Monday, April 30, 2012

His Smell

"You smell good."

Three of us sat on the plush couch. We'd speculated if he would sit in the center, snuggled between two attractive black women, or if he'd take the spot next to our white coworker, or just sit in a chair.

When he did sit in between us, the joke became assigning him his new nickname, "Bitches."

My coworker and I leaned into him. He draped his arm over my torso as I laid my head on his chest. That's when I smelled him. That's when I realized how much I was, am, attracted to him.

Of all the people in my work, he is by far the most attractive.  By far.

Even so, I know it probably won't happen. See Don't Shit Where You Eat for reason enough. And though I have just fucked guys I've worked with, and then nothing came of it, I don't know. Is it worth it to take the chance?

I like him as a person. He's funny, with a dirty sense of humor that isn't annoying or creepy. And he's thoughtful, if you ask his opinion. Helpful without prompting. And sweet at times. An overall good guy.

So no, it's probably not going to happen, but I'm okay with that.

As we leaned against him, I was quite tired. I was in charge of the crew today, and as such had to deal with the event organizer who was quite frazzled. Keeping calm, I was able to help her through, at least with my part of the gig. She was pleased with our work.

But dealing with her, not taking a lunch break, and setting up in multiple rooms had taken its toll. I was wiped.

With his arm holding me, his hand softly brushing my bicep, and my head on his chest, I barely noticed how giggly the rest of my crew was. So much so that I didn't realize they'd taken a picture of Bitches with his bitches. Once I glimpsed it, I saw photo showed just how tired I felt.

I went back to resting against him for as long as I could. But, as in all things, it ended. He had a phone call. I had to find the event organizer to deal with our meals. And eventually, with the party ended, we broke down the gear and left.

But I still remember what is was like against him. Still remember my head nuzzled on his chest. Still remember his arm around me. His body heat. His smell.

Saturday, April 28, 2012



What are you doing tonight?
Meh. Nothing. Why?
I need you inside me.

I decided, for that night, I wouldn't care.

For tonight, he didn't have a girlfriend. For tonight, I didn't have a wife. For tonight, his dick was all that mattered.

As soon as he opened the door, my hands were at his belt. He managed to close it before I exposed him to any snooping neighbors.

Immediately I was on my knees sucking him off.

"What, no hello?"

I ignored his humour. Tonight wasn't about conversation. It wasn't about our long talks about nothing, our non-flirting, or the way he ignored my desire for eye contact. Tonight was about his cock inside me.

Soon he was hard, his hand behind my head guiding my mouth.

"Fuck, I missed your mouth."

With a last lazy lick up his shaft, I stood, my body leaning into his, his back pressed against the wall.

"My mouth missed your cock. Well my mouth, and other various parts of my body."

I stroked him, massaging him hard, keeping him up. It wouldn't do to have him...relax.

He tried to kiss me, but I shied away. He attempted again. And again. I kept him at bay.

"Still such a fucking tease."
"Still such a fucking pussy."

I kissed him hard, shoving my tongue down his throat, letting him taste his cock still on my breath. His hands slipped into my jeans, gripped my ass, and eased a finger to where I wanted him most.

"There is the asshole I so love to fuck. Did it miss me too?"
"It missed you most."

He bit my neck. My hand reflexively squeezed his cock harder.

"I think my ass is ready for you, and you are most certainly ready for it."

Gripping my hips, he pushed me back against his couch. Flinging me around, he slid his hands around my waist and unzipped. Pulling down my jeans, he followed the path of the fabric. Kneeling, I felt his lips on my cheeks. Separating them, he licked and licked my asshole, getting me good and wet for him.

I heard the condom wrapper ripe, then felt his cock's head press against my hole.

And then he was inside me. With a deep sigh, I relished the familiar feel of his cock so far in me. He fucked me hard against his couch. I pushed back, always wanting more of him.

Sweaty, breathing heavy, we fucked like we had so many times before: rough, grunting thrusts mixed with over-the-back kisses, ass smacks, and my hands on his ass pulling him into me.

And when we came together, we both bit into the other's flesh, marking what was ours.

Finished, I pulled up my jeans and left. He started to say something, but I departed before his sentence ended.

I didn't want to look at him, hug or kiss him. I didn't want to say goodbye. I couldn't say goodbye. Because I knew I wouldn't have had the strength to have left.

Missed You More


"Missed you."
"Missed you more."

Her lips were as soft as I remembered, painted the deep red that I loved. Her grin was still sly, still full of something secretive yet alluring. And her eyes.  I still could not help staring into her eyes.

She nibbled at my neck, grazed my hips with her nails, and breathed heavy into my ear.

"Been a long time."
"Too long. Don't you ever fucking stay away that long again."

She grabbed my hair, tilted my head back, and planted a wet kiss on my lips. I grabbed her hips and pulled her towards me. We both knew what we wanted, what we missed most.

In a flurry of discarded clothing, we were soon in her bed, naked, writhing on the sheets.

She bit my neck hard. I knew it would leave a mark. I loved knowing it would leave a mark.

My nails dung into her ass, round and sumptuous, just how I loved it. I smacked her ass hard, the crack echoing off her apartment walls.


Her teeth went straight for my nipple.


I shrieked. And moaned. And shrieked again.

Kicking my legs up, I flipped her onto her back. She didn't relent from her dessert until my fingertip found her clit. Now it was her turn to moan.

She kissed me hard again, rocking her hips onto my hand. Her fingers found my nipple, this time lightly squeezing and tugging. My moans were lost in our kiss.

Seeing her opportunity, she pivoted me back onto my back. She always loves to be on top.

Her hand found my clit now. Less patient, or less fond of teasing, her fingers quickly slipped down my slick lips and inside me. I gasped, lifting my hips towards her hand. Two, three, four digits were soon inside me.

"Please, please," I began to beg. "Oh God, please fuck my face."

With her hand never leaving my cunt, her pussy was soon grinding against my mouth. I gripped the backs of her thighs for purchase, tasting what I had so longed to enjoy.

Finally slipping in her thumb, she fucked me with her fist, piston-like thrusts in time with her hips.

Her headboard banged against the wall. She moaned. I shrieked. Neither of us cared what her neighbors thought.

As I came, this time I screamed, "I missed you!"

As she came, this time she screamed, "Missed you more."

Friday, April 27, 2012

Seasonal Financial Panic

A few times a year, about once every season, I panic about money.

Being in a job where the work is either feast or famine, it's understandable that I have these fears. The funny part though is that since the end of my first year of working professionally, I can't think of a time when my panic was not dissuaded within a pay period.

Today I had my seasonal panic. I pulled up to a Wendy's drive-thru, ordered my lunch (not healthy AT ALL, but healthier than it could've been), and attempted to pay with my bank card. After a few swipes, the cashier said "No money." I had a sinking suspicion that I would not like looking at my checking account.

I paid the ~$5.50 bill with a credit card (ugh, I rarely carry cash), and pulled up in the lane out of the way. My fear growing, I looked up my balance on my phone (another big no-no). Sure enough, my account was in the red by about $50. One quick scroll showed me why. Both of my tax payments had been cashed.

Silly silly Kristen, believing both the state and Uncle Sam would take time before taking your money.

As I drove to work, I already regretted buying my lunch. I started devising ways to cut back.

Should I really go to Delicious this weekend to attempt clothes shopping? Maybe I shouldn't take Saturday off, but instead try to find last minute work. Should I skip Happy Hour tonight? Could I even get a gig for this evening?

With my brain whirling, I arrived at work. I tried to take five minutes in my car to sit and breathe. It went better than I might have hoped, maybe fifteen seconds where I was able to shut off my brain from crisis management mode.

When I arrived, my lead greeted me warmly as he so often does. He and I work well together, with a camaraderie I don't have with many others. He asked me how I was doing. Instead of my usual "Pretty good", "Meh" or "Okay", I instead said, "Um, well, I'm broke so I desperately need to pickup more work."

Not exactly the best way to start my work day.

Rationally, I knew I needed to fix my negative balance as soon as possible. During a break, I transferred some money from savings to fix the overdraft. It was also enough to cover my upcoming health insurance bill which I need to pay tomorrow before work.

As my work day progressed, it turned out my lead needed someone to drive an extra vehicle for the Load Out this evening. I was added to the crew and picked up extra money for the drive.

As I waited for the load out to start, something bugged me. Until I checked my account, I hadn't really been worried about my finances. I've been working like crazy ever since I got back from Frolicon, with little break in my schedule until Shibaricon. Why was my account so low?

Opening up my pocket planner, I quickly scanned my work log. And then it hit me.

I get paid in six days. Because my vacation lasted two weeks, I have a pay period lag. I have more than enough money coming in to pay for rent, my other bills, and replenish the cash I took from savings.

Not only that, but I picked up extra work this evening too. Panic averted.

For a moment there, I doubted my year long goal of 10+ events, and wondered if I should back out of things I'd already paid for or scale back my hopes and expectations for the year.

Nope, not gonna happen.

