bad. Just be curious about it. And just sit for five minutes with it."
 
I felt it in my face. Tense. Constrictive. From my eyes down to my lips. Curving almost under my chin. Pressure. Pain.

It was a mask. Shiny and red. Beautiful, if I didn't know where it came from. It was angular, asymmetrical, with ridges and valleys that gave it depth. Drew in your eye. It was a primary red, but not one color. It melded into darker shades, but always came back to the true blood hue.

It pushed down on my top lip. Constricted my breathing. Covered my nose. Palmed my cheeks. Squeezed my face tight. Swirled around an eye. Rested where my third eye would be.

It reminded me of a dark masquerade adornment. Like something I would wear with layers of black and spiked heels. Or with no layers at all.

I didn't want to stay with the mask. But this was Doc. So I trusted that I needed to feel this. I kept repeating the lines over and over again. I kept myself in that place, mostly. Tears streamed silently down my face.

Doc gave me space to come back. Open my eyes when I was ready. I described the mask to him. Noted how it was probably symbolic of something. He put that thought aside.

Instead he noticed my change in demeanor. My voice was lower. Distant. I wasn't vibrant any longer. I'd wiped away my tears already. Blown my nose. Tensed up my shoulders. Hunched over.

I was protecting myself. Pushing that feeling away. Like I always do. Whenever I really feel it. Whenever I delve into hurt or pain or anguish or grief. When I stop the tears, I shut away the emotion. I was trying to protect myself from myself.

I was compartmentalizing. I'm really good at that.

Doc handed me a piece of paper. It was a long list separated by three categories. Doc asked me to read the list and pick which statement fit me most. I read.

Maybe.

Kind of.

A little bit. 

"Huh," I scoffed.

I couldn't even remember the other possible statements. The one I read, the last one I read, was so perfect.

"I can't get what I want."

Kids

[Trigger Warning: This entry features a description of childhood sexual abuse.]


I love my niece. She's about to turn four this summer. She's a ball of energy: running, jumping, crashing into walls while cackling.

Today, before she, her parents and I headed out, I assisted her in putting on her socks and shoes. I grabbed the miniature footwear and fabric, as well at the tiny human they belonged to.

"Give me your foot," I said, my voice noticeably different, a higher pitched, younger, playful tone emitted from my lips. I slipped on one sock, then the other. I got both shoes on, and success; the child was shod and ready for the road.

As I worked, she clung to my arm, holding on like Tarzan swinging from a vine. I love every time I hug her. Kiss her face. Feel her strong compact little self next to me.

I want kids. I don't know if I'll ever have them, but I know I want them. It's a scary prospect, another human life that not only would I help to create, but then care for. Nurture. Make a home for. Assemble a life for.

When I look at Eve, I see this beautiful little miracle, this sweet (mostly) innocent (the eye roll still kills me) tiny human who I cannot even express how much I love.

But there is something else I see when I look on her beautiful face. I see me, when I was little.

I was about her age when it happened.

My Mom and I were visiting my aunt and my cousins. We did this often. My aunt and her kids lived near our house. My Mom and my aunt were in another room. I was in the bedroom with one of my cousins playing.

That day my cousin wanted to play a new game. I don't remember the name now. I'm glad of that.

She had me lie in the bed.  My clothes still on.   Under the covers. She got under the covers too. Got real close to me.

And then she started touching me. And I think kissing on me. And sucking on my neck. I don't remember her actually doing that part, but I know it happened. My Mom found a bruise, a hickey, on her four year old daughter's neck.

At a certain point, I don't remember when, I pushed my cousin off of me and ran out of the room. I ran into my aunt's bedroom. Found my Mom.

I don't remember going home. I don't remember going shopping. But I do remember jumping up and down on our bed (I still slept in the same bed with my Mom then). And I remember I was trying on clothes she'd bought. I remember her stopping me as I spoke gleefully. Her asking me where I got the bruise on my neck. Me telling her about my cousin and I playing.

The next thing I remember is being back at my aunt's apartment. Rushed right over I think. And my mother yelling at her sister.

I can't remember if it was my aunt who explained it, or if it was my cousin who told me, but the inspiration for her game was a daytime soap opera. My six or seven year old cousin was just imitating what she saw on TV.

My mother never mentions that day. We don't talk about it. I don't think we've ever spoken about it since it happened.

My aunt wonders why I don't like her. She's said as much to my mother. I can't point to that incident as the deciding factor. My aunt is emotionally needy and occasionally emotionally abusive towards my mother, not to mention craves my acceptance though I cannot understand why. Those things, more than her ignorance as a parent, make her less than appealing to me.

This life is not easy. Or fair. Or kind. When I look at my niece, I see innocence. I see happiness. And hope. And possibility.  I see someone I would protect with my own life.

For now, she doesn't know all the bad things that could happen to her. Eventually, she will. But, for now, I like teaching her about coins. And watching Wreck It Ralph with her. And helping her put on her shoes.

