Tuesday, February 28, 2012


Sunday morning had me continuing a tradition I started with a few of my friends last WinterFire. At 9:30am, after I completed my sound checks for the first class session, I ventured up to the hotel room of PrudeNate & CandleLover. It was time for my Sunday morning fisting.

Standing outside their door, I was a bit nervous; we had not played in some time. However, I was put at ease quickly as they greeted me with smiles and an offer of a mimosa.

I disrobed and sat on a chuck on their bed. We all sat and chatted, sipping our morning drinks; they had Bellini's. Everyone was having a good events, and we were happy to continue our play from last year.

To get the fun started, the couple had me stand in between them as PrudeNate kissed and caressed me from the front and CandleLover gave attention from behind me. I had forgotten how well the two of them play off each other, keeping me forever guessing.

Without warning, PrudeNate flung me around, pushing me off balance. I was now given the pleasure of CandleLover's lips while PrudeNate clawed at my back. I felt lost in their touch, engulfed by their lust.

Sufficiently warmed up, I laid on the bed as they pulled up their seats. Gloved and lubed, it was time for them to begin. Since they both are right handed, the couple snuggled together to accommodate both their arms.

They began slowly, PrudeNate starting with clit stimulation and CandleLover easing just a finger into my ass. Quickly PrudeNate was able to ease in a few fingers, my first orgasm a result of his actions. CandleLover was then able to insert another finger, and then another. PrudeNate slid in more of his hand. Soon his fist was fully inside me. CandleLover stuck with her three finger penetration. I felt full.

The couple played off of each other, lightly pressing together or away. CandleLover was careful not to insert herself too far in, worried the friction between the two hands would cause problems. As PrudeNate continued his fist workings, more orgasms followed.

About forty minutes into our scene, I knew I was almost spent. With a final flourish, the couple pumped their hands and gave me my eighth and final orgasm for the morning.

Pleased, I laid on their bed for a few minutes before sitting up into their combined embrace. I sipped a fresh mimosa, thanked them for another lovely experience, and suggested we do it again next year.

Monday, February 27, 2012

The Doctor


My moment journaling in my room took an hour and fifteen minutes. With Jim and Gray fresh on my mind, I had a lot to write about.

When I ventured back down to the play spaces, I looked about but could not find Gray or his play date. Instead, I sipped an energy drink and sat in the lobby, chatting with friends.

During my conversations, the Doctor approached. We had previously planned to have a rope scene, and the moment seemed right to bring our promise to fruition. I told the Doctor to go look for an open arch or hard point. He returned, unable to satisfy my request, as there were still quite a few people playing, even at the late hour. It was coming on 2am.

We looked around, trying to find room. I suggested, instead of the planned partial suspension, that we try some floor work. Just as we were about to find some open space on the carpet, an arch in the Dungeon hallway opened up. We quickly claimed it.

As is my preferred way, I asked the Doctor to remove all his clothing, save for his underwear. I rigged my ring to the arch and we began. As I tied, two of his friends sat nearby and watched. Occasionally he spoke to them as I wound my ropes around him.

I secured the Doctor's arms behind his back, tying a simple chest harness around his torso. I left his wrists knot open, just in case. Next, I tied a cuff around his left ankle. He said he felt stronger with his right leg, and I wanted him to last as long as possible. Asking him to bend his left leg, I raised the rope up and through my ring, securing it. He held himself up only with his right leg.

So, we began. I attacked the front of his right thigh, slapping, punching, and abusing it as I wished. The Doctor remembered, from our first play date, that I could be quite mean.

I pulled out my riding crop and smacked his muscle. Once, I missed, and the Doctor mocked me. I attacked his thigh harder, laughing as I inflicted my pain. He laughed too, as he tried hopping away from my blows.

I pulled out my drumsticks and beat on him more. The Doctor truly hated my drumsticks.

The thing I love about playing with the Doctor are his constant stream of comments. When we play, and I beat on him to my heart's content, he never ceases to make me laugh. When I am topping, I have to laugh. I am causing you pain and it is just so much fun. With the Doctor, he gets my meanness and plays up the hilarity of the scene.

When the Doctor's wrists needed attention, I released his hands, but continued to pound his thigh. When he fell, and consequently had all his body weight in my ties, I grabbed his body and righted his footing. Soon, I knew it was time for him to come down.

I sweetly released him from my binds. He had some pretty bruises from my ropes on his arms, as well as an awesome big bruise forming on his targeted thigh. We hugged. I gathered my things. We finished just as the play spaces closed for the evening.

I helped gather the iPods and made my way back to my room. As I relaxed on my bed, Slut warned me that Murphy needed some tying and sexy time. I assured her that, with my headphones in, I would easily ignore their amorous affections.

At 4am, my eyes closed and I passed out. Around 5am I woke to their moans and screams. Soon after, I drifted back into my slumber.

Sunday, February 26, 2012


I started his bootblacking like I had many times before. Lightly lifting his right boot onto my thigh. Cleaning it twice. Scrubbing the catwalk with a toothbrush. Checking for frayed threads to singe down. He, however, decided to not treat me as he had before.

He lifted his left boot and placed it on my free thigh. He pushed into my flesh. When I lifted his right boot to clean in close, he lightly rubbed my face, my chin. I kissed and caressed his leather as I continued to work.

He brought his left boot from my thigh to my chest. He pressed into my breast, stepped into my nipple. He kicked my chest, rocking me back. He used his left boot to spread my legs and began lightly kicking my pussy. I had no choice but to pause my work, marveling in the arousal from his torment. His kicks subsided mere seconds away from my orgasm.

"I was a few breaths away from asking permission."
"Then I did you a favor because I would have said no."

Finished with his right boot, I began cleaning his left.

"I was hoping I'd make you loose your place."

I smiled to myself, happy to have again risen to a challenge. He continued to press into my flesh, torturing me as I loved his leather.

When I finished cleaning, I asked if I could kiss his boots. He replied, but I couldn't hear him. Grabbing me by my nipples, he pulled me up and into his arms.

"You can after you kiss me." Again our lips met, playing as we liked. Again he grabbed my hair and pushed me down to his boots.

My lips softly caressed his leather. My hands massaged him through the barrier. He punched my ass, my back. For a split second, I found it funny that he attacked me from behind while Jim had attacked from the front.

He reached down and started fingering me. He teased my clit before easing his fingers into my pussy. As his digits entered me, I immediately asked permission. He gave it, and I rode his hand hard through my orgasm.

Removing his hand, he began slapping my pussy. Over and over stingy pain mixed with my hot arousal. I took his strokes, one after the other, not knowing if I ever wanted him to stop. Hit followed hit; I moaned with the pleasure. Eventually the pain went far beyond my pleasure, and I rolled my body over to avoid his slaps.

Grabbing my hair, he brought me again to his face.

"Kiss me. Kiss me. Once you kiss me, you can suck my cock." He held my hair, keeping my lips from his. When he sought fit, we kissed once again.

He pulled my head down onto his cock, and I gladly enjoyed his dick in my mouth. Within moments of my glee of finally having his cock in mouth again, I felt the first of his wicked cane strokes. He aimed for my ass, one of his favorite targets. He said he would stop when I stopped sucking his cock.

I took his hits. In a moment of desperation, I switched to sucking his balls, hoping this was a loop pole in his order. I was given a moment of respite before he began again with his stingy strokes.

I sucked and sucked, wiggling and squirming my body about trying to avoid his hits. I switched back and forth between his cock and balls, happily sucking away. He grabbed my hair, pushing me down further onto his cock. I practiced my deep throating as he fucked my face.

He pulled me off of him. Sadly, he tucked his dick away.

"You made my Punisher face uneven."
"He's smiling."
"He can't be smiling; he's the Punisher."
"As if you couldn't have a big grin on your face as your inflicting pain." The vision of him torturing me with his Twisted Bitch during our first play date burst forth in my mind.

I went back to his boots. Using my Huberd's, I conditioned his leather. There were a few especially dry spots that I focused on.

In a moment of pure silly, he used the toes of his boots to push on my breasts and nipples, jiggling them for his amusement. We both laughed.

"You getting anything out of this?"

As I continued my conditioning, he again pressed himself into my flesh.

Finished, I rubbed his chaps, asking if I were to move onto them next. He sadly declined. He had another play date that evening.

Grabbing my hands, he started to pull me into his lap. Releasing my hands, he grabbed me by my nipples.

"Having trouble getting up?"
"No. No. No trouble at all."

I straddled his legs; he rested his arms around my waist. Once more we kissed. Again he pinched my nipples. Gripping my breasts, he squeezed hard. With the pain and pleasure rising, I rocked my hips in his lap and asked permission to cum. He granted my request. I breathed hard, and he kissed me as I came.

He asked me if there were any classes I planned to attend in the morning. I wasn't certain, as my brain was rather foggy. We agreed to text to coordinate when on Sunday I'd be able to finish my service to his leathers.

We stood. Surprisingly, he came in close and grabbed my breasts again. I leaned into his body, his chest, gasping. I begged permission. He said yes. I rested in his arms as I breathed heavy and came hard. We hugged.

On my hands and knees, I collected my kit into my cigar boxes. Ever one for the wacky, he took his rolled up yoga mat and began smacking my ass with it.

Our things collected, we set off in search of his next play date. With her nowhere to be found, we separated. Not a minute later, she found me. Searching the Dungeon and the Champagne Room, we did not see him. She said she would wait at the bootblacking station.

I tried upstairs and found him in the lobby. Grabbing him, I brought him to her.

They set off for their play date. I headed back to my room to grab my rope, and took a moment to journal.

Warm Up

We found a spot by the far wall of the dungeon. There was no equipment, but there was enough room for a chair for him to sit on. He grabbed a seat while I ran to my room for my kit. When I returned, he sat there, waiting. In front of him was a yoga mat. It was to be my work area.