I am, in fact, doing just fine.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012


Awesome friends introduce you to awesome people, who then become your awesome friends. And awesome friends do awesome things for each other.


Through my friend N3rddom, I met Nomad, a quiet sweet creature who loves rope as much, if not more, than I do. Even more than learning about ties, though, Nomad loves to treat rope.

So, when I wanted to create a natural fiber kit, my first natural fiber kit, and I just happened to hang out with Nomad while watching her treat hemp she had dyed herself, I saw an opportunity to make us both happy.

After the quickest haggling session of my life, it was set. Nomad would purchase a spoil of about 500' of untreated hemp rope. She'd dye and cut the lengths I requested, and be rewarded for her efforts in cold hard cash.

Months passed. There were FetLife messages (Rope!), updates, requests for colors and specific lengths. My only deadline hope was delivery before Shibaricon.

And then the message: her project was complete. I could pick up my rope from N3rddom, who had assisted in Nomad's efforts.

When I came to visit N3rddom, my package was a small cardboard box wrapped in brown paper with rope chord holding it together.

Untying the bow, and unwrapping the paper, and finally opening the box, there it was:

4 - 30' deep red lengths
4 - 30' dark black lengths
4 - 15' dark red lengths
4 - 15' dark black lengths
1 - ~15' undyed length

I picked up a coil, brought it to my face, and sniffed. Heaven.

I was gitty with excitement. I had my kit. Shit, I technically have two kits.


Though I picked up my rope about a week ago, tonight was the first night that I played with it. I made sure to touch, feel every length. I flicked my wrist, uncoiling each with a flourish.

The hemp wrapped around my body. I self suspended. I tied myself in a modified Ebby. I wore the hemp as fashion, experimenting with different styles and manner of rope dress. I played. Danced around. Meditated. Smiled.  So many pretty pretty ligature marks.

When my life goes to shit, I turn to rope. When boys are stupid, I turn to rope. When I feel lost, I turn to rope. When I am happy, playful, joyous, I turn to rope.

Tonight was awesome, and hopefully only the first of many more hemp-ful nights to come.


~a story~

She tried not to tap her pencil. Or twirl her hair. Or bite her lower lip. All her ticks, all the signs she was nervous, yet she couldn't help herself.

He was sitting right there. Right there. The next table over.

She was suppose to be studying for her Diff-E-Q final (Differential Equations). She was suppose to be reviewing her notes, redo-ing past assignments, her normal studying routine.

But she couldn't, because he sat there, not ten feet away from her.

She knew this was stupid. She could just go talk to him. He was just a guy.

Oh, who the fuck was she trying to kid. He wasn't "just a guy." He was the guy. Big man on campus. The one everyone loves. Well, loved until the final game of the season, when he missed the free throw.

In a sports school, if you don't win, you're less than nothing. There was no entourage now. No adoring fans. He was in the library like her, studying. Or reading. She wasn't quite sure why he was there.

Maybe he wasn't as arrogant as he seemed. Maybe he was just a guy. Or maybe that one shot brought him back down to the ranks of the rabble.

Either way, this was her chance to try.

She could just go over and ask for a pencil, or a piece of paper, or...

Shit, anything she thought of would sound so stupid. He would see right through her rouse.

She could just go up, say hi, ask for an autograph? No, she didn't want an autograph.

What did she want?

For some reason, she wanted to make him feel better. It seemed like he was... deflated as of late. Who wouldn't be after that?

She wanted him to feel better. But why? Did it matter?

It could be she missed the smile in his eyes, the one time their paths had crossed, when they both took Microeconomics sophomore year.  He needed notes; she always ended up sitting in front of him.  She liked seeing his eyes that way, when he asked to photocopy her notebook after class that one day.  She wanted to see those bright smiling eyes again, even if for a moment.

Okay, I can do this, she thought. I can do this... as soon as she finished going over one section of her notes. She just needed to finish the section. Just two more pages. Then she would take a break. Say hi while sipping some water. Strike up a conversation. Try to make him feel better.

She had a plan. And she was almost finished. Almost done reading.

But then he rustled. He had been engrossed in his book, a small paperback whose title she couldn't glimpse. Within three breaths, his book was in his bag, he had stood up, and walked out the door.

So stupid, so stupid to have waited. Why did she wait? Why did she wait?

Deflated, she packed away her things as well. She'd already studied more than she planned, stayed in the library past the time she thought she would.

It was well after dinner. The Dining Hall would be closed. She'd need to order delivery.

Or maybe she'd walk down to the main strip, take in the cool night air (at least she hoped it was cool; the day had been so warm, humid). The walking would be good, a break from all the thinking, remembering. Maybe her brain would hurt a little less.

And as she walked out of the library, a small grin on her face, she saw him, seated under a nearby tree, a soft breeze rustling the leaves above him.

As she walked out of the library, a small grin on her face, he looked up from his book. She grew her smile for him. He gave her a slight one in return.

She walked out of the library, walked over to him, sat down, re-introduced herself, and smiled.

Monday, April 23, 2012


"Because you don't require a commitment for you to be in their lives, they never had to make a decision with you. In your effort to avoid the pain of rejection you have this other painful feeling [of never having tried]."

Twice, less than a month apart actually, I learned two people I care for started relationships with someone else. These persons are about as diametrically opposed as two people can be.  Two different races, jobs, and completely different personalities.    

What do these two have in common? Towards the beginning of my interactions with them, they gave me almost identical statements: I am not in a position to have a relationship right now. I don't want a relationship right now. I can offer you friendship.

In both instances I accepted their statements and tried to build some connection in the constraints given.

Yet, as I sit here on my bed, about an hour and a half before I jaunt off to work, I can't help but note that the one thing they have in common is me not being in a relationship with either of them while they just started new ones with someone else.

I spoke to one friend about this situation; their conclusion was they both were full of shit and what they really should have said was, "I don't want a relationship with you." Obviously this hurt to hear, but since anger is an emotion I often quell, and I'm suppose to be allowing myself to feel and acknowledge my emotions, it rang true.

But when I spoke to another friend, they had a different, though similar, view.

Both of my friends pointed out that I settle. I know I settle. It is a bad habit that has plagued me far too long.

My second friend put it a different way. I don't make others commit. I have a network of people I care for; from no one do I require an iota of title or formal negotiation. I allow a lot of people into my life without asking much, if anything.

So, sitting here, typing away on my netbook, this is when my footloose and fancy free nature gets me fucked. Because, if I am completely and totally honest with myself, I can say that I care deeply for both of these people who (cliche coming) dropped the bomb on me.

Of course I cannot blame either of them for the way I am feeling. I brought this all on myself.

I brought this all on myself.

I.  Brought this.  All.  On.  Myself.

I didn't make them choose. I didn't ask for a commitment. I didn't ask for anything. They had me without ever having to choose, to commit, to make a decision. I am in their lives with little effort on their parts.

If I don't ask for what I want, how am I ever suppose to get it?

Ah, but here is the real rub: I didn't know what I wanted until I didn't have it, until it was no longer a possibility.

During my last session with Doc, the subject of a person I will call Zed came up. When I was younger, Zed and I were friends, talking a lot on the phone, and spending lots of time together.

Because of life, I had to move away from Zed; our friendship waned. When I came back to visit, I learned Zed had started a new relationship. It took me a year to tell Zed how I felt that day.

I cried alone in the car with the window down and the rain pouring in as I sped, too fast, on the interstate. I sobbed, hard. I pulled away from Zed more. Still, even as I write this, my eyes water.

I didn't know I was in love with Zed until I could no longer have Zed (they are not poly and I hadn't even heard of the term at the time).

Today Zed is happy, and though their happiness comes from being with someone else, I am still very happy for them.

It is hard for me to articulate, or even realize, what I want until I can't have it.

And that's not to say I want a huge-monogamous-this-is-it commitment from either of those two; I'm fairly certain I don't want that from anyone, in fact. But when you open with "I don't want a relationship right now, nor am I looking for one," yet somehow you find it with someone who isn't me, I feel shitty.

I made an assumption.  I didn't take a leap.  I accepted.  I settled.

People don't need to commit to me to be a part of my life. This gives me a lot of connections, but the ground under my feet never feels solid. I'm always afraid they will just stop being a part of my life.

I don't ask for the commitment because I fear they will say no, and yet I still live in the constant fear that, instead of hearing "the no", they will just stop being there.

In my avoidance of pain, I've woven a web of even more sorrow.

God, this emotional shit sucks. I need to stop doing that.

I need to stop settling.



Time is the most precious gift any individual can give.

We don't know how much of it we have on this earth. The greatest punishments we can levy are taking a person's time away, or ending their time all together. (Or, worse yet, filling their time with horrors.)

I was speaking with a friend about their life and the issue of time came up. I helped them articulate why their sudden distance from another hurt so much. It wasn't jealousy or insecurity; it was time. Though it was unintentional, the other had pulled away, depriving my friend of their time together, which is what my friend missed the most.