I get why parents want to stop time. To savor this moment forever. Because it's the loss of that hope, that joy, that innocence gone, that means their kids aren't kids anymore.

Triad

I sat in the back. Tribble sat in the front. FrozenMeursault drove.

It was Sunday night, the last night at Shibaricon, and they wanted tacos.

I wanted a distraction from my emotional diarrhea. Late night food seemed perfect.

We made our way into the city, parked, and stepped into Arturo's, a 24hr taco spot. Both FM and I ordered juevos rancheros. Tribble got tacos from which we all pilfered. There was chips and super hot salsa that I avoided. FM ordered juice which he loved just a little to much.

We all played on our phones. Chatted. Occasionally watched the tela novela on the TVs above us. Bragged a bit about our evenings and past play at the event.

Late night breakfast consumed, we all wanted dessert. Walking next door, we visited the other 24hr taco spot, Lazo's. Ordered two flan, split among the three of us, and a strawberry shake, which just FM and I shared. We sat through horrible service, but enjoyed our desserts all the same.

By the time we were on our way back, all three of us were exhausted enough to pass out once we arrived at the hotel.

The next afternoon, after the closing ceremony. After lots of people exited stage left, starting their treks home. After I could endure no more long goodbyes, I found myself in their room, lazing on one of the beds, watching horrible TV, but happy to be with them.

And it occurred to me: I was going to miss our little triad.

I spent a large chunk of my Shibaricon hanging out with FM and Tribble. We dined a bunch together. Took a few classes together. FM and I played a few times. They were a sizable portion of my event. Two people I never expected to connect with, and yet.

It was sort of a running joke throughout Shibaricon between the three of us. Tribble brought it up during a lunch, saying how much she enjoyed our little triad. I smiled to myself, not thinking much of the comment.

But her words were true. We were a fun trio, sharing much of our event with each other. I took the beating Tribble didn't want. Bottomed to FM when she had other obligations. Encouraged her in her kinky pursuits. FM and I connected in our play. Enjoyed rope and tears, pain and leather. When they needed space, I gave it. When I needed space, I took it. It was kind of perfect.

And now, two weeks out, yeah. I miss our little triad.

Breakthrough

"I just wanted to say thank you for creating the bamboo rig and encouraging people to play on it. That was the first time I'd self suspended at an event in a year. I'd had an incident before which left me skittish. That tie felt like a breakthrough for me. So, thank you." - Monday afternoon

It was late Sunday night. Not quite the end of open play. Maybe two or three hours before the dungeon was to close.

I was somewhat tired. The past few days of Shibaricon had taken its toll. But I wasn't exhausted. I still had some steam left in me. But what to do with it?

I thought maybe I'd drop into my voyeur headspace, roaming around the dungeon, watching scenes.

And then my friend Meliffica approached me.

"Could you self suspend? This guy created this awesome rig and all he wants is for people to use it."

I turned, stepped closer to it. It was a larger structure made from bamboo and lashed at the top. It looked similar to a swing set, its triangular middle triggering memories of my childhood. On its sides were two smaller triangular areas. These seemed perfect for small, intimate ties.

I thought about it for a moment.

"Okay, I'll go grab my rope."

I switched out my bootblack kit for my rope bags in my room. I then threw on a pair on panties and headed back down stairs.

I rested my bags by one of the smaller triangles. I took a breath. The nerves had already come.

I happened to glance right and saw Gray tying. I glanced forward and saw Dov playing. More nerves.

I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took another deep breath.

Fuck it.

I dumped out my rope bag. Picked out five 30s and five 15s, four red and one black of each. I placed them within arms reached of where I would hang. I took off my hoodie. Stripped down to just my bra, panties, and boots. I pulled out my gray flag and rested my safety shears on it.

I stretched.

I stepped inside the triangle. Rigged my ring.

I took off my necklace.

I breathed again, eyes closed, head rested against my ring.

This is for me, and no one else.

I opened my eyes. I began tying.

As my hemp adorned my body, my hands remembered my standards. Swiss seat on my hips. Three bands across my chest. Ankle cuff to the right boot. A short length to lift my hips. The long tail on the ankle cuff to pivot me.

I sat in my Swiss seat, raised the tail of my right ankle's tie, and looped it through a carabener. Slowly, I raised my leg. Pivoted my body. Went inverted.

My left hand found my left boot. My right hand held my right leg's line. I rested in my body.

The rest of the world melted away.

I existed in the pressure on my lower back, which held most of my body weight. The swimming sensation in my head as the blood rushed towards it. My breathing. The slow turn of my body as the ring held me just above the floor, yet high above the world.

I let my left boot go and allowed my hand to skim the floor. To feel the delicate sway as I moved ever so slightly in my ties. It was if I felt the ebb and flow of life in my fingertips.

I allowed my right leg to come down, raising my body to a horizontal position, and locked off the cuff. Reaching down, I grabbed a 15. Larks head to my chest. Ran through a carabener. Locked off. My left leg tucked above my right. I closed my eyes. Lazed in ties.