I sat down and pulled out the cigar boxes holding my materials. I mentioned to him that I still had my gifted raw hemp, if he was in the mood. I asked him if I should keep my boots on. "Yes." I asked him if he wanted to take my clothes off. "Yes." We got started.

He owed me a kiss. At the Cigar Social, he was sick and could not demonstrate for the class smoke kisses. He repaid his debt, pulling me in for an embrace. As our lips played, he lifted my dress up over my hips and began fingering me.

"You're ready. Are you wet from your last scene?" I nodded yes.  "How can I compare to that?"
"There is no comparison."

He pulled my dress up and off my body. He teased me with kisses. He flung my garment to the side.

He pushed my face down towards his crotch. I gladly nuzzled him through his Punisher underwear. He unhooked my bra; it fell free from my arms.

"Did you miss my cock?"
"But it was just in your mouth two days ago."
"Doesn't matter. I miss it as soon as it leaves my mouth."

As I nuzzled him, he pulled my hair and eased his boot in between my legs.  I rode his leather while caressing him still through fabric.

"What part of bootblacking is this?"
"Warm up."

Gripping my strands, he pulled me in for another kiss.

"Maybe after you finish a boot I'll pull my cock out and let you suck it."

He forced me all the way down to the floor; time to start my work.

Saturday, February 25, 2012


I wore my boots because I knew he'd like it. I wore my gray and black Delicious dress because it hugged my curves just right, making me feel sexy. I ran to meet him because I was running late.

Once again music requirements made my evening's start hectic. I was to meet Jim at the bootblacking station at 8:30pm. I made it at 8:35. I apologized profusely for my tardiness.

He held a black baton. The leather wrist strap laid beautifully across his skin. I wondered what he had in store for me.

We made our way to the Dungeon. It was rather full, busy with multiple scenes started. He, however, went straight for the cage. Stepping inside, I set my bag in a corner along with his things. He had me retrieve two chucks. I gave them to him. He closed the cage door behind me.

I leaned up against a side of the cage. He came in close, looming over me. I could feel the heat of his body, just inches from mine. He began lightly punching my chest. He asked what my limits were. I had few. No bathroom funsies. If he fucked me in the ass, please use lube. Don't cut off any body parts. "But I can destroy your hair." I liked that he sought out loop poles.

My arms rested at my sides. My hands gripped the chain-links. His punches increased. I gasped with each blow. He asked if this was too much, or was I just highly reactive. I noted that was an excellent description of myself in a scene.

He continued his punches. Normally I would have closed my eyes, but I found myself learning Jim's rhythm and instinctively tensing, waiting for his blow. Often he'd pause, then hit me.

Unlike my normal scenes, I endeavored to keep my eyes open. I looked up at the ceiling, able to glean Jim's next hit through my periphery. Occasionally I ventured a glance at his face. I looked into his eyes, saw the quiet concentration, and rested back into my pain.

I made my body relax. I un-tensed my muscles as hit after hit came. He concentrated on my chest, punch after brutal punch.

With his now harder blows, my body curled forward. I explained crying was good, in case it came up. I anticipated its occurrence; Jim punched hard.

I told him how I, when in need of a moment of respite, would curl my body away, taking from him his target. With a breath or two, I would be back for more pain. He understood my gestures, but warned unless I verbally safeworded that he may not heed my body language. Instead, if he felt so inclined, he might go after me more. I acknowledged this as a possibility.

He had me disrobe, but keep my boots on.

Jim was oh so close as he punched. One arm rested above my head as he too leaned against the side of the cage. One leg stood in between my thighs. His head just above mine. His free fist working my chest, over and over again.

He stood back, now wanting to change up a bit. He punched the sides of my arms. He punched the sides of my thighs. He took my face in his hands and slapped it.

Coming in close, he went back to my chest. Blow after punishing blow, my torso rocked with the force of his fists. I loved the brutal agony of withstanding his punches, loved the radiating pain, dull and powerful, through my lungs. With each breath, I felt the impact of his hands. I gasped and groaned. I almost cried.

Stepping away, Jim grabbed a chuck and spread it out. I laid down.

Looming above me, he used his own booted foot to guide my legs together. He held each boot above my face and asked if there was anything on the treads. I said they looked fine.

Gripping the top of the cage, he placed one boot across my thighs and the other on my chest. Letting down his weight, the pressure of his mass pulsed through me. I loved the feel of being under his boot, loved the sensation of his weight through my body, loved feeling this new type of pain. I sunk into it. He slowly moved about, changing positions slightly. I moaned with the feel of him on me.

He stood on my hands, lightly. He stood on my biceps, less lightly. His boots pressed down my hair. He took this opportunity to bend over and punch my chest.

His weight returned to my body. One boot found its way to my chin, pushing my face back. Then it rested on the center of my chest. He stood balanced, not holding onto the cage, allowing his full weight across my thighs and torso. I looked up and saw his tall boot with its red laces, his long supple chaps, his flattering vest, and his ever-hard-to-read-yet-always-welcoming face, a tableaux I will not soon forget.

Stepping off of me, he removed his vest and put on his black disposable gloves. My knees up, he knelt down by my boots. He used my lube.

He started slow. Clit stimulation. Pulling on my labia lips. He inserted a few fingers. Within moments, I begged to be allowed to cum. "No. Too fast." He worked more.

My right boot found its way to the cage wall. My hands reached out for something to grip onto. I begged again, this time more fervently. He relented. I cried out, cursing, thanking him, screaming his name, and cuming hard.

I asked him to push. He worked his hand all around, creating the space it would need. He pushed. I could feel my pelvic bones slowly separating.

He pushed.

And pushed.

He was in. I asked for permission again. He obliged. I bucked my hips. He punched my chest hard.

I loved the blended sensations. Pleasure and pain, writhing on the floor, my body gradually moving towards one end of the cage. We stopped, twice, his hand still inside me as I moved back towards the center.

I endured the beautiful pain, asking him a few times to stop and start, finding a moment to breathe without the intense sensations of my now. The pain pleasure grew. I came close to having to stop. I mistakenly kneed his chin.  I apologized profusely.  Finally, I hooked my boots onto his shoulders and pushed him off. I loved the smooth feel of his fist escaping my body.

He laid down next to me. He stroked my skin. He relaxed me. He admired the boot marks on my chest. I touched the treads in my skin affectionately. I breathed.

I sat up. We hugged. We cleaned up.

He bent down and picked up his baton. He'd forgotten to hit me with it.

He thanked me. I thanked him. We spoke of IMsL and hopefully seeing each other there. He opened the cage door and we exited.

I saw MaryLeo, SkinnyBitch, and DeepEnd had been watching. I walked over to them. Jim followed.

I realized I never received any time during our scene to love Jim's boots. I asked if I could steal a moment to do so before I had to leave. He granted my request. On my knees, I gave each boot just one kiss.

Standing, I thanked him again, and then ran off for my next play date.

Velvet Fire

"Come on. Give us some poetic desires. How does it feel?"- SkinnyBitch
"Like velvet fire licking my skin."- me

I laid on the plastic drop cloth shaking, anticipation increasing. CandleLover, Diva, and I patiently waited for our audience.

The chill from the basement floor rose up through the thin carpet and plastic sheet. I shivered. CandleLover rubbed cocoa butter over my chest and stomach, easing my nerves somewhat.

Finally everyone came down and took their spots to watch.

CandleLover dipped her spoon into her crock pot and hovered high over my body. "Now remember, this is hot but it will not burn you." She drizzled the paraffin onto my chest. I screamed, the wisps of heat kissing my flesh.

"Breathe girl. In through your nose and out through your mouth." Diva coached me as she patiently waited for her part in the fun.

Again CandleLover dipped her spoon into the liquid, rose the utensil high, and intermittently rained the hot substance down on my skin. I gasped, taking in the feeling of the heat. Not knowing when or where it would land, not knowing how much would wash across my body, made the experience that much more exhilarating and painful.

"It's just warmth, Kristen. You're good." DeepEnd knelt beside me, hovering to my left as CandleLover loomed to my right.

I had watched DeepEnd suffer the same fate earlier. As I sat gazing SkinnyBitch delicately drizzle the paraffin on his body, I was mesmerized by both the act and his reactions. Now, on the floor, feeling the heat myself, I understood DeepEnd's flinches, his gasps, his quickened breath.

With each new spoonful of paraffin, I called out and writhed, the wax coating my body. CandleLover took joy in my screams, my intense reactions. But now it was time for Diva to have fun as well.

Already gloved and lubed, she ordered my knees up and apart. Diva sat by my feet, getting into position. As I felt her start to rub my clit, CandleLover dipped her spoon into her crock pot once more.

"Oh, no! We're not doing this all at once!?!" CandleLover smiled a devilish grin, which she wore well.

Diva inserted a few fingers in, massaging my clit and G spot, while CandleLover poured her entire spoonful across my chest. I cried out first from the heat, then from the arousal. Over and over, Diva mixed her accelerated fingering with CandleLover's unrelenting spoonfuls of fire. Across my chest. Over my stomach. Catching my neck. Splashing my biceps. CandleLover was like a child with finger paints. Diva was in control throughout.

As I felt my first orgasm rising, I asked permission to cum. Diva immediately said no. My audience groaned for me as I cried out in my pain.

DeepEnd came to my aid. "But Mama, she blacked my boots so well."

"I don't care, Daddy. She didn't tell me she blacked boots. I would've worn mine." Diva was none to happy to have missed out on my services.

I begged, pleaded, "Please Diva. God, please let me cum." CandleLover dosed me again with the paraffin, adding extra emphasis to my need.

Finally, Diva relented and allowed my orgasm. My muscles contracted, clamping onto her hand, as my body jolted about.