Often I don't want to think about time. If you look at your life, you can see what is most important to you when you gage how much time you spend on it.

Everyone has to work to make a living, but I intentionally try to not work as much as I could. There are those in my industry who get three hours of sleep each night during the busy season, camp out in their cars, take on sixteen hour days regularly. I don't do that.

I hate it when my job takes away my time. This is especially so because regularly my work occurs when I would otherwise see my family and friends. I have but so many precious minutes on this earth; I strive to work to live, not make my work my life.

I hate it when I unintentionally deprive one friend of their time because I gave it to another. Thankfully it does not happen often, but it is a hurtful slap in the face both to my deprived friend and to myself when it occurs.

Ever since college, I've scheduled time with friends. Since high school, I've had a job on the weekends, thereby ingraining in me a need to set a time & date and stick to it. And though this can be helpful, it can also be complicated and/or disappointing.

What happens when you can't see someone for a month? More than a month? What happens when someone, through no fault of their own, cancels? I can't just reschedule for the next day or the next weekend. And it is very hard to pass up a pop-up gig making a lot of money for very little work.

We all make choices. Who do you choose to see the most, talk with the most? Who do you make the time for? Cut out a moment for? Always find a way to see or call or email or text? Spy their Facebook status? Troll their Twitter feed? The people who matter the most to you are the people you make the time for, even if they're not in the room.

But, and this is the bigger question, who are the people who get the least of your time? 

(Bigger still: Why?)

Sunday, April 22, 2012



They made me scream Narnia instead of their names or any preferred curse word while I came.


PrudeNate had his fist inside me as N3rddom held a Hitachi Magic Wand to my clit, and all the while I am screaming.

Narnia. Seriously.

Would this be an example of humiliation play?

Friday night was an April birthdays celebration, filled with beatings and bitches and sex sex sex. So basically a good time.

My evening really kicked into high gear when I spied a gentleman wearing a glove with a chain wrapped around his hand. With slight prodding from my friends, I got up and introduced myself. About fifteen seconds later I was bent over the arm of the couch enduring a taste of his blows. Talk about thuddy.

Then somehow BlackBeard (the host for evening) and the chain-gloved gentleman were both hitting me at the same time, their punches landing on opposite sides. Aiming for the meat of my ass and the sides of my thighs, I fell with each blow.

BlackBeard kept yelling for me to stand back up, which I did happily, until what became the final blows, when my body buckled and I collapsed into the couch, landing on my ass. The sides of my thighs still ache from that experience, which maybe lasted two minutes.

My body warmed up, I slouched on the couch, smiling and happy.

With the complaint of those in attendance concerning the high quantity of clothing and the low quantity of nudity, clothes soon came off. I, however, was not one to just disrobe. I had to give a show.

When the moment presented itself, I cued up my usual song, and placed myself in an opportune viewing area. Of course, most everyone turned to watch.

This ended up being a blessing and a curse. It fed my need to be watched, admired, my secret narcissism, but these were not quiet folk. For the first time, as I stripped, I was heckled.

"I'd better read about this is your blog."

Request granted.

Because my act involved audience participation, and I wore a different outfit than usual, my dance was more playful, more creative. I took risks, and was rewarded for my efforts. Dollar bills found their way into my bra. And BlackBeard, ever the gentleman, made it rain for me.

Of course everyone loved my signature move (my booty pop, with my fingers pointing to my ass for added emphasis).

Soon after my dance I found myself on the floor with PrudeNate, N3rddom, and CandleLover all tormenting me. Sometimes I get spoiled.

We didn't count my cums, even though there was mention of my all time record, accomplished with PrudeNate about a year ago (42 orgasms in one hour and forty-five minutes).

Instead there were mental torments, giggles, and vibrator & fist induced glee.

At one point, it was so good I wanted to call out to my (as yet non-existent) Daddy, thanking him for my pleasure. Thankfully I was cognisant enough to know screaming "Daddy" rather loudly would've been odd and inappropriate to say the least.

After my fisting, most of us transitioned downstairs to BlackBeard's dungeon. There was an energetic threesome involving two lovely women, BlackBeard, a spanking bench, and a strap-on. PrudeNate, N3rddom, CandleLover spent some quality time of their own on the soft carpeted floor. I leaned against the wall and enjoyed the dual views.

Later that night, I was given the privilege of blacking BlackBeard's boots again, buffing them to a high shine.

My night ended with the sounds of singing and guitar playing as BlackBeard and an impromptu chorus of kinky folk sang songs as varied as those in attendance.

A good night, I hope, was had by all.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

My Swirly Brain

Our brains are funny things. In our attempts to avoid pain, we can in fact cause more anguish.

In my last session with Doc, we ended up talking about my father, a lot. I have mixed emotions surrounding my Dad. I love him, but some of his choices for my life were not the best.

Okay no, they were downright shitty.

I never lived with my father, and though we love each other our relationship is strained. I do not know how to act or just be around him. He is like an acquaintance I've met many times but never got to know. And yet half of my DNA comes from this 82 year old man.

Doc talked about, regardless of the words said, we learn how to be mostly from the situation we are raised in. I learned from my parents that love is distant. I learned that it is normal to not be as important.

Doc pointed out how, though I've never been "the other woman", my past relationships still made me feel that way.

The promise of change in the future. Emotional distance, even though we cohabited. Taking up most of the burdens, though I was suppose to be working with a partner.

I didn't want to admit it, haven't wanted to admit it for my adult life, but my Dad neglected me. I was not important enough to live with him, to see him everyday, to know him as more than just a twice yearly card and Saturday visits with my brother.

Doc talked about how adults with absentee parents have self worth issues. Ding Ding Ding.

Though never intended, I was taught I was worth less than my brothers, worth less than others. This has traveled with me into adulthood, manifesting itself in my relationships, both large and small.

If someone brings up the subject of my emotions, beyond just the cursory "How are you doing", I will talk for maybe a few minutes, but then change the subject. I know there is more I need to talk about, more I want to talk about, but the voice in my head tells me I've spent too much time on myself and must now attend to the person listening, for surely their troubles are worse than mine, are more important than mine.

If I am struggling with a problem, full of a difficult emotion, I often push it down, waiting for a moment to be alone. I then let it out, sobbing into my pillow, or quietly in a restroom stall, my head against the metal wall, my hands over my eyes, my chest convulsing. Doc calls this Stuff & Blow.

Of course the worst part is when my emotions are centered around a specific person. I always hold back, keep quiet, trying to wait for an opportune time to express how I'm feeling to them. Of course, and Doc caught this immediately, there is never an opportune time.  Thus my words are almost always left unsaid.

During a recent poly workshop, the presenter talked about how it is important to communicate honestly and constantly. Talk to your partner about any and everything, so that when the big things come up you have already had practice and your partner will be open to hearing you, thus avoiding the "We need to talk" grave conversation starter.

This idea is lovely...for those who have partners. But for a freelancer like myself, communicating with EVERYONE I have played with, am friends with, feel emotionally connected to, have close ties with, just so that one day when I need to talk to them about my swirly brain... Yeah.

There are precious little resources for poly slutty singles like myself, beyond Doc's and friends.

So, yeah, working on it.

Doc had me do a homework after our first session. He asked me to list all the ways I've lost in my life, be it emotional, financial, opportunities large and small. What I found was that as I listed all the things I lost out on, mentioning my parents actions some but mostly through my own doing, my avoidance of the pain I could've felt was much worse than the actual pain possible.

Reinforcing my self worth issues makes me feel even more worthless. Not talking about my emotions only digs the knife deeper into my heart.

So, yeah, working on it.

I'm trying to not push my feelings aside. I'm trying to not tell myself I am less important. I'm trying to put myself first.

Because, if I don't, who else will?

Friday, April 20, 2012

Bound By Burn


I knelt before him, clothed in only a tank top and panties. The wet grass under my knees and feet was cool, a small breeze giving a slight chill to the air.

He sat on the stairs of his wooden deck, his right boot the closest part of his body to me. When I dared a glance down at his leather, his gloved hand caught my chin and pulled my face back up. He wanted my full attention.

His eyes were filled with an intensity I had not seen before. Almost fearful, my eyes shot down to his chin, the first thing I could think to focus on.

He liked preparing his own cigar, depriving me of the ritual I so loved. I knew he did this not just for his enjoyment in the preparation, but also by the slight torture of my lack of the privilege. It went hand-and-hand with not allowing me to look upon his boot. Our play was as much psychological as physical.

He puffed eagerly on his stick, sending plumes of smoke into the air, a cloud he knew I wished to be surrounded in.

Patience, I told myself.

Gripping the cigar in his teeth, he freed up both his hands to ripe open the front of my shirt. Three quick tugs split the fabric down the center. My chest heaved slightly with each pull.

"Stand up."

Rocking back on my heels, I extended my left leg forward, propelling myself up, bringing myself closer to him. We were now at eye level. I could almost feel the heat of his body. My cunt almost touched his knee.