Again came the gentle sway. Small movements as gravity played with my rig.

Coming back, I reached down, this time for a 30. Ankle cuff on my left boot. Through a carabener. Down behind my head. Locked off. Neck support, yes, but my whole body weaved into my ropes. My hands laid on my stomach. I relaxed.

Did I want to try going sideways? Practice the new knot I learned on Friday? Do something with my arms?

No.

I was in my happy rope place, but I also wanted my floor time.

I released my head. Lowered a leg. Then the other. Loosed my chest and hips. And I sat on the carpeted floor. My lines still attached to my body.

My right ankle cuff became a futomomo, as did my left. As I tied, I remember Wykd_Dave's words on how to tie. On tension. On being present in every inch of the rope. My chest line wrapped through each futomomo and attached back to itself, pulling my torso down. I felt an urge, and went with it. I reached out, grabbed my leather cuffs, and put them on my wrists.

I sat. I breathed. Eyes closed. Taking in my body. My breath. My being. Sinking into my flesh. Melting away life. Letting everything else besides my body and my breath not exist in this moment. I found my Zen. I rested in that space.

Centered in myself. Centered in my ropes. I sat.

When it was time, I released my chest line, keeping tension, feeling the movement of my hemp throughout my being. I untied each futomomo with concentration, running my rope with as much intention as when I put it on.

As I lived in my headspace, someone who had looked on came over and asked if I was okay.

It felt like a window had crashed in. It was gone. My center. My Zen. One sentence and it was gone.

I gave them a head nod and a yes.

I continued to untie, but my love felt sullied. Too many thoughts and emotions came rushing in. Too many of the no-good-very-bad thoughts. All the things I didn't want to think about or feel in what was to be a time of happiness.

I had opened myself up. Exposed my being. And with one sentence, the light, my Zen, was gone. Whereas before I swam in soft calm, now my mind was a tempest of darkness.

I shoved my rope into my bag. Took down my ring. Threw my hoodie and my skirt on. Gathered up the rest of my things.

I couldn't bring myself to put my necklace back on. It went into a bag. Trying to stem the tide of emotions, I instead tied my gray flag around my neck.

I rushed upstairs.

I dropped every thing and grabbed my netbook. Made my way to the lobby.

Opened a new file. Named it 'Emotional Diarhea'. Started typing.

It was 2:30am. I didn't know how long I would be at that table writing, but I knew I would not finish anytime soon. The storm in my mind ragged.

But then, thankfully, not thirty minutes into my emotional expulsion, I was invited to tacos.

Flying

I was nervous to ask the question, but, like many things in my life, I did it anyway.

"Hey, you still need a bottom for your afternoon classes?"

The first class we attended was Newaza to Fly.

It was a large class. The instructors, the DV8 crew, encouraged people to double up on frames. What they were teaching wouldn't be dynamic. We could get close.

And we did. We found a spot on the large wooden square frame, one of many pairs who chose the rig.

We laid out a sheet. I put my things aside. By the wall. Took off my shoes and jacket. Stretched. Dragon prepped his ropes.

The concept behind the class was simple: start from the floor and gradually ease your bottom into the air. Less risk. More control of tension. And less stress on the bottom (in case of nervousness).

Dragon threw a TK on my frame. As he wrapped his ropes around my torso, my nerves both remained and softened. I didn't know how my body would react to being suspended. I hadn't flown in quite some time. But the last person to lift me into the air was Dragon. I trusted him.

Yet, I didn't completely trust my body. Didn't trust the strength I had shown before. Didn't trust that I would be able to live in rope again.

But as each moment passed by, jute tight against my skin, and more applied still, my body remembered how much I loved rope. Remembered the feel, the comfort. Remembered how soaring made me calm. Centered me. Engulfed me in a love of myself, pulsing in waves out to the world.

As he weaved his TK, I closed my eyes. As the instructor talked, I got lost in rope. I leaned against the floor. Dragon tied my left leg. Then my right, and my hips. He secured his lines. And, applying the central idea behind the class, he slowly lifted me. One section at a time. Checking tension on his lines. Raising me just inches off the ground.

Yet it felt like I soared.

I drifted in a bliss of comforting rope. My eyes closed. My being in my body. Floating high above the world.

When he lowered me, I laid on our sheet. Body pressed against the floor. No longer floating above it all. Still full of joy, and happiness. And I remembered why I loved to fly.

After Newaza to Fly, Dragon and I attended Thinking Rope. Wykd_Dave and Clover taught a class about breaking down your ties, finding the little habits we all have, and improving them to improve your technique and skill.

Dragon, for his tie, chose to put me in a TK, again. Over and over, he untied and tied a TK on my chest. I felt the ropes go on and the ropes come off from half a dozen to a dozen times.

As he worked, it felt like I worked to. I stretched in between ties. I relaxed my shoulders. Felt my hands and wrists. Felt in my body.

By the end of our two classes together, I had regained my courage. My conviction in the strength of my body. I felt like a badass rope bottom again, flying high.