With Diva's fist almost fully inside me, I said one word. "Push." She slipped into me, now working herself fully in and out of me. Again I asked permission. Again she made me beg. Again she relented, with CandleLover's paraffin licking my skin as I moaned in agony and ecstasy.

Neither woman stopped in their torment. Back and forth, CandleLover poured while Diva pounded. On an especially powerful orgasm, my last, when I could take no more, I hooked my feet onto Diva's shoulders and pushed her out.

I breathed hard for a few moments, regaining my composure, before gazing at my chest. My torso was covered in wax; it looked like a second skin.

With the layer to remove, it was time for knives. CandleLover had an assortment, but DeepEnd preferred his own sharp-and-pointy. DeepEnd brought his small pen knife to my skin and lightly scraped the soft substance away. CandleLover, apparently a size queen, produced a six inch blade with a wooden handle for her work.

As DeepEnd scraped away at my extra layer, he produced a large portion and brought it to my face. I inhaled the creamy sweet scent and smiled.

Now it was SkinnyBitch's turn. Gleefully, she knelt down and, using DeepEnd's knife, slowly and carefully pealed away the wax. CandleLover, however, was not as sweet. She scraped at my flesh, pulling up lots of paraffin, allowing the tip of her blade to graze my skin. Occasionally the wax ripped up the hair from my flesh. I cried out from the pain.

However, worst of all, CandleLover gave Diva a blade. Diva ran her knife on my skin not to remove the wax but to see me squirm. When it pleased her, Diva randomly slapped my thighs. As SkinnyBitch giggled, removing the wax from my nipple ring, Diva took pleasure in my many torments.

Meanwhile, for whatever random reason, DeepEnd and MaryLeo decided they wanted to play with Nerf guns. Both took aim and fired at my body, their bulls eye my left nipple. With great accuracy, they hit their target multiple times. I turned my head away to avoid any eye issues, and vacillated between laughing from the Nerf shots and yelping from Diva's thigh slaps.

As the ladies finished up my wax removal, DeepEnd and MaryLeo decided to change their target, aiming now for my crotch. On rapid fire, they landed multiple rounds. One of my famous giggle fits ensued.

As my laughs quieted, Diva's slaps did not subsist. Instead, she increased the force and frequency of her blows. My throat and body were open from my wax torment and easily fell into cries again.

Diva had me roll onto my right side. She wanted to attack my ass. With punches to my left butt cheek, she rocked my body on the ground. Instead of my sobs, I began moaning. Punch after punch sent warmth to my abdomen; gasps of painful pleasure escaped my lips.

I looked up and again saw DeepEnd. Once more, he knelt by my side. Looking down, I saw the brass knuckles on his hand. For a moment, my eyes locked with his, giving my silent approval. DeepEnd and Diva alternated their hits, attacking the one side of my ass with no break from pain.

Soon my moans changed. My body, which loved the thuddy bursts from their fists, could no longer just exist in the sexual pleasure of their hits. My sobs came back. The tears ran down my face. I took their blows, crying my eyes out as I had done so many times before. When my body could take no more, I turned away, pulling my body into itself. DeepEnd knew me well enough to know it was time to stop.

I laid on the floor again, breathing heavy. My cries soon quieted. I regained my composure. I came back.

Standing, I began flicking the wax off my body. I drifted upstairs. The party, which had already half died before my scene, was now on its last legs. People lazed across the couches, sleep soon near.

PrincessA curled up next to DeepEnd. SkinnyBitch curled up next to PrincessA. MaryLeo took up the other side of the L-shaped couch. I sat on the floor, watching them all. Scurrying upstairs, I grabbed a blanket for the trio, as well as myself. I laid the warmth across their bodies while also wrapping myself up.

Both DeepEnd and SkinnyBitch rose to bid the last of our guests a safe journey home. PrincessA bade me come close to her. She asked me how I came down from such a powerful scene. I couldn't give her an answer. I don't know how I go there or how I come back; I just know that I do and I can.

PrincessA put her hand on my head and lightly brushed my hair. I laid on the floor next to her, relaxing into her fingers as they played with my strands. Slowly, her hand stopped moving. She had drifted to sleep. I lazed in a half-awake state on the floor next to her, not wanting to wake her.

A short time later, LooksRDeceiving joined PrincessA on the couch. I took this moment to excuse myself.

Creeping upstairs, I threw on my pajamas and brushed my teeth. SkinnyBitch had already settled into bed. Diva, DeepEnd, and I ended up meeting in the hallway. Diva would crash with us for the evening. She asked for a wake up once I left for work in the morning. DeepEnd and I bade her goodnight.

Standing alone in the hallway, DeepEnd and I smiled at one another. Quietly whispered, like many of our conversations that evening, he asked if I had a good night. With naughty-girl-glee in my eyes, I said, "It had its moments." He grinned a little wider at my remark. We hugged, close, long, and hard, and then said goodnight.

It was 4:30am and I had to be up at 8:30am for work the next day.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Fear Play

As people meandered out of Gray's class, N3rddom took Nomad up to meet him. Gray remarked how he liked her name, noting that he was the NYR Cabin Nomad.

With little time left before I had to run off to do more sound stuff, I approached Gray and confirmed our play date for the evening.

I scurried to check on the projector, said hi to multiple friends in the hall, took a moment to greet and flirt with Jim, and then ran up to a small ballroom for Marc B's Fear Play class.

As I have written about on this blog, I have an intense fear of the dark. I sat second row as Marc B spoke about fear play, the many ways fear can influence people, and how he liked to use fear as a joy ride to release waves of endorphins.

For his demo bottom, Kari, one of the event organizers, volunteered. She laid out multiple chucks, wore only a cute set of underwear, and brought a tub of warm water. Marc B was going to drown her.

As the class progressed, with Marc B's awesome stories and ideas percolating for what I wanted to experience later, I often found my eyes drifting to Kari. She grew jittery as the lesson wore on. We all knew what was coming.

Marc had her stand as he tied her arms securely behind her back. She kneeled, and he held her by her bindings. A classmate asked what Kari was doing and feeling. She spoke about how she was trying to keep her breathing controlled and trying to stay calm.

Marc B said he would begin on three. One...Two... Her head was in the water. Nobody actually believed he wouldn't try to surprise her. She was okay at first, able to hold her breath. Marc B explained just about anyone can hold their breath comfortably for thirty seconds. He kept her down the first time for a long time.

He brought her up, a splash of water from her hair catching those in the very front. She was only given a few breaths before he put her back under.

Up and down. Up and down. Gasping then submerged. Marc must have put her under about a dozen times. Each break he gave her was filled with desperate breaths, a heaving chest, and a little less water in the bucket. By the end, she was drenched and out of breath and flying high.

Kari tried to released herself from Marc's tie, but he had neglected the fact that he secured here with hemp rope. Marc had to use his Marlin spike to remove the tie.

The class complete, I spoke to Marc afterward, mentioning he had not talked about my fear of the dark. Marc then asked me if I had a fear of the dark or a fear of the unknown. Would I be just as afraid if I were kidnapped and dropped in the middle of the woods, not knowing where I was?

I still don't know the answer to his question. However, the dark still scares the shit out of me. And, one day, I will play with that.

Worth Staying Up

I woke up Saturday morning, groggy and tired, but knowing I could not sleep through the first class session. For every class session at WinterFire, there were sound checks and projector requirements. I threw on a pair of black boxer shorts and wore my Zim jacket over my gray pirate t-shirt which I'd slept in.

The plan was to setup a projector for a class and go right back to bed. The class was about Fem Domme images throughout history, a topic that seemed interesting but did not capture my attention enough to warrant the sacrifice of my sleep.

As I setup the equipment, a lovely woman entered the class and complimented me on my ass. This was quite a nice start to my day.

Having finished up, the presenter's slide show projected onto the screen, I happened to see Gray on his way to his class. He was teaching Apocalyptakink, the new name for his RACK Role Play class that I took at Rope Camp. It just so happened that his class was right next door to the one class I contemplated taking for the first morning session, Claire Adams' Rope Tops Boot Camp.

As he passed by, he asked what I was up to. I told him I was contemplating either taking Claire Adams' class or going back to bed. When I gave him the name of the presentation, he informed me I would probably not learn much from it. Later I found out he was quite right. The information given was geared towards those new to rope; it would have been an unnecessary refresher.

So I stood at the corner between Claire's class and his, wondering what I should do. I could take the chance that I would gain something from Claire's class and go in, or I could just go back to bed. Lord knows my body could've used the extra sleep.

But then a third option came to me. Why not just go to Gray's class? Yes, I had taken it before, so I knew each scenario that would be given. However, I also knew it was a fun presentation. And, frankly, I was tired but I wasn't sure if I was able to go back to sleep. I was at WinterFire; my body said sleep, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins screamed STAY UP.

Instead of trying to force my eyelids closed, I opted to take Gray's class.

I sat next to Twisted View and K2. N3rddom, KnownUnknown, and Nomad also sat by me. As Gray welcomed folks in, he greeted a beautiful tall blonde woman. Her name was Chey.

Gray sat and chatted with folks, wanting to sip his morning coffee. However, a conundrum. Gray had the coffee and his desired taste additives, but nothing to stir it with. Instead, he pulled out his new knife, a pretty piece of sharp and pointy. He snapped it open and stirred his brew.

As I watched, my heart quickened. I don't like coffee, at all, but I would've licked it off of Gray's knife if he had allowed me. Instead, the knife came to his tongue. He ran the blade, forward and backward, lapping up the warm caffeine. I sat, gawking, and sighed, "That was worth staying up for."

Gray ran his class just as he had the instance I'd seen before. He gave three scenarios, asking folks to run through the mock situations. For the first scenario, Chey volunteered to be tested. It was a simple negotiation, where she was to be a rope top asking a bottom questions before their scene.