In a moment of bravery, I dared a glance into his eyes. His stare burned back at me.

In an instant, a hand was in my hair, wrenching my head back, my body bent. He pulled me in closer, my body against him now, my cunt on his leg, my face a breath away from his. I had no choice but to lock eyes with him.

Taking up his cigar in his free hand, he expelled smoke directly into my face. I welcomed the cloud.

Bringing the cigar to my cheek, the hot cherry was buried under maybe a half inch of ash. He held his cigar at an angle, lightly dragging it oh so close to my skin. I felt the heat, the threat of a burn, the singe of the delicate hairs by my ear.

I tried not to tremble.

Down my neck, he lingered on the sensitive skin. And then I felt it, the soft touch of him breaking off ash in the small crook of my neck. Returning his cigar to his mouth, he picked up the ash, breaking it apart in his hand.

Raising up the flecks, he smeared the ash into my hair, dragged the line down my face, and kissed my cheek with his hand. Again and again he slapped me, small puffs of ash billowing into the air.

Parting my lips, he shoved leathered fingers over my tongue to the top of my throat. I licked the treat as best I could.

Retreating from my mouth, he again slapped me, now wetting the ash he had previously laid. He drew his finger down my cheek; I felt the line created by the gray concoction.

"Pretty," he said, with a grin made of desire and painful intent.

Again taking up the cigar in his hand, his grip on my hair tightened. Pulling my face forward the few inches between us, in one long slow drag, he licked my face from chin to forehead.

"Tasty too."

His lips were upon mine, forcefully invading my mouth with his tongue. My tongueddanced with his, my desire to lick the ash from his driving me farther than I would have dared gone before.

My hips, without thought, began grinding my clit on his knee. My hands gripped the sides of my panties. I dreamed of touching him, but I wanted nothing more than to remain lost in his ash kiss.

Wrenching my head back, he stared at me for what seemed like forever.

"So, you want to be fucked."

He brought the cigar up to my eye line.


He held the cigar lightly, ash end away from us.

"Fuck yourself."

My eyes drifted to, and then lingered on his stick. I licked my lips, the thought of the act wetting me yet further, even though my pussy was already beyond slick.

"Oh, wait. You're still wearing underwear. Let me help you with that."

Pulling my hair, he guided me over his knee, my back resting on the thigh I had previously humped. With his boot, he spread my legs open.  My hands continued to grip the sides of my panties.

I felt the heat half a moment later. He held the cigar so near my clit, I wanted to scream, but I wouldn't. I would never scream, not unless he wanted me to.

As the heat grew, I grew fearful. It felt like... It felt like...

Quicker than I could've believed, his cigar was back in his mouth and his knife was out, rushing towards my crotch. With two quick cuts, the fabric of my panties fell limp in my hands. My pussy lips felt hot, but not burned.

His blade still in his hand, he lazily held it in the air, the point towards my body, dangling it over my abdomen. Reclined back over his lap, the shreds of my tank top had fallen aside, displaying my breasts before him. In the slightest of wisps, he barely touched my skin. Even still, I felt his knife was sharp. I worked to temper my breathing.

"No, no, not yet. You wanted to be fucked." Even through his clenched teeth holding his cigar, he sounded menacing.

Putting his knife away, he again took up his cigar, the end wet with his saliva. He drew the moisture across my skin, slowly leading down to where I yearned for it to be.

Finally, forever a long, he reached my clit. In small circles, he massaged the nub. My moans started low and slow. His grip lightened on my hair as my head reclined back from enjoyment.

I whimpered my disappointment as he brought the cigar back to his lips, puffing again. His ash had grown once more. I did my best to look on him longingly, hopelessly begging with my eyes, hoping it would be enough.

His hand rested on my abdomen as he lightly broke off his ash in my belly button. Returning the cigar to his lips, he crushed the ash with his hand and smeared a line down to my clit, once again circling the nub, but also using long languid strokes, parting my lips just so. My moans started anew. My hips rocked up to meet his hand.

I wanted more. Oh, I wanted more. And he knew it. Patience was the last thing on my mind, yet still my desire for pleasure could not overcome my desire to please him.

Retracing his path, his hand crawled up my body to my lips. I lapped up the mixture of ash and my juices.

Once again with the cigar in his hand, he drifted to the one place I wanted him the most. Tracing my lips, he teased me mercilessly, the tension in my body growing with each passing second, until finally he slipped the end of his cigar into my pussy.

I gasped, my legs wide, my hips sinking, trying desperately to have more of his tobacco in me. Much as before, his movement was slow, torturous. In and out, long languid thrusts. The heat inside of the cigar added to the tension in my body, the growing wave building up inside of me.

But before I could ask, he slipped the cigar from my pussy and placed it back to his lips. He puffed and puffed, then returned the stick to this hand.

"I'm going to give you a present."

I felt the bite of his knife simultaneously with the return of his tight grip on my hair. On my right thigh, I could not make out what he slowly, painfully, carved into me. The heat from the cigar he still held in his hand danced close to my skin, but never close enough to burn me.

His etching complete, he brought the flat of the knife to his tongue and licked off the few drops of my blood gleaming the tip. His blade away, he broke off ash onto the top of my thigh, then smear it down my skin to his present, rubbing the flecks into the wound.

"Now you are going to give me a gift."

His cigar had but a little ash built up. His stick in his mouth, he removed his leather gloves, setting them aside.

Laying his hand flat on my stomach, palm up, he broke off not only the hot ash but a sizable portion of the cherry into his hand. I registered only the slightest of winces on his part.

My hand moved towards his before he even grabbed my wrist. My left and his right closed onto each other, closed onto the heat.

Reaching to his side, he produced a short strand of red rope, wrapping the binding around our hands. I had no intention of letting go. It seemed neither did he.

As our hands burned, I felt bound to him; through the pain, through the searing struggle, I would never let him go.

Thursday, April 19, 2012


"Feelings are not facts." - Doc, on my need to put others first because if I don't I feel like a bad person. 

He subsequently pointed out that often the ways we use to avoid pain in fact cause us more pain; my putting others first only reinforces my belief that I am worth less than others, i.e. a bad person.

Recently I chatted with a coworker as we ate a meal during our break. They confessed to me that they were contemplating seeking couples counseling, citing issues with communication and resulting arguments.

Previously, I had mentioned that I recently started therapy. My coworker felt the need to have me promise to not divulge their thoughts with anyone we knew. (My coworker is not kinky, and does not read this blog.)

When I spoke to a second coworker, citing how happy I was that I had started therapy, they asked me why I even sought out the help. I told them how it was difficult for me to express my emotions. They pointed out how I spoke to them about how I was feeling. I agreed; I spoke to them, but who else?

It is easy for me to talk with this second coworker. Our lives only intertwine at work. I feel comfortable with them, having bit-by-bit revealed parts of myself with no blow black. But I would like to be comfortable talking to anyone about my feelings. I want to be open and honest not just about all the hot kinky sex and play in my life, but also the undercurrent, the inner most workings influencing me.

It never occurred to me how much of a stigma around psychotherapy still exists. In my opinion, seeing a therapist should be on the same level as seeing your general practitioner. Medical help is medical help.

Why do we as a culture ignore an entire part of our health and well being?

In just two sessions, I see the effects my upbringing has had on my adult life, how my parents have influenced the way I operate, my emotional struggles, and the pent up revelations I don't allow out.

Two sessions. In two hours I have felt better than years of talking with my friends and writing in my various journals have ever made me.

So no, I am not ashamed I see a therapist. I know I need to seek counseling. I believe everyone could benefit from a healthy dose of reality reflected in your face.

I am happy to sacrifice a day's pay to sit in a room with a professional, and for an hour talk through the maze that is my head. Frankly, I believe it is a small price to pay.

I have lived twenty-eight years believing the bullshit I tell myself. But, in short order, my therapist has helped me recognize that my anger towards my parents is justified, and that neglect has a lasting emotional impact worse than physical abuse. My two hours with my therapist have been invaluable.

So yeah, today with the Doc went well. And, if you wish to, don't be afraid to get your own.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012


No one is a special special snowflake. No matter what you may believe, what your parents taught you, your teachers, your mentors, or whoever wanted to get into your pants.

You are not a special special snowflake. I say this as much to anyone else as to myself.

For a time, I have been left with a dilemma.

I love body modifications. I have multiple piercings and tattoos, with plans for more. However, my vision for my body was knocked end-over-end when I learned someone who I rather disliked (and thankfully is no longer in my life) has a similar body mod to one which I wanted to acquire.

All of a sudden the idea germinating in my mind was tainted. Before I was expressing who I was, who I am. It was to be a reminder to myself of both my inner beauty and outer radiance. When I learned of their modification, I was left with the thought of my new addition, should I procure it, being associated with this person.

I am not a special special snowflake.

There is but so much real estate on any body to augment, and there are so very many people in this world. No matter what, somewhere there is someone who has the exact some modifications as mine, and I, should I ever meet them, may indeed hate them. So what?

