Monday, October 29, 2012

Locked In

We could've kept going pretty easily. I'd just completed Gray's boots and still had his chaps and vest to work on. But it was getting late and Gray didn't want to keep others up just so we could have fun.

The two people who had watched our scene were also ready to go. As Gray and I cleaned up, our observers thanked us for letting them watch and walked out.

I put my things back into my kit as Gray began taking off his leathers.

And then the duo returned.

The door from the Dungeon to the main floor was locked. They checked the other entry door. Locked as well. We were locked in.

I laughed a little, the idea that we actually shut down the Dungoen. But just as soon as the funny thought came, the problem sunk in.

Could we get out? Weren't personal items left uptairs? Did they really forget about us?

I started having a vision of us all camped out in the Dungeon. There was a bed and a couch. Theoretically we could've slept there fine. There was also a bathroom downstairs, so using the restroom would not have been an issue. And people would be back in the morning, but not until late. Probably ten or eleven.

It turned out, though, that the answer to all my questions above was yes. Gray's things were upstairs, not the best situation in the world but there was nothing we could immediately do about it.

Since it was left behind, Gray borrowed Hedwig's sweatshirt.

It seemed we were indeed locked out of the bar, but thankfully there was an emergency exit door.

My few things were with me. Gray was fairly shielded from the elements with the sweatshirt, and thankfully his pants were downstairs with us.

Ready to go, knowing we could not get back in til the morning, we left. Our duo, thankfully, offered us a ride back to Hedwig's.

We crashed, having had a good time, mildly annoyed by the inconvience, but knowing we still had things to do in the morning.


I was nervous, terrified even. I was going to try this, going to let myself go to a place where I didn't know how I would react.

I talked about it with him first.

"For our scene, could you do something for me? Could you take off my necklace?"

With all of the emotions wrapped up in the simple piece of chainmail (my expectations for myself, my incessant need for freedom, to the point where I claim ownership of myself), I wanted to know what it would feel like to take it away.

Put down the armour. Let go. Be free, exposed actually. To be adrift, but almost in a comforting way. To open myself up for possibility.

So I asked, and he said yes.

But, there were two conditions. His taking off of the necklace was only for the scene, only for the experience that night. Also, he would not put it back on me. I wholeheartedly agreed to both his terms.

This was me sticking my toe into the water. This was me opening up to the possibility, to the idea, to the thought of power exchange. This was me letting go, letting the idea in, letting myself be open and vulnerable, naked, exposed like I had not been before.

I trusted Gray. I knew this try, this action, was without commital, without the big scary idea of really delving into the power exchange pool. Just a toe in the water.

I had been scared to ask him but did so anyway. When he said yes, a new fear sunk it. How would I feel? What would happen when my necklace was gone?

We started our scene as we often do. I placed my bootblacking kit by the side of my mat. I stripped for him.

Then he turned me around and had me kneal down. His fingers tickled the top of my neck.

He had trouble initially finding where the metal unhooked. But then I felt the brush, the tell tale motion that he'd undone the necklace. It lightly fell away, sliding down my skin and off my body.

My eyes watered. A wave of ease settled over me. I felt lighter. It was, of all things, a release. It was as if my necklace, the metal, had been weighing me down.

I think it was the idea, the incessant need to be free, independent, to own myself because no one else would. The idea that I had to guard myself from the world, had to protect myself from being taken. Yet, instead, it was as if I was holding myself back, holding my feelings, my desires in.

Gray handed my necklace back to me when the evening ended. It stayed in my pocket for the rest of my London trip and has stayed in my pocket, whether at work or home, ever since.

I know eventually I will put it back on. Eventually I will want it back around my neck. Maybe during my next event (my last one for the year). Maybe one random day when I want the feel of the metal against my skin.

My necklace symbolizes many aspects of myself, a large chunk of emotions, but also in encapsulates my persona as poeticdesires. Most asurredly it will end up on my skin again.