As Chey spoke, I sat both in awe of her beauty and her intelligence. She is an ER nurse and was only the second person to pull from the bottom that they were diabetic. I noted her style of questioning for when I would negotiate for rope scenes later.

The second scenario found Jocasta, a strong willed woman, dealing with a rude sub and a pushy individual touching her equipment and asking rude questions. She redded out of the scene, then learned the pushy individual was a Dungeon Monitor. The lesson I pulled from her ordeal, "Go away and live to play another day."

The third scenario was a test for a bottom, seeing when the over crowding of a space made it unsafe for a scene. The bottom was hit in the face with a flogger, had a puppy mock pee on him, two lovers in amorous affection by his feet, and a group of littles singing 'Row Row Row Your Boat' rather loudly, not to mention it seemed like his top didn't care about the bothers and only half knew what he was doing. The bottom redded out of this scene as well.

The point of the third scenario: bottoms can't rely simply on their tops to take care of them. Bottoms do not abdicate taking care of themselves just because they have a top.

For the last part of the class, Gray separated us into three groups: Bottoms, Switches, and Tops. He asked us to talk about different issues that have come up in our play, and possibly create a test around an issue.

In the switches group, I sat on the floor and flipped my notebook to a fresh page. I asked people to come in close so we could talk. I asked what issues they had on their minds, what scenarios they had gone through lately as a switch.

The idea of a switch negotiating a bottom scene, but then wanting to take over as the top was popular. I asked how they wanted to create a test from this, and who would be tested. The idea for testing the top seemed fuzzy. I tried to pull out a more concrete scenario, but time ran out.

We as a group spoke to the rest of the class about the turning-the-tables scenario. It was agreed this was less of a problem and more just an example of switch play in general. The bottoms talked about tops who pushed their boundaries or ignored them completely, a thought that made me cringe.

The tops actually had a test. Gray turned to the switches, asking if anyone wanted to be tested as a top. I threw my hand up, until I realized I needed to be in top space. I then politely declined. Gray jumped into the role.

Chey volunteered to be the bottom, since she already knew the scenario. She had Gray tie her hands together and above her head. They spoke for a moment before she fainted.

He called out her name, trying to get a reaction. He grabbed her body, took out his knife, and mock cut the standing line. He called over Twisted View and asked him to help get her to the ground. He asked Twisted View to elevate her legs. He continued to talk to her. She made sounds. Gray again asked her how she was doing. Lazily she sighed, "Gray, you're awesome."

The test complete, Gray cursed himself for not having his safety shears right by his side. They were, in fact, on a table not fifteen feet away. He noted how, though he "used" his knife, it was to cut the standing line, NOT the ropes by her hands.

Chey spoke about the latest position nurses used when an individual passed out: having them lie on their left side so that they are less likely to vomit, but if they did it would simply flow out of their mouths, thereby helping to prevent choking.

I was very happy I didn't volunteer to be the top in the scenario.

At the end of the class, Gray noted that it was an open source presentation, welcoming whatever scenarios people came up with later. He also told us that all of his scenarios would change for the next iteration of the class, hence why I mentioned them here.

I will, most definitely, take the class again.


Even with the experience of having my boots blacked and blacking another's boots, I was still antsy. I wanted more.

I ventured up to my friends' Black Rage party, named so because the two inhabitants of the room were African American females. Not surprisingly, it was chill and relaxed. But I felt something stir in me.

Excusing myself, I headed back to my room. For WinterFire, I shared a double/double with Murphy, Slut, and their friend the Elf. However, it was made clear that I would get my own bed. As I walked into the room, a magical thought occurred to me: I was alone.

Grabbing my toy bag, I pulled out all my masturbation accoutrement. I ran my extension chord to the wall for the "lawnmower." I set out my other vibrators. I changed into my red teddy. I grabbed my dildos and took them into the bathroom to wash them.

It randomly came to mind that my next door neighbors, all around, would probably hear me screaming. And then I remembered it was WinterFire, and, if anything, they would most likely cheer me on.

Then I heard the door open. The Elf walked in. I cursed myself for not setting the latch. I quickly finished cleaning, threw all my things into a bag, and left.  The Elf wanted to take a shower and I was too polite to ask for solitary time in the room.

I made my way back to Black Rage, now actually angry. As I let out my frustration, a stroke a genius hit. I looked at Tigerwong, and realized his room was free. He granted my request for some alone time, asking that I pull back the comforter and only fuck myself on the sheets.

Alone, finally, I plugged in my power chord again, pulled out my toys, and started playing. I writhed on the bed, fantasizing about my still unrealized Daddy. I dreamt of beatings and fuckings. I breathed heavy, thrusting hard on my cocks, enjoying each raunchy moment. I pushed myself, holding the lawnmower in place well past my first, second, and third orgasm from the toy.

As I finished, glowing from my cum high, I got a text. It was from Gray. That was when we set our date for the next evening. Yeah, good timing.

The rest of my evening was spent in a haze, watching others play. Murphy suspended Tigerwong. Lochai tied up K2 (a scene which I am still fantasizing about).

I eventually made it to bed around 3:30am, after we picked up the pods from the play spaces once they closed; I was exhausted but smiling.

Thursday, February 23, 2012


After Jim's bootblacking, I looked at my phone. It wasn't quite time for my next play date; I was to black MrBlackBeard's boots.

I ventured up to a cocktail hour for Amethyst's birthday. There I found DeepEnd and SkinnyBitch relaxing with our friends. I sipped on my Sparx and eased into socializing with my folk.

Then, a thought occurred to me. I texted Gray, wondering if he would like his boots blacked that evening.

As I talked with DeepEnd, he spoke about taking this weekend to chill at the event. I liked spending time with my roommates, just us being, the stress of our everyday lives hopefully a lost memory for the moment.

I stayed for a bit at the cocktail hour, but scurried off eventually. I had a pair of boots to love.

Heading downstairs, I met BlackBeard at the bootblacking station. Venturing into the dungeon area, we found an empty spot on a futon in the hallway.

He sat. I asked what kind of blacking he wished to have. He, quite succinctly, said, "These bitches are dirty and need some cleaning."

One of the reasons why people love BlackBeard is that you know exactly where you stand with him. This was not about D/s or service. He had boots that needed blacking and I had promised him a blacking.

I stripped down to just my boots and a pair of underwear. (Yes, I know, me wearing underwear. Shocking. I was worried about the strict no nudity policy in the lobby, as my skirt was about an inch away from flashing my pussy as I walked.)

I sat out my kit and got to work. As I loved on his leathers, I could hear my dungeon mix playing. I started lip-syncing to the music. I smiled, enjoying my time with his leather. I let myself play, let myself be, my focus on making his leather shine and pleasing myself in the interim.

I loved the look of my boots as I blacked his pair. I loved the feel of giving this service to a friend, of enjoying this act as others interacted with him. Normally, when others talk into my scene, I get upset or annoyed or occasionally angry. This time, I truly didn't give a shit. This was about me enjoying time with his leathers and BlackBeard enjoying his lounge time. Once I finished, he thanked me and we parted ways.

Gray eventually texted me a few hours later, which surprised me because I had thought he was long asleep. He was not wearing his boots Friday night, but instead suggested we play Saturday night.

Jim and Gray, the same night, back to back. I felt like a very, VERY, lucky girl.


The first official day of WinterFire was long and hard for me. I was on staff, had help with setup the day before, and stayed up late into the night as Rhythm Section (the name we affectionately gave ourselves as the A/V Music folk) organized our sound requirements for the event.

As Friday night closed in, I felt almost frantic. As anyone can attest, most of the event had me running all over the hotel. Friday set this bar, as all of us scrambled to get iPod nanos and shuffles to their respective play spaces, raised speakers, set levels, and made sure everything was working.

After the music was setup, however, I wanted my time to play. I was stressed and upset, not having realized how hard a staff position I'd volunteered for. Murphy put it best when he said I was getting fucked from three sides: setup, breakdown, & music, as well as being a heavy player.

I, sadly, ended up unloading my frustrations on a few friends I passed in the hall. I later apologized via text, with them assuring me all was okay; talking to a friend in a time of need was, in fact, what friends were for.

As I showered, about to get ready to play, I found myself slamming my fists against the tiled wall and crying. It felt like my event was being taken away from me.

I calmed myself down and continued the ritual of getting ready. I washed my hair. I drowned my muscles in the warm water from the shower. I dried off and scented myself with lotion and body spray. I put on my black lacy skirt and my clingy black tank top that showed off my cleavage quite well. I laced up my boots.

Heading downstairs, I knew exactly where I was going. At the bootblacking station, Jim was free. I approached, timidly, cautiously, but smiling. I politely asked if I could pretty please have my boots blacked. "Could I pretty please black your boots? I think we can arrange that."

I put down my bag and sat in his chair. I was nervous at first, but only for a few seconds. His hands went to my leather. I felt the pressure of his touch through my boot. At once, I had my first sip of an endorphin rush.

He unlaced my boots completely, pulling the red chord all the way out, with it only hanging onto my boot by the last pewter rosette. He started with checking the stitching, singeing an errant thread or two off.

He moved onto cleaning, focusing on one boot at a time. I could feel the temperature change as cool saddle soaped water graced my leather. He massaged the soap in. The endorphins flooded my body. My hands gripped the seat of the chair. My head craned back. I began moaning.

After the cleaning, he laced my boots back, just as I had intricately woven them before. Then he moved onto one of my favorite parts. Taking my boot into his hands, he lifted the leather and began licking up and down my boot. Long strokes of his tongue and face up and down my calves. I moaned more. I was gone.

Suddenly, jarringly, I felt a thud on my thigh. Jim punched the tops of my thighs, left and right. With each new blow, I gasped, leaned forward, and then relaxed into the feel of the pain. Over and over, randomly, he punched my thighs. Whenever it looked like I had guessed his rhythm, he stopped, and then punched again, allowing my body to release its instinctive tension.