When I mentioned my problem to a coworker, he commented that my dilemma was the reason why he never got any body mods. Every time he had an idea for one, he'd see it or something similar on someone else. He wanted to be unique.

But I don't have body modifications because I believe I'm a special special snowflake. My tattoos and piercings are expressions of myself. They are meaningful, beauteous, and, at times, just ornamentation. But they are mine.

The more I think on this, the more foolish I feel. It is my body, my want, my meaning. It matters not how anyone else chooses to augment themselves, nor should their reasoning have any effect on my sentiment to my changes.

To think, I've wasted time and energy fretting over this...

My beauty is from within; I choose how I wish to display this on my skin. Similarities to others be damned.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

A Show

We all sat, luxuriating on the couches, our bellies full with delicious foods.

Randomly, Hammer subtly gestured to the seating area directly across from us, about twenty feet away. With his body turned, blocking the sight line of the foreign assemblage, he spoke.

"They're looking at us."

Indeed, when I peaked my head to my left, I saw a man from their group was staring intently. The others would look for a moment, then dash their gaze away, talking to those seated near. Lochai too confirmed we indeed had an audience.

When I looked on our group, I could understand why we drew the others' attention. There were twelve of us, everyone attractive. Almost all were smartly dressed. (I was invited to the dinner last minute, therefore I donned a mere tank top and jeans.)

None of us shied away from affection. Arms intertwined. Kisses were freely given. Bodies reclined into other bodies. We had been in high spirits throughout the previous five courses of our seven course meal.

"If they want to watch, we'll give them a show," said Slut. I liked her thinking.

Our sixth course, baskets of fresh fruit and nuts, was brought out to us. We happily cracked our nuts, including Devil laying one in TwistedView's lap and then uncasing his treat.

I chose a banana, always endeavoring to increase my potassium. Popping open the peel, I decided to practice my training. Slowly gliding the banana into my mouth, I relaxed and opened up my throat. It was the first time I'd practiced deep throating in almost two months.

The first time I gagged slightly. The second and third times were better, no gagging and I was able to fit in about five inches. I then ate the soft flesh, happy with my short practice.

No one in my group took notice of my banana fun. I didn't care if the audience had by chance observed me.

To my right, Slut had selected an apple. She pulled out her blade, cut into the flesh of the fruit, and ate it bit by bit. Slicing off a piece, she held it for me. I bent my head down and ate from her hand.

Again she sliced a piece, but this time she grabbed my hair and reclined my head back. The fruit hovered just above my lips. I ate from her hand, then tasted her lips as she kissed me.

I didn't bother looking over at our audience. They didn't matter to me; I didn't care if they watched.

One of the luxuries of being open about who you are and the life you live is genuinely not giving a shit what other people think about it.

Sunday, April 15, 2012


"Stop spinning."

She whispered it into my ear, her breathy voice carrying the grin on her face.

I breathed deep, my head against hers, a smile across my lips as well.

Soft silk pressed against my eyes, blocking out the world. And my lids weren't the only ones shielded. It was just me, her, and the rope dance.

She started slow, rocking me back and forth, circling me around her body. Then, deftly, she spun me back and forth between her hands, the length of rope she held an extension of her arms. I raced in circles, raising and lowering my arms as I rode along her path.

Each time I came to an end, we'd pause. I drunk in the feel of her body against mine, her face next to mine. Occasionally she spun me so hard I whirled into her and held her tight in a half hug for balance.

She stopped me once, this time circling me, dragging the rope across my body. I could feel her presence as she stood behind me. With one quick ripe, she pulled the rope and spun me round and round.

Another time, she again languished the rope over my skin. The length crossed my back, under one arm but over the opposite shoulder. I felt the tension she held, herself a small distance away.

I knew what was coming.

With a jolt, I was down on the ground, my head on her foot. Another pull and I rolled over.

With a few playful kicks to my crotch, the class laughed and applauded, our dance now ended.

Photo Courtesy of Vincent and Mia

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Voice and the Author



I see you./Can you see me?/ Watching you/Loving it.*

It stood in the corner of his bedroom, unassuming. I found it odd that a man had a long mirror. Cheap. Ikea.

But then again, not really. It made perfect sense as soon as he was inside of me.

He fucked me from behind, doggy style, just the right position.

He made me watch, made me open my eyes. The mirror was perfectly placed, at just the right angle, for me to see us. For him to watch us.

I didn't want to, at first. I kept my eyes closed. Even as he yelled. Even as he screamed at me.

Finally, one hand grabbed my hair, pulled my body up, my head right by his. His other hand enclosed around my neck.

"Open your eyes!" He barked his order in my ear. My lids shot open with his deep thrust.

"You are going to watch." His fucking slowed.

My eyes locked on his through the reflection.

There was a concentration, control, yet ease in his gaze. His stare was intoxicating.

He relaxed the hand around my neck, then trailed his fingers over my skin. Down, over my breasts. Pinching my nipple, eliciting a sigh. Grabbing my boob, inciting a moan. Flatting out his hand, smoothing over the skin on my stomach. Scratching my pelvis. Creeping lower, lower. Til finally, lightly, massaging my clit in time with his thrusts.

My eyes wanted to close. I could feel my body warm, my desire to cum increasing. But I had never, ever, orgasmed with my eyes open.

I begged, pleaded with him. All I wanted was to cum. All I wanted was to cum for him. Still, he would not let me shut my lids.

"Cum for me," he said. "Cum for me."

And though I would never have believed it. Though it had never happened before. My body responded to his order. I shivered, quivered, shacked. The pleasure raced through me.

I screamed for him, came for him, my gaze never leaving his.

*Neyo - Mirror

Friday, April 13, 2012

A Master And His Pet


"New ones, young ones, budding masters and studious apprentices, a dark time is upon us. I need not tell you of the threat looming beyond, for I know you all feel it. We train you, we guide you, in hopes that one day, when you must fight, you will use the power, the knowledge we have imparted to save yourself and others.

"Some of you will thrive; some of you will die when you leave us. To give you the best chance possible, we will be bringing in more Sirs and Masters to instruct you.

"Learn, for when you leave us only life will be there to teach you."


"When do you want to study?"
"I have commitments to my future family's household."
"Friday?" Pet turned, feeling his hail before his words left his lips. He kept the words in his mouth, the exchanged glance enough to appease him. "I must go. My duties call. We will figure something out later."
"Please don't forget. I still do not understand the web." Deve called after, Pet scurrying to the Master's side.


"Shall we take the galley way, Sir?"
"Master," he corrected her.

Pet was well versed in the difference between a Sir and a Master, though all her other instructors just went by the generic title. She had yet to meet a Lord.

"Master, shall we take the galley way?" With a ding, the common lift opened. It was old, with rickety noises, and slow moving.  Discouraged, she shuffled his things onto the lift, the Master carrying the lightest of his bags.  Pet rolled two huge cases, with a third one slung over her shoulder. She closed the lift door with a clang. The compartment jolted and then slowly ascended.

In sideways glances, Pet took in the figure of the Master. He was handsome, that she could not deny. Older, of course, for few if any attained his rank without a life of instruction. His suit was well made, as was his luggage. Moneyed? His eyes were worn, yet strong. What battles had he fought? What dangers had he conquered?

Creeping up, the lift stopped on the very next level. Opening the gate, Pet was greeted with the sight of her friend Slew.

"I'll take the next one," the red haired girl spoke, exchanging looks and grins with Pet. Slew could see her friend was occupied.


"So many girls."
"Yes, Master. You arrived on the boys free day. Usually no studier stays in during their free day."

Pet placed his things in his salon.

"I hope the accommodations are to your liking."
"And if they are not?" The Master's question caught her off guard.
"You have use of me, however and whenever you please." It was the appropriate answer, one that was drilled into every studier when it was time to prepare for their apprenticeship. "Would you like me to contort the room to a better liking?"

Pet saw the Master grin only slightly. She supposed he did not expect any further answer.

"What do you know of fortification rites?"
"Quite many an incantation, Master."
"You are a final year, correct?"
"Yes, Master."

It was hard to tell who was skilled and whose knowledge was left wanting.  Everyone found sex magic differently.  Everyone entered their training at various ages.  Pet, though, she was something special.  It was rare for a final year to be only twenty-five.

The Master opened the bag he carried, and pulled out a blade. With concentrated eyes, he held the metal flat in his hand. Pet watched as his lips moved, charming his incantation. The blade rose, hovering an inch above his hand. But at once, his concentration broke, and the knife fell back into his grip.

"Might I try, Master?" The Master looked up, seeming to have forgotten Pet was in the room. He gave his consent with his eyes. Pet slowly stepped forward, gently took up the blade, turned and knelt in the center of the room.

"Master, do you have other metals you want fortified?"

The Master looked on her suspiciously, though Pet could not see his stare.

Crossing the room, the Master retrieved the bag Pet had carried over her shoulders. Opening it, the Master pulled out curved pieces of metal. It was a ring. Locking the sections around her, the ring encircled Pet.