But not right now. Right now, I feel light. I feel free. Right now I'm poetic, with or without the hardware.


"You called me a good girl. I didn't tell you that I liked that."
"I notice things."

He kept his voice low, almost a whisper.

"Close your eyes."

I could feel his fingertips tracing along my face, lightly over my skin. Down my body, never quite touching, and then grazing my calves, and then digging in his fingernails into my thighs. I squealed.

"Keep your jaw shut."

My noises became muted but never went away.

He grabbed me and pulled me somewhere. He yanked at my jacket, exposing flesh. I heard the seam break. I didn't care.

"I'm going to hit you. When I do, you can breathe out and then breathe in. Only that. Only when I hit you."

His fist slammed into my chest. I stumbled, exhaled out, took a deep breath in, and then waited. His fingertips again traced lines across my face. My breath burned in my chest.

He punched again. Breath out, breath in. Again. And again. Each time always making me wait. Each time always making me want the hit just so I could breathe.

"You can breathe normally."

He nuzzled his head against mine. I returned the affection.

"Good girl."

He grabbed my dress and lifted it above my breasts. He pinched nipples, pulling them, elevating them, and simply said, "Up. Up. Stand still. " On my tippy toes, I tried to relieve some of the pain but I could not get high enough. With my eyes closed, I couldn't even keep my balance. He let my nipples go.

His arm across my chest, he was now behind me. Pushing my body against his arm, he exposed my back. He punched. And punched. And punched. I gripped onto his arm for support.

He turned me, now facing him again. He slapped my face. He grabbed my throat. He squeezed, just a little.

He pushed me, willing me onto a nearby bed. One strike. Another strike. It felt like flogger hits on my ass. Then he used his hands.

"Since you can't get away, a closed fist means go on. An open hand means stop. Show me. Do you want to go on."

I made a fist.

He punched my ass. Up, down, alternating cheeks. He slapped my ass, hard. I screamed out.

"That's different."

He pulled me up from the bed, spun me around and around. I didn't know where I was, what direction was where. I was bewildered, breathing heavy, trying to stay on my feet. The room felt enormous.

He stopped my body, held me, and told me to open my eyes.


He led me to the couch. We nuzzled, his arms around me.

Water Torture

I was fried, hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

We were out to dinner, a group of nine of us, sitting around a large table in a pub about a fifteen minute walk from the Flying Dutchman.

We were all tired, the rush of the Grue slamming to a halt as the event had just ended about an hour ago.

It was all I had in me to not curl up into a ball and start crying. Having experienced another Grue, I knew this was normal. The intense event followed by the sudden end caused me physical exhaustion and emotional havoc. I knew this was to be expected. I was just barely hanging on.

We ordered drinks. I decided I needed a beer. Just one beer. My pint arrived and I took one sip. Then two other drinks arrived, one of them being Gray's. Because he sat next to me, of course I was going to reach over and pass the drinks to him.

And then my hand clipped my pint glass. And all of my beer, save my one sip, spilled onto the table and onto Gryphon. Gryphon, who sat on my other side. Gryphon, who offered to share his french fries with me. Gryphon, who had made me smile even though I was feeling like crap.

As soon as the glass hit the table, we both jumped up. I grabbed it, but it was already too late. His pants and half his shirt were soaked.

I had to get away. I quickly slipped from the booth and rushed to the bathroom. One of the two stalls was free. I got inside and started crying.

I had been hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

All the horrible thoughts came to me in a rush.

You're so clumsy. You're so stupid. He won't like you now. You've ruined dinner. They'll all hate you now. Why did you even bother coming? No one wants you here.

CherryBondage soon came into the restroom and knocked on my stall's door. I let her in and she held me as I wept. Hugging me tight, she asked me what was wrong.

"I was hanging on by a thread. And then that happened and I just couldn't hold on any more. And the bad thoughts came and I know logically Gryphon doesn't hate me and the table is probably laughing about this right now, but yeah. I just... I needed to cry.

"I'll be okay. I just needed to cry."