He conditioned my boot and moved onto the other. He cleaned and licked and punched me. I was lost, my world existing in the square footage of his chair and his body. I randomly heard chatter from those who watched, but my mind could barely process it. I was in Jim's hands, under his fists, graced with the feel of his tongue on my leather. I floated.

As we finished up, my boots blacked beautifully, my thighs deliciously sore, we set a time and day for our actual play date. It would be the next night, Saturday. We would once again meet at the bootblacking station, this time at 8:30pm. I looked forward to the encounter.


While lounging on his couch...
"You are pretty because... Too slow." - Gent
"I didn't realize it was a question." - me
"Yeah, I like to throw in questions randomly. Why are you pretty?"
"I am pretty because it is a fact."

While fucking on his bed...
"I really appreciate you allowing me inside of you."- Gent
"God, I love fucking you." - me

While fucking on his floor...
"I have to admit it, I wanted to see if I could wear you out." - me
"This is not me worn out." - Gent
"I know. Fuck, I could fuck you all night."

While fucking on his couch...
"If you allow someone inside of you, they should appreciate you. If they don't appreciate their dick inside of you, you shouldn't fuck them...Fuck, you are so beautiful." - Gent

It is an odd feeling to realize, mid stroke, that you are probably having the best sex of your life.

I was horny. Incredibly horny.

I'd finished my WinterFire voice recordings, and found myself with little else to do for my day. It was early afternoon, so I ate, seeing as I'd consumed only a cup of juice thus far.

Unlike the past few days, I allowed myself to gorge (well, in comparison to the other meals I'd had lately). I ate two cups of cereal with two cups of Silk, some leftover Chinese food, and a few chips. I watched Drawn Together and lazed on the couch.

Randomly, I found myself getting sleepy. I allowed my eyes to close, and thoughts of fucking immediately drifted into my head. Fucking this person and that person on this piece of furniture in that room. Fucking and fucking and fucking. I was crashing.

With a shot, my eyes opened, and I realized I could actually solve my current situation. I have friends. 

I texted the Gent.

What are you doing right now? - me
Finding clothes. What are YOU doing right now?- Gent
Wanting to come over to your place and fuck you for a few hours. Interested?
I think I have some free time.
Good. I'll shower and be over there probably about 5:30-6pm.

I actually arrived at 6:30pm; traffic. I brought my toy bags, just in case, but I pretty much knew this was going to be a solely sex-filled night.

As I got ready, my horniness would not subside. I listened to one of my mixes from WinterFire on my phone the entire drive over. I didn't turn the music off til I dropped all my things on his floor.

He pulled me in for a hug. I reciprocated, but not as fully as I normally would. We drifted into the kitchen. He sipped on some water and noted my tapping foot.

I was antsy. No, more than that. I wanted to fuck, NOW. I was dropping, hard, and needed a fix. The Gent, being a good friend, obliged.

He got me to sit on the couch for about thirty seconds, and asked me if I wanted to talk first, since this was our normal way. I said yes, we could talk, or we could just start fucking. A cursory, "oh ok" left his lips.

I immediately went after his dick. I pulled off his sweat pants, started sucking, and he started moaning. He completely disrobed, naked on the couch, as I took pleasure in the feel of his cock in my mouth.

He leaned over and pulled up my dress, pleased to find I was not wearing any underwear. He smacked my ass a few times before settling into simply receiving his blowjob.

Soon, though, he was up off the couch. He picked up a condom from his end table and set out to fuck me. I was still clothed, and would be for a while, as we proceeded to fuck all over his apartment.

We fucked over his couch. On his couch. On his floor. Bent down on his floor. Bent over his kitchen counter. On his kitchen counter. (He was polite, laying down a towel and a pillow for my head.)  Bent over his bed. And, finally, on his bed.

I'd been wearing a gray and black cotton stretch dress I bought from Delicious for WinterFire, and, of course, my boots. My boots didn't come off until he brought me to his bedroom. I didn't feel right fucking on his bed with my boots on. Instead he fucked me as I bent over his bed and unlaced the intricate pattern from around the pewter rosettes.

We fucked on his bed, scrambling about in the sheets. He sweated a lot and used the fabric to wipe himself off. I loved the smell of him, his scent permeating around me.

He made a comment about the blog I posted concerning our first fuck. Of course he had read it, even though he told me he'd stopped reading my blog because he wanted to get to know me without the words. Apparently the word "meh" was used. He didn't like that at all.

As he fucked me on his bed, I reminded him of my favorite part of that night, him holding me close as he fingered me and I bit his arms. Gent then sought to fuck me in a similar fashion, my ass cradled against his hips, our bodies spooned together, his head against mine, his arms pulling me in close. It was deliciously intense and one of my favorite parts of the night.

Eventually we paused. We had fucked on the floor and couch and kitchen, stopped for a bit of water and a strawberry, fucked on his bed, and then finally stopped to chat. Our first round of fucking lasted about an hour and a half.

He redressed; I stayed naked cause, well, I like being naked. We started talking, our conversation centering on my recounting of my time since I'd seen him.

I talked to him about Gray's Cigar Social. I mentioned the moment in the car, us holding hands for a few seconds. The Gent offered up his hand to me. I gladly accepted, often playing with it as I spoke.

I talked about setting up for WinterFire, about the different play spaces, about organizing music. We talked and talked.

We transitioned back to the living room and his couch. I slipped my dress back on, which he'd flung off sometime during one of our rounds on the couch, or maybe the floor. It was a lot of positions and all over the place, so I can't be quite sure.

Any who...We ended up talking about me, but not the "what I did" me. Rather it became the "these are my emotional problems" me.

Once again, insecurity ran up to the front. I acknowledged it stemmed from issues with my father. I expressed my anger at him, but also my want to somehow form a deeper connection while he still has time on this earth.

The Gent suggested, instead of seeking out my healing through another, that I work to make me better with just me. (Yes, a therapist would be nice, too. That will happen when I have more money.)

The Gent asked me what was one small thing we could work on now. I suggested believing people like me for more than what I do for them. He thought this idea was, well, big and broad and no where near small.

He suggested we start with pretty. I looked at him quizzically. He noted pretty was a big one too, but it was certainly smaller than the idea I had come up with.

The Gent likes to deal in facts. The way he put it, "Line ten guys up in a room. Maybe three will want to fuck you, but all of them will think you're pretty. Hot. Sexy. These are opinions. 'You are pretty' is a fact. And it's not because of your eyes or your lips or your skin color or your hair. You are pretty. It's just a fact."

He sat in a chair while I laid out on his couch. I stuffed a pillow under my head and squirmed all about as he spoke. I gave him grins and sideways glances. I wondered if he found my tableaux attractive, cute, pretty. I tried to believe him. (And this is when he'll say, "There is no trying, only doing.")

He made me say it. He repeated it over and over again. He noted not only was I pretty, in my dress or in my dress blacks, but I also had an engaging personality that drew people in. The combination of the two, amazing.

As he spoke, and I loved hearing the sound of his voice... As he spoke, I tried my damnedest to believe him. I repeated as he wished. I held the mantra in my mind, and frankly I'm still saying it to myself.

He wants me to get to a point where I exude my positive opinion of myself at all times. He wants me to be able to walk into a room and have everyone notice my entrance. He wants more for me than I've ever thought for or of myself.

Around 9:30pm, he threw his coat on and suggested I put my boots on. He wasn't kicking me out, but he was worried that my car would get towed. I got one boot on, but then wondered where my other sock was. He found it in his room and gave me the fabric.

He noted my bra had more hooks than he normally dealt with and apologized for fumbling while opening it earlier. I wasn't sure how many hooks were actually attached, so I bent over, lifted up my dress, and asked him to check. As I bent over, I presented my ass as I almost always do. He brushed his hand against it, lightly gripping my hips. I popped my hips back, grinding onto his crotch.

"Oh God, don't make me fuck you again."

I stood up, turned around, and began nuzzling his crotch with my knee. I bit at him through his clothes. I got to my knees, pulled out his dick, and started sucking again. He relented. We fucked more on his couch.

My clothes stayed on. He used the cotton stretch as a hand hold while fucking me harder still. I came and came once again. That was when he mentioned guys appreciating the use of my cunt. That was when he called me beautiful.

We fucked on the floor. He hooked his legs over mine and I rode him hard, finding just the right spot as he had informed me before, and I came, hard, multiple times.

I thought of one way we had not fucked, up against a wall. We tried but we were too close in height, even after I quickly removed my one boot. He decided he would just hold me up. He lifted me by my thighs and I slipped him in. This only lasted for a minute or two. We went back to the couch.

About half an hour later, we finally stopped, again. He was worried about my car.

The evening was beautiful. I didn't actually need to wear my coat, but it made me less self conscience about onlookers seeing how hot I was in a dress.

He helped me carry my things to my car. I hugged him right this time, and he mentioned talking to me soon.

As I drove away, I basked in the sore feeling in my abdomen, happy that I had indeed both asked for what I wanted and received it.

On a constant loop, running through my head, was the sound of his voice, and his words. "You are pretty; it is a fact."

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


In conversation recently, I've heard about a study that showed Americans are not touched enough. As a person who is in fact a "hugger", I tend to believe this.

Often we all need our personal space. I wouldn't want an unwanted individual breaking the minimum eighteen inches around me that I view as "my air". However, for the people I love, I don't want us to be farther than eighteen inches apart when conversing, sharing, or just being in each others presence.

Winter Fire, and its subsequent aftercare, have all included important hugs to me. Yes, hugs are important; don't believe for a moment that they are not.