"Thank you," she said as the Master slowly stepped away, his eyes locked on her. Pet still held the blade softly in her hands.

This time it was Pet's lips who moved, whispering her incantation. As the blade slowly lifted, Pet raised her left hand, extending her left index finger, pricking the tip. A drop of blood lazed down the blade. Her whispers continued.

Now the ring lifted, hovering at first a few inches from the floor, then floating just below Pet's eye line.

Now Pet hovered, her eyes ablaze as her concentration never wavered. The ring began circling her, its plane ever changing, but ever spinning around Pet, increasing its speed as the energy of the incantation grew.

From the line of blood on the metal, lines of crimson shot out, weaving around Pet and the blade, the ring enclosing them. The red orb-web grew until it seemed Pet was tangled in it, yet the lines never touched her. Only the blade, which hovered still a few inches above her hand.

With a pulse, Pet's body rocked. The blood lines collapsed in, closing around the blade, enfolding their pulsing power over the metal, until finally sinking into it. The metal glowed red a moment; then Pet, the blade, and the ring lowered.

The final words Pet spoke aloud.

"May the blood web be never broken."

"How did you do that?"
"Sir?" The Master ignored the slight discourtesy.
"How did you..."
"You have use of me, however and whenever you please." This time Pet gave the grin.

Not even Daedon understood all of the Sex Magics, and he had found the arts at a young age too. But Daedon did know one thing: the Head Mage had been right. Pet was something special. Daedon could not deny the fire now burning inside him, a fire for this girl, kneeling on his salon floor.

Pet, merely sensing what want Daedon had of her next, and feeling the sacrifice of her spell, slowly unbuttoned her white collared shirt. Daedon's abdomen throbbed. Soon, with just her under things on, Pet stayed on her knees, looking up at the Master expectantly.

All magics had prices. Daedon knew, in Pet binding the blade, she had also bound herself to the metal, bound herself with power he could only dream of possessing. He hoped, when he entered her, as he fucked her, but a drop of her energy would somehow enter him. For even a drop of this young one's essence would be enough to sustain him for a lifetime.

Writhing on his floor, sucking on her neck, her breasts, scratching, clawing at her body, and her moans filling his ear, Daedon whispered, "I have use of you, however and whenever I please."

He made his thrusts hard, deep. Daedon could feel Pet's pleasure, could feel as her muscles clamped down on him, could feel the energy she pulsed from her body. Every inch of her flesh burned with warmth. Daedon feared and loved this magical being in his arms.

"Master. Master." she whispered, desperation in her voice which only added to their combined sexual energy, only made the coupling last longer, grow harder, as he drank in her lust and she enveloped all his poundings.

Yes, he would teach her, as the Head Mage had asked, no, begged. She was indeed a rare thing, talented, full of the energy and with a natural skill level he had never seen before. Yes, Daedon would teach Pet, though he rightly knew he would also learn just as much from her.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012


I expected little from my last night at Frolicon. I had already enjoyed a good event, nothing terribly momentous but a few days of chill fun.

So as I walked towards Vlad and Itonia, I smiled, happy to see familiar faces. Vlad was dressed in a dapper pinstripe suit and held a length of white nylon rope. Itonia wore a black and red leather corset with decorative buckles, as well as a black skirt to match.

Vlad was working on an asymmetrical chest harness on Itonia, but his length of rope was a bit short. When I greeted them, he was in the process of untying her. Once free, I asked if I could play with his rope.

I'm not sure how the conversation veered this way but it was decided Vlad would go get his rope bag. Itonia and I stayed in the dungeon chatting.

On a whim, I cinched the bite of the rope to my boot with a larks head and wound the chord up my leg, finishing with a loop around my waist. When Vlad returned, he and Itonia both agreed my work reminded them of a bionic leg.

Almost as soon as Vlad returned, Itonia walked off, saying she wanted water.

Vlad held rope in his hands, having wanted to tie Itonia again. Being a good friend and all, I offered my body for his work.

Again Vlad wanted to tie an asymmetrical harness. He started by securing my left wrist in front. Vlad then wound his ropes all around my chest and over my shoulders, creating interesting patterns. He pulled a length through my legs, placing it in the cleft between my thigh and cunt. He finished by tying my right hand behind my back.

As he worked, I found myself slipping into rope space. I leaned my body into his, brushed my hair and head against his.

"You smell so good," he whispered into my ear.

Vlad too got into the moment, drawing the rope across my body, being brave with his ties. Before, when Vlad had tied Itonia with the one length of rope, he had seemed uncertain. I wanted to make him feel comfortable, wanted him to relax into the tying, wanted to get him out of his head and into his hands.

Before we even began, while merely chatting, I spoke about how tying isn't just about the final product. It isn't just about the type of rope or the knots. It's about the connection between the persons involved. A rope scene isn't just about the rope.

When Vlad tied me, we shared a connection.

As Vlad worked, Itonia ventured back for a moment, this time with two new acquaintances in tow. She stayed for but a moment before walking off with them. A few minutes later she returned, my body leaning up against a column in the room, my moans obvious, Vlad and I deep in the thick of the scene.

"Tell me when she looks bored."
"Oh, she's definitely not bored."

The playful banter between the two of them only added to the energy we were building.

I heard them whisper something about having not asked my permission. Vlad was then on his knees by my side holding his cane. I gave my consent to its use.

My ass had almost forgotten the sting of a cane. Pops of pain seared my rump. With each stroke, I tipped my hips forward, then again arched my back, presenting my ass for further abuse. Itonia stroked my hair.

As the number of his hits increased, my resolve faltered. I began jumping about, avoiding his blows. Cleverly, I used Itonia as a shield. She had positioned herself right beside me. I twisted my body, pushing my ass into her, anything to avoid the next blow.

The two of them plotted. How would they get me to stand still?

Pulling over a chair, they had me kneel in it. Itonia sat in a chair in front of me, stroking my hair still and caressing my face. I kissed her palm each time it came near my lips.

"Do you like thuddy?"
"Shit, do I have anything that's thuddy?"
"Your fists.Your elbows.Your knees.Your forearms."

Vlad began punching my ass. Whereas before I had yelped from his blows, my voice once again switched to moans. His punches rocked my body forward. My left hand gripped the back of the seat while my chest bounced off the seat's back. I could feel myself getting wet.

I stopped the scene for but a moment, asking Vlad to move the rope near my crotch. It was hemp rope and I didn't want to...flavor it with myself. He loosened the rope. It now hung low enough to avoid my cunt which had turned quite slick.

Vlad began his punches again. I groaned and grunt as he alternated his hits on my cheeks. And before I knew it, I could feel it growing. Could feel the warmth in my abdomen. Could feel I needed to ask him a question.

"Please, please may I cum?"

Itonia and Vlad were both shocked at my request. Being a good friend, Itonia gave me a little advice.

"You have to ask nicely. And you have to you the magic word. He likes to be called Daddy."

In that brief moment, I was as shocked as they previously were. Was this really about to happen? Was I really about to scream the title I had only uttered alone at home while wrenching around in my bed, my self administered pleasure engulfing me?

Itonia's Daddy said yes.

What Now


"It's okay. It's been a while. Stare. I don't care if you stare at me. Unless I'm inside you. Then I want you to stare at me."

He has a girlfriend now.

We had been flirting all night, my first night back. And then he told me.

"Everything in me wants to be inside you right now."

He told me fifteen minutes ago. Now he was pacing around his apartment. I watched him as I stood on his couch, bouncing on the cushions. He had his way of dealing, and I had mine.

"Why don't you force me?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Force me to fuck you."
"You don't want to cheat on your girlfriend, so no, I will not give you an excuse, a clean conscience to go back to her."

He continued to pace. I continued to bounce.

He rung his hands, brushed his head, and occasionally looked over at me. I had forgotten how gorgeous he was, those eyes piercing the shell I was trying to create around myself. I had forgotten his smell til it wafted up my nostrils when he greeted me at the beginning of our night with a prolonged hug.

"No, I won't force you, but I can do this."

I grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. Standing on the couch, I was at just the right height for his face to rest in my cleavage. I kissed the top of his head and rubbed his shoulder blades.

I thought I was comforting him. His arms gripped around me tight. He let out a sigh.

Before I knew it, he scooped me up and laid my body down onto his couch. He kissed me, the fire of our lust overtaking us. My panties were off a moment later. I didn't want to stop him, for once didn't want to be good.

I heard the ripe of the condom wrapper. Knew in a few breaths that would be it. Knew I still had a chance to stop him.

But I didn't stop him.

We fucked on his couch. It wasn't quick, wasn't spur of the moment. We fucked long and hard. Neither of us could deny it was still there. Neither of us wanted to stop.

I had missed his pounding inside me. Had missed his scent. The feel of his body against mine. Had missed screaming his name so loudly he worried the neighbors would hear. Missed his breath kissing my skin. Missed his whispers in my ear. I missed him.

A year is a long time to be away.