The first official day of the event, when everyone was checking into the hotel and gearing up for massive amounts of kinky fun, I was stressed. This event marked the first time where I was on staff, working for a con. My job included equal parts delight and worry. I was bombarded with these feelings on the first day, not ready for all the work that lay ahead.

But then, magically, as Murphy and I won the registration lottery (finding a moment when the line was a quarter of its usual length), my roommates arrived. I saw them from the balcony above, and my heart filled with joy.

I asked Murphy to hold my place, scurried over to the railing, and emphatically jumped and waved, grabbing their attention. They eventually walked up to the registration area, and I attacked my people with hugs.

I first latched onto to DeepEnd, who is tall and broad. I sunk my head into his chest, closed my eyes, and let the feeling of holding my friend, and my friend holding me, wash over and through me. I breathed out. I relaxed. I didn't want to let go. In fact, as the registration line moved, he and I moved with it, dancing our way along.

After an almost-awkward-but-not-quite-because-we-are-friends amount of time, I turned to SkinnyBitch and attacked her. I held her tight. I soaked in the scent of her perfume. I rested my head on her shoulder. I relaxed more. Again, I danced my way down the line with them. I felt better.

Seeing them, hugging them, reminded me why I showed up to Winter Fire in the first place. I wanted to spend time with the people I care about. I did the work because I wanted to make the event better for them. Sometimes people need to be reminded what the struggle is for.

Days later, towards the end of my Winter Fire, I received another significant hug. It was part of a scene I had with Gray. It was comforting, forgiving, accepting, caring. It was what I needed for what we had just gone through in our play. And though I worried about tears and snot getting on his leathers, I didn't worry about our friendship or our connection, which is most important to me.

On the last night of the event, I gave a friend a hug. They felt jarred and needed comfort. I would've held onto them longer, but it was just a few breaths in my arms that they required. I was happy to give them ease.

My final hug of note came from my Big Bro. I saw him last night before he had to venture back up north. I don't know when I'll see him again, but I'm sure our paths will cross soon. And I'm certain, no matter the time or distance, we will still be family.

Hugs are important folks. I hug when I greet and I hug in our parting. I hug because I feel happy. I hug because I feel sad. I hug when I need it, when others need it, or just because. I hug because I know my world will better afterwards, no matter the circumstance of the few seconds beforehand.

I hug. And you know what would be nice? If you hugged too.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012



It has been five days since fresh words have graced the top page of this blog. For that, my dear readers, I apologize.

However, if you had happened to check out that handy dandy pages link up there on the tippy top left corner, you would have noted that my cute ass was at Dark Odyssey: Winter Fire this President's Day weekend.

In fact, for this event, I was on staff, and found myself at the host hotel a day early for setup and staying into the evening on Monday to help with breakdown .

My Winter Fire experience was a roller coaster of emotions, both amazing and not so fun. This was the first event I ever attended as a staff member, which brought a new set of challenges to overcome. And, needless to say, I have a lot to talk about.

But this will not be the first of many posts to come, not just yet. I have a process and, dammit, I need to follow it.

Though it pains me to wait to write, taking the time to reflect and tell myself my story in my cozy bedroom all alone, a long and involved ritual, helps me come down. It solidifies my memories, provides emotional closure for my experiences, and serves double duty as a comfort in times of sadness and excellent source material for when I go back to write about said events.

And, let's face it, we all want me to recount my adventures in deliciously painful explicit detail.

So I'm typing away on my tiny netbook this morning, after having dropped off my roommate at work, us chatting about our experiences at the event the entire time, informing you all that:

1- I am still alive.

2- I will make a concerted effort to pre-blog before my next major event, ensuring that you, my fair readers, will not go wanting while I am off earning multiple bruises and having many orgasms.

& 3- If you wait for just a little longer, oh the stories you will read. Mmm...

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Cigars, Social

"Life is meandering between passion and pain." - me
"Life is pain...As light as pain." - Gray
"Life is as light as pain and as heavy as love." - me

Today (the 15th) was Gray's birthday. He just so happened to be teaching a cigar play class near me, for which I was the demo bottom. Before heading to the Playhouse, I picked him up, dressed as dapper gentleman, down to his stylish suspenders and handsome hat. We had a delicious sushi dinner, which I tried to pay for (it was his birthday), but he insisted on giving me half the bill in cash later.

"I got the impression he was into you." - Gray
"Really?" - me
"You didn't get the impression that he wanted to play with you?"
"Yeah, when stuff like that happens it almost always goes over my head."

The class was quite fun. Gray and I have played a lot with cigars; my lamp table, with its cute assortment of burnt clothing, can attest to that. Though I knew the basic outline of what was going to happen, Gray also incorporated more activities he'd picked up in his travels. I enjoyed the "smoke rise", as well as his sadistic sensation play with the hot cherry.

But, of all the new tidbits, my favorite was the cig-matta. With ash from Lochai's cigar in Gray's palm, Gray grabbed my hand and made me endure the pain of the hot nugget. All the while, he felt the same; we shared the burn. Next time I will stare into his eyes as he had wished me to tonight; I could not fulfill his request at first. I can still feel the spot in the palm of my hand from his hold.

"Wow, that yoga is really paying off." - DeepEnd

"It looks like pounds have melted off of you." - Gray

It's hard for me to see it, but two different people tonight commented on my lost weight. I still don't know how to process that other than I will keep up with my yoga/treadmill/bike riding, if for no other reason than they are fun activities that help get me out of my head. And I guess because obviously others are noticing what I cannot.

"Do you want to suck my cock?" - Gray
"Yes." - me
"Beg me for it."
"Please let me suck your cock."
"I don't believe you."
"Please let me suck your cock. Please. My mouth misses the feel of your cock inside it. Your cock is the only cock I want in my mouth."

After the class, which included elements of service, knife play, a lovely smack across my breasts, a cigar blow job (which I quite enjoyed), and so much more, Gray and I had time to play. He brought an assortment of mean things to use on me.

His cane was the first of Gray's toys to receive attention. Initially Gray had me lying on the floor, using the heels of his shoes to press into my nipples. He then used the cane to hit my nipples, at first lightly, but then with suffering blows.

Gray spread my legs and focused his attention on my clit and pussy lips. Again he started lightly before steadily increasing the force of his blows. Pain and pleasure danced in my nether region as I moaned through his strokes.

Gray ordered me to lie in front of him in child's pose. With my arms at my sides, my chest rested against my bent knees. Gray went for my ass, starting with soothing strokes. As he increased the pain, I started yelping.

Gray ordered me to reach back and begin fingering myself. As his strikes stung and burned against my flesh, my fingers whirled frantically. The pleasure rose and I begged permission to cum. Gray said I could, but only after he inflicted three wicked blows across my ass.

Ordered up on my knees, Gray used his cane on my breasts once more. Pinching a nipple, he lifted my breast and struck on its underside. This was a first for me.

Finished with his cane, my ass then christened his new paddle. Gray had me lay across his knee, my ass ready and accessible to his bidding.

Gray started unexpectedly with thuddy strokes using the edge of the implement. As he beat into me, I moaned. Gray then switched to light stingy hits. He was preparing my ass for what was to come.

Gray smacked my ass hard, the crack of the blow bouncing off the walls of the small smoking lounge. Again and again, he wailed on my ass, but while also fingered my clit with his free hand. My voice traded shrieks and moans back and forth. His playing with my clit caused another orgasm to rise in me.

Like always, I asked permission. He said I would have to endure five hard paddle strikes before my cum. In quick succession he stung my ass with the toy, holding for a moment before giving me his fifth stroke, and with it my permission to cum. I writhed across his knee, moaned, struggled to breathe as the sensations rolled throughout my abdomen.

Afterward my reward came the fun part for Gray. With sadistic glee, he again used his paddle to beat my ass, no pleasure given to ease my pain. He steadily increased his hits until, in need of a moment of respite, my knees buckled and I collapsed down.

Two breaths later, I was back up across his lap ready to endure whatever more pain he wished to inflict. Again he smacked my ass, stinging blow after stinging blow. Finally my body let go, the pain washed through me, and I sobbed and cried.

Gray put aside his paddle, and brought me into his arms, soothing my cries. As he stroked my hair and held me tight, he softly whispered, "That was beautiful."

I was granted the pleasure of sucking his cock multiple times over the course of the evening. He helped me practice my deep throating, first swelling inside me and later ordering me to hold his cock in my throat for a few breaths at a time. I still need quite a bit of work. I gagged multiple times, but once or twice I was able to keep his cock down while relaxing my throat muscles. Baby steps.

Once, as we were coming down and I softly nuzzled his crotch, he allowed me, as part of the process, to again suck his cock. He dubbed it a "cuddle blowjob"; I lightly, softly sucked on his cock in a nurturing comforting fashion as my head laid in his lap and he brushed my hair.

Gray also, as a part of our aftercare, drove me to orgasm just by pinching my breasts and nipples incredibly hard. At one point, he pinched them as hard as he possibly could. There is just something magical about my nipples and the mixture of pleasure and pain. My orgasm was a new experience for the both of us.

As the night grew to a close, we gathered our things and prepared to leave. There were hugs all around for the few who stayed for so long, and pledges to see one another at WinterFire.

I drove Gray home; sleepy conversation and general checking-in made the drive pleasurable.

"So, what is your relationship status?" - Gray
"Ha, I have no relationships. I have lots of friends. I fuck a few people. I play with a lot of people. I am emotionally connected to some, but no. I have a lot of friends, but no partners...I have a plethora of appetizers, but no main course." - me

At one point, Gray grabbed my hand to demonstrate a special sub-dermal piercing two known figures in the kink community had. As he held my hand for that short time, less than thirty seconds, it dawned on me that I had not held hands with someone in a long time.

And at once my mind cut itself on a dual edged sword: I am a happy-go-lucky free single kinkster having lots of slutty fun. I have no one to share in my happy-go-lucky slutty kinkster existence.