But now that it was over, the both of us sweaty and breathing hard, lying on his couch, our arms wrapped around each other tight. Now that I let him do what he, what we did. Now that I didn't stop him. Now that I had acted unethically, fucked without thinking, done what I would never want done to me...

What do I do now? Because I can't deny that I love him, but I can't be his dirty little secret.


Often times, in the throws of passion, whether during sex or in the middle of a scene, my eyes are closed.

My Ex once asked me what I thought about when we fucked, my lids shut. He said I looked like I was gone, somewhere else.

He wasn't wrong. When I fucked him, my head went to a Dominant place.

Fuck him. Fuck him, girl. Fuck him hard. Make him your bitch. Ride him, harder. Harder. Take it. Take your orgasm. Ride this bitch to your cum.

The one time I told him what I was thinking, yeah, he didn't like hearing that.

After him, after many other lays, so many more scenes, my head no longer goes to that place. Instead of being far away, I in fact feel more present.

When I close my eyes, I close off the outside world. My presence exist only with you and me. I feel you, as much in my being as through my skin. Every fiber of me is with you, about you.

Without fail, if I am about orgasm, my eyes are closed. The act of fucking, the act of playing, anything physical and sexual or passionate evokes a strong physical and emotional reaction. So much so that my brain cannot process more than a few senses at a time.

When I am cuming, I close my eyes to feel it, relish in it. I allow my body to ride the waves, every bit of the ecstasy a part of me, racing through me. I scream because I have to express it, have to cry out the pleasure of my body. I have no other way of processing it, nor do I want another way.

I love screaming, love verbalizing the lust inside of me. My eyes closed, my body arched, my being so interlaced with yours...

When I close my eyes, I am not shutting off or shutting down. When I close my eyes, I am opening up, letting go, allowing myself to just be.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


I leave in about an hour for my first session with my new therapist, who I will henceforth call Doc.

I am nervous.

The last time I tried therapy it was... not a resounding success.

I will say that she got me thinking. She tried to get me to be more forthcoming with my emotions in my relationship with the Ex instead of bottling it all up and waiting for it to erupt at a most inopportune time.

But then she lectured me about my weight. So no, I cannot say we were a good fit.

Because that really matters when you spend an hour at a time talking to someone about the most intimate details of yourself. I'm about to open up my head to a man I have never met.

As a person who finds it difficult to easily communicate my emotions with others because I view them as less than, view myself as less than, expect that I should put everyone before myself, believe that I am suppose to be the easy going friend anyone can turn to without having to worry about how I am feeling... spending a hour with someone talking about nothing but my emotions...

Yeah, this is going to be interesting.

There is a lot of shit swirling in my head, some of it occurring just yesterday.

In my old therapy sessions, I brought a notebook and took notes. I don't think that's shocking to anyone. I bought a new little notebook for Doc's sessions. It's navy blue.

I actually stood in Staples and had a conversation with myself about the color. Gray couldn't work because I have a friend with that name. Black couldn't work because it seems too morbid, as if I expected to fail. Red was just as bad, evoking thoughts of blood and ripping my heart out. So I chose blue, because though my mind could say it is how I feel, it could also be what I don't want to feel anymore, hence the work, the sessions, the effort.

I have an odd mind.

I opened my netbook this morning, hoping to write about the next section of my last night at Frolicon. It involved two hot people, some rope, punching, and a word I didn't think I would get to say anytime soon.

Sorry, but you folks will have to wait just a little bit longer for that.

A Tour

Before I even showed up In San Francisco, I already had plans. I knew there were two places I wanted to visit, Mr. S Leather & Wicked Grounds. These two stops would be easy, seeing as they are merely a block away from each other and only a mile and a half walk from the hotel.

However, the other activity I wanted to enjoy took prior planning. On Thursday night, my first night in San Francisco, my first night at IMsL, I took a tour of

Any adult can take a tour of There studios are located in the San Francisco Armory. But, first, you must pre-purchase a ticket online. And while $25 seemed like a hefty price to some I spoke to, I found the adventure worth it.

In my red sundress and Zim jacket, and carrying my Hello Kitty bag with my notebook, I hopped a bus in front of the hotel and headed towards the Armory. I was actually worried I would be late, but, as fate would have it, I was thirty minutes early.

As I stood outside the door, after having been instructed I would not be allowed inside til five minutes beforehand, I wondered if I would be the only visitor that day. Of course, I was not. There were about 16-18 total for my tour.

Our guide was a lovely brunette named Cara. Very excited, bubbly, with lots of information about the building and the business inside of it, I enjoyed her tidbits of information as she escorted us through the multiple levels of the building.

We visited the set of Hogtied.

Ultimate Surrender, where hot chicks like to wrestle and fuck each other.

A Butcher Room, complete with fake sides of beef.

The Showers, which Cara informed us, though they looked nasty, were indeed completely sanitary.

The Chain Room, which those of you who have visited my Fet account will see a quite cute picture of me caught up in.

The Fucking Machines Laboratory with, I shit you not, the robot from Short Circuit; he has, indeed, been converted into a fucking machine.

A Speakeasy with actual alcohol for when co-workers need a respite after hours.

And an everyday apartment set, previously used for the upcoming film Cherry, starring Heather Graham and James Franco. Unfortunately no, James Franco did not fuck on the set.

There were large 55 gallon drums of lube, as well as sanitizer. There was the Dungeon's dream room, a prop closet over fifty feet long with toys and implements for days. There was the underground former shooting range; this was an armory, after all, for the National Guard. We saw the wood shop, and heard an employee band practicing. And we even got to watch a movie being filmed from far, far away. All of it was a hell of a lot of fun.

But the climax of the tour, what I had been waiting for, was upstairs.

The Upper Floor.

Lush red curtains. Thick carpets. Long dining tables. Oil paintings. And that was just in the Dining Rooms.

The Parlor, that was where the action happened.

The fireplace with the chalkboard noting the orgasm challenge. The lonely Shibari ring hanging from the ceiling. The bronze statue of a naked woman, which was then tied in rope. The cabinet stocked with rope and other fun things. The cushioned high back chair that could sit three. And the four oil paintings, hung on the far wall, with one face that I knew.

Stefanos, the Steward.

Yes, I wanted to be on the Upper Floor. I wanted to play there. Wanted to submit there. Wanted to be hurt there. Wanted to be fucked there.

But this was a tour, and nothing more.

We made our way back downstairs, the tour ended.

As everyone else filtered out, none of whom had seemed kinky, I stepped aside so that I could thank Cara for the tour. I had quite enjoyed myself, seeing all the places I had only glimpsed through my computer screen.

She thanked me for my enthusiasm during the tour. Indeed, though I asked few questions, I had LOTS of comments, especially pertaining to how much I loved the site and the amazing sets we saw.

I said goodnight, because it was getting late, and ventured back outside. Finding the bus stop, I patiently waited. About ten minutes passed, and here came Cara again. Turns out she took the bus home. We chatted for a bit more, but she disembarked before I did.

Though I did not play, did not get tied up to the ring, flogged or whipped, slapped our beat, still, I had toured

I smiled as I made my way back to the hotel, back to IMsL, back to my normally scheduled vacation.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


I initially saw them in the hallway just outside of the Dungeon.

A Submissive, A Switch, and A Dominant.

The Domme was female bodied, standing back from the Sub and Switch, wearing black Carhart pants, a black t-shirt, and black leather boots. The male bodied Switch wore a leather thong and a leather chest piece with a chain attached on the back. The chain connected to the leather straight jacket worn by the female bodied Submissive. She had no choice but to walk behind him.

It was by pure luck that I had encountered the Trio. As Amethyst, Devi, and I made our way back towards our shared hotel room, I happened to gaze upon the group in an intense exchange against a wall.

"Can we pause for a moment?"

I leaned against the opposite side about fifteen feet down the hall.

The Domme watched as the Switch held the Sub against the wall. The Sub's mouth was covered with black tape. He held her neck while kissing her lips through the barrier. There was just something about that moment, about that chemistry, that caught me.

Devi and Amethyst could see my interest. They said they were going to head back to the room and, if I wanted, I could meet them at the Burlesque show at midnight, in about an hour and a half.

As they walked away, I turned back to the Trio. The Switch now massaged the Sub's crotch through her skirt. Still, the Domme just stood back and calmly watched. A breath later, the Domme stepped forward, pulled back the Sub's hair, and spoke something to the Switch. It was too noisy and I was too far away to hear them.

Releasing the Sub from against the wall, the Trio moved. I stayed where I was, not wanting to disrupt their dynamic.  And I didn't want to seem like a stalker. I watched as they progressed down the hall and into the Dungeon.

And that was the moment; that was the choice. Go back to the room or follow them?

I eased into the Dungeon, seeing an all-to-familiar scene: the last night of a convention, a room full of people, play happening everywhere. I glanced around, and through the ordered chaos I saw the Trio slowly slinking about.