And just as the thoughts came, Gray released my hand and I went back to focusing on driving. The trick with being Unpartnered Poly is to not think about it. Just let life take you wherever. When you figure out how to do that, please let me know.

I picked Gray up at 4:35pm (traffic) and dropped him off at 12:15am. I have yet another set of burnt clothing to add to my collection, as well as two burnt cigars from our presentation. He has a handmade scarf and some chocolate to snack on.

It was a lovely evening spent with a great friend on his birthday.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


Once I was a backrest/cushion as two people used me as support while they fucked.

Once I was a table, and an ash tray, and a foot rest, all at the same time.

And, of course, I am a Cabin Bitch.

Tonight I demo-bottomed for an objectification and humiliation/degradation class. It was a pleasant change of pace from my usual VD fair: avoiding couple-y television at home alone.

I was an end table, supporting first a piece of paper and later a tray with candy. When I wasn't a table, I sat in a chair, palms on my thighs, head bent, neutral expression on my face.

When I wasn't in use, I sunk into myself. I felt the weight of my body, my hands against my legs, my back stiffening from my neck's lowered angle. I studied the floor, taking in the sloppy floral pattern of the blue and gold carpet.

I found it easy to not laugh. I wasn't a human; I was an object. Objects don't laugh. (Well, to be honest, it was easy to not laugh except for when DeepEnd cracked jokes. Then I had to bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from smiling. Even end tables have their limits.)

I didn't see faces. I didn't even register how many people attended the class until, at the end, when we were asked why we liked objectification.


Why do I like being an end table? An ashtray? A Cabin Bitch?

Because even as you are treating me like shit, you are paying attention to me. I am a closet narcissist. I want people to notice me. Secretly, because it is hard to admit it, I want to be the center of attention. When I'm someone's footrest, or their cup holder, or just patiently waiting, I am theirs. Even as they converse with others, I am still in their mind's eye. I am theirs, even if only for my moments of service.

Because I love rising to challenges, love beating people's expectations, love pushing myself further than even I expect myself to go. If you request it, even if it is impossible, I will try. And if it is possible, I will make it happen. Yes, I can carry all those bags and walk them to the barn. Yes, I can balance that rock glass on my back. Yes, I can support both sets of feet on my back and eat ash that you've flicked into my mouth. I can do that and much more, please.

Because when I sink into my role, the rest of the world melts away. I stop worrying about work or bills or family or drama. I stop thinking beyond the moment, beyond the feel of my body, beyond the task I'm assigned or the role I must perform. It becomes a meditation. I am just...now.

Monday, February 13, 2012


"I've never let anyone suck on my balls before."
"Yeah, it's hard to get over the tickling sensation."
"Like I said, I get what I want."

A huge grin crept across her face. He was bound to his home office chair, his ankles secured to the wheel legs, his wrists to the arm rests. He was completely naked.

She was too, save for her stiletto leather boots. He wondered what she might do to him with those boots. Wondered as his crotch already throbbed from her tauntings.

She loved toying with him, playing with his body. She had already pinched and bit his nipples. Had already sucked and bit his neck. Had already glided her tongue up from his ankles, slowly, so slowly, making her way towards his crotch, towards his cock which throbbed from his wanting.

From their previous fucks, she knew there was something about the base of his shaft, and his balls, that she needed to explore. Before he would gently guide her away, gently shift his hips, manipulating her fun. Now it was her turn to call the shots.

"Oh. Oh! Fuck. No, not...Whew. Alright. Alright. Oh God! And now you're switching sides. Fuck. Fuck! Okay I can deal with...Fuck!"

He wiggled. He squirmed. She smiled and sucked and bit to her heart's content.

"Please. Please! You are killing me here."
"Whatever do you me?"

She sunk her face into his crotch, taking up both of his balls in her mouth. Bobbing her head in and out, sucking in time to her movements, her own hips rocked, imagining his hard and wanting cock inside her.

He gasped. He bucked. He did whatever he could to try to get her mouth off of him, but nothing worked. She had him. All he could do was sit their and take the sweet pain.

She may have had a mouth full of balls, but most of the enjoyment was on her end. She loved to suck balls, loved the feel of them in her mouth, loved to be so full of them. She loved the texture of the skin, the slick nature of the organs underneath, how they'd pop in and out of her mouth, elusive little buggers. And she loved men's reactions when she licked, nipped, and sucked as none other had done for them before.

His reaction was a new one. Others moaned, amazed at her fervor and glee. Some would push her face in further; she loved those, men who enjoyed her ball sucking as much as she did. But she also loved this new reaction, this unexpected out-of-left-field sensation she could give him.

"I can do this. I can do this."
"Do what? Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk when my mouth's full."

He laughed, then gasped as she again sought the base of his shaft.

"What!?! What do I...What do I have to do...ooo ooo ooo...to make you stop?"
"But I'm having fun. Why would I want to?"

She switched. And switched. And switched. He pulled at his bindings. He rocked his hips. She treated him so sweetly, yet so horribly.

"Oh God! Oh God!"
"It's nice that you're thanking him; I know I'm that good."
"Fu...uck! I just want to cum!"
"Oh, I know."

She quickly engulfed his cock in her mouth.


She squeezed the base of his cock hard. Rapidly she bobbed her head up and down, sucking and stroking as hard as she could. Saliva dribbled out of her mouth and onto his cock. Her hands were soon soaked. His moans grew loud. His obscenities continued.

She increased her speed. Up and down. Up and down. The slurping was almost comical, but all the laughing was done.

If his hands were not bound, they would have been tangled in her hair, which flew everywhere as her head continued to ride the length of him. She occasionally pushed the strands away, but to no avail.

Finally, torturously, he felt his cum rise.

"Shit, I'm cuming. I'm cuming."

She didn't stop, but instead increased her speed. Unable to hold on, he shot into her mouth; one, two, three spurts. Some found its way on her hands, on her lips, dribbled onto his crotch. And some she savored, enjoying it for herself. Lifting her hand, he also licked up the cum, sucking it off her fingers.

She rose, leaning into him. Her face hovered a few inches from his. He still breathed hard, but also could not take his eyes off hers.

"You are so fucking good, and so fucking horrible."
"I'm not horrible; I just get what I want."

She lightly kissed his lips, and then slowly untied him.

We're Not Done

"You should come over." - Gent
"Ok, when?" - me

Recently the Gent and I fucked, so I guess the game is over.

If I were to assign the title of victor to someone, I would award it to my pussy, seeing as during the night in question it was fingered, fisted, and fucked.

He invited me over on a whim. For the purpose of my last statement, whim is defined as not giving me notice and after realizing he would have had to cancel our previously scheduled get-together the next day. He asked me to "bring my toys and an open mind." Naturally, being it's my mind, thoughts of actions that I imagine will never happen played out as I drove over.

When I arrived, he looked a bit shocked at my toy bags, a piece of carry-on luggage on wheels and a matching shoulder bag. I explained to him this was quite normal, and that in fact my bag is smaller than others. This did not dissuade him, as he looked at my bags oddly for a moment or two and snickered.

We sat and chatted, recounting our lives in the week and a half since we last saw each other. He had an adventure with some of his friends. I had good work and a few extra-curriculars to share. It was nice chatting with him.

The conversation pivoted to Valentine's Day, and how no one would guess that he is a romantic. He recounted a few of his gestures past, which were indeed quite over-the-top, sometimes playful, but always thoughtful.

Currently, though, he had no one is his life to focus on for the holiday. I suggested he use the energy for a family member or a friend. He agreed family was a possibility, but hesitated on friends. I started to explain my logic when he stopped me, saying he had already thought about it and came to the conclusion that he would do something nice for me. Apparently I made one of my faces while processing his statement.

Reaching into his couch cushions, he pulled out a box of chocolates. I accepted, thanking him for the gesture. I mentioned the last time I received chocolates for Valentine's Day was many years ago from my father. I smiled, and set the box aside with my things so that I would not forget them.

His surprise satisfied, he turned to my toy bags. Systematically, he pulled out my things. He looked, asked questions, but also wished for me to see his reactions. My toys did not include my bootblacking kit or my cigars.  They did, however, include my red teddy. He asked me if I was going to wear it that night. I said if he wanted me to. "Wrong answer."

He set my toys out in a rather OCD way, very neat and organized on a towel on the floor. He only pulled out about half a dozen coils of rope. He asked what my gloves were for.

"Fisting." - me
"Am I going to fist you tonight?" - Gent
"Why possibly?"
"If you choose to, you will."

Everything set out, he grabbed a coil of rope and pulled his chair over, placing himself in front on me as I sat on the couch. The Gent does not understand my love of rope, does not understand what it does for me. Still, he asked me to teach him some basic rope work.

I switched into teaching mode. I took the coil from his hands, placed it back on the floor, grabbed a shorter length, and set out to make him learn. I started with the one column tie, showing him a rope cuff. As I worked, he fingered me. Possibly to distract me. Possibly to see how well I knew my craft. Possibly just because he wanted to. Except for a slight lilt in my voice one or twice, I taught as I normally would. He learned. I moved onto a two column tie. He learned.

On a whim, I chain stitched the rope while waiting for him to return to the room. He liked the look of it and asked to learn that as well. I showed him quite a few times before handing the rope back to him. He wasn't getting it. I sat on the floor in between his legs and showed him from my vantage point. He loomed over me.

As he practiced, I started to distract him. Since I knew he liked biting, I nibbled at his forearm, which is quite muscular, but I stopped myself.

"Are you worried about leaving a mark?"

I bit down hard, sinking my teeth as much as I could into his flesh. I heard his quick inhale. I bit and sucked at his muscles as he continued to practice. He told me to switch arms. At some point, he stopped practicing and reached down to again finger me.

I bit. His fingers danced on my clit. I sucked. He moaned as I moaned. With my teeth still tight on his muscles, I asked permission to cum. He gave it, and then told me to not stop. I bit and I cried as my muscles contracted; wave after wave of sensation ran through me. As tears slowly slid down my face, as I moaned and bit, he hugged me close, and I pulled his arms around me.

By the end, we both were sweaty and breathing heavy. I was endorphin high again, but that's sort of become the norm for us. Of all my time that night, even with the fisting and the fucking, that moment with his arms around me and tears gliding down my face was my favorite.

I reassured him my tears were a good sign. There are two ways to make me cry while scening: beat me really hard or make me orgasm intensely.  That moment was rather intense.

The Gent had never fisted before. This was nothing new to me. I gladly taught him how I liked it, and suggested ways to adapt to other pussies. He rather enjoyed the activity, the many different ways he could control me with his entire hand inside me. What can I say other than I have the nickname for a reason.

After the fisting, we both lulled into a relaxed high mood. My legs rested against his chair. He rested his hands on my legs. After a time, he began gliding his hands up and down my calves and thighs. He then started scratching my flesh. Eventually his hands again found their way to my clit.

Soon enough, I again asked permission to cum. He made me wait, torturing me a little, before reprieving my need early. And even as he took his hands away, my abdomen heeded his earlier command. I felt almost trapped on his couch, orgasms tumbling, writhing there for him.

I told him he had to tell me to stop. He said he didn't want me to.

I heard him take off his clothing. I opened my eyes to see him over me, wearing just his white undershirt. His cock was soon in my mouth. As I happily began my work, my abdomen finally quieted.

He sat. I knelt before him, playing with his cock using my tongue and my face. I rubbed my breasts against him. I fooled around. I teased him horribly. It was all quite fun. At one point I tied his wrists back so he couldn't influence my sucking of his cock. I rather liked that part, too.

Once again I tried to deep throat and gagged horribly; baby steps. Once again he didn't cum.

He wanted to fuck me. He asked me how this would work. I explained I would safe word if I didn't want him. He asked what word I would use. I had previously explained the standard stop light approach. He said that was too boring. I then suggest far-fig-new-gen. He was pleased with that option.

So, the two of us, naked (except for his condom), ended up wrestling on his floor. The entire time we laughed. He is much stronger than me, but I have gotten a bit bendy-er since my yoga DVD, and I realized my hips need only be a little off to hinder him.

As we're laughing and sweating and possibly disturbing his neighbors, he pivoted so that I was on top of him. I pulled my hips up so he couldn't thrust into me. With my chest leaning over him, he took the opportunity to suck on my nipples, which I rather liked.

Then he said the wrestling no longer mattered because he'd gone soft. I called bullshit. He told me to just look. I, being an idiot, did. In my moment of lost focus, he finally entered me, after fifteen to twenty minutes of our horsing around. It was definitely not how I had fantasized our first fuck; meh.

With him inside me, I gasped and sunk into the warm feeling of his cock. In that moment, I didn't give a shit about the game. I was only mildly disappointed I didn't wait longer. Mildly because I'm competitive. Mildly because he is an excellent fuck. Mildly because when cock is inside of me certain things are no longer worth my effort or energy to worry about.

I came quite a few times. He eventually did as well. Even thinking about it now, a small grin forms on my face. Yeah, he's a lot of fun.

When we finished, it was required that we go get food. I accidentally hadn't eaten for about nine hours. He wanted Thai. I politely asked for another style of cuisine. He asked me what I wanted. I said Italian, so we ended up at Olive Garden.

We sat and ate and chatted. My stomach was not happy with me, so I consumed my meal quite slowly.

"Did you plan tonight?" - me
"Yeah." - Gent
"Oh, okay."
"What does that mean?"
"Excuse me?"
"What did you mean by 'okay'?"
"Hmm... That it is kind of disappointing to be so predictable."

The thing that had bothered me most about the idea of fucking the Gent was my belief that if we did screw either or both of us would be done with the other. I worried I would no longer be interested in being around him and/or he would also have no more interest in me. And funny enough, that didn't happen.

As we spoke, he mentioned how he likes to help his friends improve themselves. Apparently I am his latest pet project.

"You are a long term project." - Gent
"Yup, I am a work in progress." - me

Over dessert, which settled better in my stomach than the rest of my meal, which later would sit in a box in my fridge, he started calling me out on my bullshit. My belief that I blend into the background. My insecurity issues. My tendency to put others' feeling before my own.

As he sat there, and I was forced to talk about the thoughts I locked away in my head, I realized we were not done with each other. I still liked being around him, and wanted to hang out with him in the future. And darn it, he seemed like he wanted to chill with me as well. That was a nice surprise, having all my unplesant assumptions and fears blown away. It's kinda like people like me or something.

As we stood in the foyer of the Olive Garden, takeout containers in hand, it had once again started to snow at the end of our encounter.

5pm to 11:15pm, six and a quarter hours once more spent together; we're cool like that.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

She Is Lost

I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me

I often feel weird when a celebrity dies. Because of the nature of our society, it feels like you almost know the person, even though you really don't. The parts of their lives we see are filtered through the news media, through reality shows, through publicists.

Some deaths pass over my head because I don't know the person or their story was just not a part of my life. And then there are those whose presence was weaved into my existence to such an extent that I stop and pause when I hear about the news.

Last night, as I drove to a restaurant to have dinner with a friend, I found myself singing classic Whitney Houston songs rather loudly in my car. My R&B stations had gone to all Whitney in dedication to her life. I'd learned of the news just before I left, having already stopped for a moment to let the knowledge sink in.

As I drove, and I sang, I realized how much her music had touched my life. Memories of sitting in the car with my Mom driving here or there. Memories of family members, of summer get togethers, cookouts, barbecues, and the like. Being little and dancing around on my Mom's King sized bed in just my long night shirt singing to her music on the radio.

A year or two ago, I bought my Mom a greatest hits album of Whitney's for her birthday or Christmas; I can't remember which. My Mom has it in her car still, and not just in its case. It's in the CD rotator, one of five she listens to on a regular basis.

Before Bobby Brown. Before the reality show. Before the drugs. Before the mediocre movie roles. She was this vibrant woman with a voice that shook me. Her voice was a part of my childhood.

So, once again, we've lost another celebrity. Possibly to drugs. Possibly because her body was weaken by the toxins. Possibly it was an aneurysm or a stroke or a heart attack or a slip-and-fall or any number of things that can befall anyone at any time. We don't know yet.

However she passed, last night we lost another song bird, another voice of our community. She is lost.

Saturday, February 11, 2012


I often equate my job with being a hustler or a whore.

Since I am a freelancer, I don't work full time for any one company, though I pick and choose my gigs carefully. I work for about half a dozen different entities, going where the money is.

Company X is my favorite. They pay me the most and work me the least. Company Z is my least favorite. They pay me (almost) the least and work me twice as hard. I work for X a lot. I work for Z rarely.

However, recently, I had a gig with Z. It is the slow season and, frankly, when Z is the only work I can find it feels like I have no choice. I ended up on a rather large gig late at night, wanting nothing more than to finish and go the fuck home.

Sometimes life has this way of fucking with me. If I had chosen to take the slow elevator, I would have ended up working on the top floor. Instead I walked towards the faster elevator and ran into the crew head, who said I should stay on the ground floor.

This had two results. One, my work would not be as labor intensive, yeah. Two, I would have to work with the bitch.

I'm not using the term 'bitch' in a sweet or caring or loving manner. This chick is a bitch. I've known her for the entirety of my professional life and have yet to work a gig with her where she didn't piss me off in some small, large, or I-want-to-stab-her-eyes-out way.

She has this innate ability to make me feel like she thinks I'm stupid, I'm incompetent, or I should be worshipping at her feet, learning all that she knows. Her voice rarely imbues a tone that is not arrogant. She is one of the reasons why I avoid company A like the plague.

The bitch has, in the past, submitted her resume to company B in hopes of generating more work. Since company X is small, the crew coordinator asks members of the current crop of workers about anyone who shows interest in joining the crew base. All of us flatly told them to never, ever allow this woman on their crew rotation. She is a great worker, but yes, she is that bitchy.

And so I found myself working with her, kicking myself for not going upstairs, but also for accepting the gig in the first place. But I did my usual mental jujitsu. Whatever, I need money.

So we began working.

And a funny thing happened. I barely had to deal with her. I choose a kind of shitty project that I knew would take me the better part of my shift to complete. I was perfectly okay with this because I realized, after I volunteered for it, that I would be able to avoid the bitch almost completely for the entire time.

Avoidance is a mighty fine thing. I practice it often in my life. Yes, I know I should face my problems and issues head on, but sometimes I conclude that the hassle of dealing with certain motherfuckers isn't worth the effort. In my family life, it is my crazy preacher Uncle. In my kink life, it is those who fall into the category of crazy. In my work life, it is the bitch.

As I performed my tedious menial task, far far away from the bitch, I was quite happy. Even as my back ached a little (I had to keep reminding myself to engage my core as I bent down), inside I smiled. I knew I was doing a good job. I knew that no one could say shit about my distance, seeing as the equipment I packed away was spread out and I'd picked the project what no one else wanted to do.

So, at the end of the night, when I finally had to deal with the bitch momentarily, I was golden. I knew I only had about fifteen minutes left and hoped she wouldn't be able to piss me off too badly in that time, seeing as there were lots of other people around to buffer her. And I was right. She only mildly annoyed me, a great improvement from our past interactions.

So, let this be a lesson. Yes, it is important to discover and own your feelings. Yes, it is important to face obstacles head on and conquer them. But, sometimes, a little avoidance can go a long way, especially when it comes to dealing with bitches.
hit counter
hit counter