Instead of following them, I sought out an already in-progress scene. Almost at once, my eyes locked on a simple impact scenario. A man was kicking a woman on all fours in her ass. I smiled, knowing the delicious feeling, and re-positioned myself for a better view.

As their scene intensified, his kicks grew harder, rocking her body on the ground, to the point of occasionally splaying her form across the floor. In a flash, she would pull herself back up. I knew that need, that desire to take the pain, to be the good little bottom for your top. I watched them play til they finished.

As fate would have it, as they began to wrap up, the Trio again came into my sight line. They had finally found an open piece of play equipment, a mere twenty feet to my left. As they set up, I took a moment to slowly turn around, taking in the rest of the scenes in the room. I noted some amazing rope work on the main suspension rig, two spanking bench scenes, some wax play, and other various happenings.

As I slowly rotated, a woman sitting on the floor looked up at me and commented on how much she loved my boots. The man sitting with her gave equal compliment to my leather. I thanked them.

Slipping into a conversation, we chatted about the scenes surrounding us. The gentleman stepped away for a moment, returning with two chairs.

"Would you like a seat?"

I explained that I don't really sit in chairs in a Dungeon, with my constant looking all around at the sights to see.

"Oh, so you perch?"

Indeed, with the chair he gave me, I rested a knee in the seat while leaning my body against the back. Catching bits and pieces of multiple scenes, my eyes drifted first to the Trio. The Sub was restrained to a chair similar to those used for massages. Her skirt and straight jacket removed, her arms were secured as the Switch and Domme worked her back and backside with impact toys.

Next I saw a new rough body play scene had started on the opposite side of the Dungeon. A Top and Bottom fought, wrestling on the ground until the Bottom submitted. The Top and Bottom would then stand, the Top transitioning to using impact implements as the Bottom leaned against a cross.

Also, nearer to the Trio, a whip scene had begun, the thrower kissing strikes across the receiver's back and ass.

Finally, with a suspension rig close at hand, there was also a steady stream of turnover as waiting rope duos prepped on the side while the current two-some flew.

Surprising to me, I found my eyes going back to the rough body play most often. The power dynamic between the Top and Bottom sizzled even as I watched fifty feet away.

The Trio's play, though interesting, seemed monotonous. Lots of flogging, but little obvious variety. It was not until they broke out in a quite sexy threesome on the floor that they held my attention for more than a minute.

When all my viewing eventually died down, I thought I might try to catch the end of the Burlesque show or possibly go to bed early. But, as I grabbed my things, I looked up and saw Itonia and Vlad, who I had met the night before. We had initially connected as friends of friends, messaging on Fet before the event.

With smiles exchanged, I went over to say hi.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Choked Out

My Last Night: Choked Out
As we all walked back into the Naked House, I offered a small reprieve for NHF. Since he had missed my previous strip tease, I thought I could instead give him a sensual unzipping of my Zim jacket.

Settling back into the living room, everyone sat on the couch... except NHF, who stood in the middle of the room right behind me, right where I thought I would be dancing for him. I could hear and feel him take his shirt off. I then felt his whisper in my ear.

"May I take control?"

His arms around me, I leaned my head back and brushed my cheek on his chin. Gripping my hair, his free hand found my zipper. Slowly, oh so slowly, he crept my zipper down my jacket.

I rolled my body into his movement, snaking my flesh so that I might get close to the heat of his hand, so that I could add to the sensuality of the experience. Releasing my hair, his finger hooked into the top of my jacket and slipped it over my left shoulder. I curved my arm and shoulder inward, helping him.

"Let me do all the work," he whispered.

I damn near melted right there.

"Press your body against me."

He requested what I already wanted to do.

NHF began running his hands all over my body, exploring my flesh, my curves. He caressed my breasts, squeezed my hips, gripped my ass. Trailing his fingers back up, NHF pinched my nipples. I let out a small yelp. "That's what I like to hear."

Gripping my strands once more, NHF used the hair guidance system to reposition me in front of the fuck bed. Again his hands explored my body as I pressed my flesh into his.

"She's leaving tomorrow?"

The disappointment was shared.

NHF sat down on the bed, spreading his legs wide. I followed, nestling myself into him. I was again surrounded by his arms. His hands once more went to my breasts. He began pinching them again. He wanted to hear me scream. After another yelp, this time I whispered to him.

"You can pinch harder."

He increased his pain, until finally my voice built up and a scream exploded from my lips. NHF gripped my breasts hard and pulled my body close. I rocked my hips on the bed and into his crotch, the passion of the moment overtaking me.

But it was time for the intended fun. NHF prepped for my choke out. Sliding his arm around my neck, NHF lightly squeezed and released. I told him how his grip hurt my wind pipe a bit. NHF instructed me to turn my head to the right. He tried again. My wind pipe now eased, NHF told me to raise my left hand. This would be his signal for when to stop. Once my arm dropped, NHF would no longer squeeze.

The first time he choked me, I lost control of my left arm before I went out. My head leaned back. I began giggling. I was loopy and happy, smiling with a breathy laugh.

For his second choke, I again lost control of my arm before I went out. This time my forearms and fronts of my thighs tingled. I grumbled a little, but was curious about the new sensation.

For his third choke, I pushed myself to keep my arm up. I could feel it wanting to drop, but I held it up, not wanting to be disappointed once more.

Suddenly, everything went black. A flash of images rushed towards me. I had a vague dream of walking on a side street in a residential neighborhood.

Gently, my eyes opened. I heard music. I couldn't remember where I was or what I was doing. In a rush, it came back to me. NFH still had his arms around me. I could feel his chest against my back. I felt exhilarated, yet comforted.

NHF complimented me, noted how I didn't resist at all during my chokes, completely submitting to his will.

After a few more breaths, NHF got me to stand up and sat me in the comfy chair I had previously used for bootblacking. I grinned ear-to-ear, swimmy loopy happy.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

NHF Introduction

My Last Night: NHF Introduction

Shivering, but smiling, I sat in a chair on the side porch, joining Belarian and the Naked House Friend as they enjoyed some cigars. Introducing myself, both NHF and I were able to put faces to FetLife names.

Almost as soon as we began chatting, I noticed NHF had a nice head of ash on his cigar. Being the cigar slut that I am, having just met this person, I asked to eat ash out of his hand. He politely declined with a "Not yet."

Instead NHF watched as I partook of a treat from Belarian's hand. I stood up and checked that the backyard was clear, including the neighbor's sight lines. Bending over, with just my Zim jacket on, the covering slipped up my ass, exposing my no-longer-hidden nudity. I happily licked and sucked the salty flecks from Belarian's hand.

In the chill of the Minnesota evening, the three of us began talking about our journeys in kink. I mentioned Suicide Girls, Bound, the Ex, and my DO adventures. Belarian and NHF spoke about the Minnesota scene, jumping neck deep into the fun, and meeting each other at a most opportune moment.

As we talked, NHF's cigar built up ash. Once again, I asked to eat it. This time he gave his consent with a question. "May I take control?" I whole-heartedly submitted.

NHF rolled his ash into his hand and passed his cigar off to Belarian. With his free hand, NHF gripped my hair. Holding me back as I went for the ash, NHF guided my head as I licked and sucked away the salty flecks. NHF quietly whispered his enjoyment, pleased as I ate his ash. I would have relished the feast for longer, but NHF stopped me, holding my head back and pulling his hand away.

As we continued to converse, Scotty came back out. It was time for him to go. He said his goodbyes, including giving me a hug.

Soon after Scotty left, PrincessA and Hautewerk found us outside. Our conversation continued, mostly centered on the Minnesota kink scene. PrincessA mentioned her interest in finding a knife top. NHF voiced his skills in that area. This information piqued my interest, as well, though I kept my opinion to myself.

NHF also mentioned how he enjoyed knocking people out. I pipped up, saying I liked breath play. NHF then explained how, when he makes someone pass out, it wasn't breath play. In fact he was instead restricting blood flow to the brain, a technique he'd learned through martial arts training. This intrigued me even more. I said I would love to have him choke me out. PrincessA, listening to our conversation, was skeptical.

By this time, Belarian again had ash to give. He asked me for permission to rest his ash on my tongue. I allowed his play, asking him to be very careful. He was only able to manage a little; I was tentative, nervous. PrincessA asked for the same treatment from Belarian. He was able to get more into her mouth. Belarian, in turn, asked NHF to place the rest of the ash into his mouth.

"Tell me if it is too hot." As Belarian and NHF played, the last of the ash fell to the ground.
"It was too hot, wasn't it?"

NHF, by this time, also had more ash. Again I asked to partake of his treat.

"May I take control again?"

Gripping my hair as he had before, NHF guided my head. Instead of bending my neck and eating from his hand, NHF instead moved his hand, dragging his palm and fingers over my tongue and lower lip. He turned my head to the side and lightly kissed my cheek. As I tried to kiss his lips, he held my head back, keeping my lips at bay. Instead he gave me just a hint of the affection, teasing me so.

"You make excellent noises."
"So I've been told."
"I want to choke you out."

We headed back inside.
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