And then I was okay. I actually laughed, knowing this would be yet another inside joke directed my way.

When I returned to the table, I apologized profusely to Gryphon. Gray gave me a big hug.

And waiting for me was another pint. The bar had spotted me the loss.

But now I found myself in a new dilemma: I feared picking up my beer.

I feared touching it even. When I went to drink my beer, I used both hands to lift the pint. When the next round of drinks came, I held my arms in tight to my chest and sat back in my seat.

To make matters worse (or hilarious, depending on how you saw it), Gray and Gryphon taunted me for the rest of our dinner with my new found fear.

Asking one to refill my water glass (since he could more easily reach the pitcher), he filled my cup all the way to the top. I stood up and leaned over, sipping the top off just so I wouldn't spill my water when I lifted it.

Then the other, the next to refill my glass, held the pitcher high in the air as the water flowed out. I was visibly nervous that the liquid would spill all over the table. Of course it didn't, but the boys enjoyed egging me all the same.

Gryphon smelled of beer for the rest of the night; he didn't have time to go home and change before the After Grue. I kept apologizing; he kept telling me it was okay.

Eventually, I believed him.

The night was not ruined. No one hated. I was okay again.

Sunday, October 28, 2012


The look on her face was almost serene. I had never seen her experience this, never seen this play before.

Yes, I had heard about it. It was a scene she was known for, a class she had given before but never was I able to attend.

As I sat so close to her, watching it all unfold, I felt a wave of appreciation flow over me. She shared this amazing experience with all of us, this place she did not always go to, a depth few are willing or able to achieve.

I sat close to the front so I could see it all. Her face. The rope work. Her body's reactions. The room grew quiet quickly, taking on an almost ritual-like feel as the scene unfolded.

It started slowly, methodically. First, the chest harness, binding her arms back. Not comfortable; that was not the intention of the scene. A line secured to the box tie was thrown up and tied tight, lifting her frame up. She could only stand on her toes.

Next, the meanest part: her crotch rope. Coconut rope. It was to be a gift from the scene. Tied tightly, going into the creases of her thighs, then through her vulva, knots both on her clit and in her cunt. Cinched so that there was no give.

A line tied to the side of her crotch rope, looped above her head, back down to the other side of the crotch rope, back up and secured. There would be no ease. This was never meant to be easy.

A cuff on her right ankle. The rope stretched out to the side. Her leg up in the air. Her body off balance, trying to hold on. Pushing herself further. How long would she last?

A cuff around her left thigh. It was time. The line went up. She was lifted completely off the ground. She floated in the pain, the pain visible on her face, in her body, the twitching muscles, the breathing. Still, she endured.

A vibrator placed on her pussy. Could the pleasure make the pain worse? (It did.)

Her breathing changed. Her voice warbled. She called out as she came, the pleasure mixing with the pain. How much longer would she last?

She asked for the vibrator to be taken away. (It was.)

But then her thigh was lifted more. You could see it. It was almost time.

And then it happened. She called it.

They took her down slowly. They released her bonds. The crotch rope was the worst.

She'd done it. She pushed herself, pushed her body and mind to a place we, the attendees of the class, were so very grateful to witness, a scene we were so very grateful to see.

Knuckle Sandwich

Hmm, a punching class at the London Grue. Was I going to attend...?

Knuckle Sandwich was presented by Gryphon, with his demo bottom Hedwig.

Gryphon started his class session with some precautionary info: avoiding the neck and face (on a first date), targeting large muscle groups, and the proper way to throw a punch (curves, not corners). He brought along some accessories for his presentation, including boxing gloves and wrist wraps.

With the talking portion over, he encouraged everyone to get up and have a go. I gravitated towards the wrist wraps.

After a demonstration of how to apply the fabric, CherryBondage volunteered to be my punching bag. I liked the look and feel of the wrist wraps, especially since I have a physical job; fucking up my wrists could leave me unable to perform my work.

With a little time on our hands, I learned the proper way to execute the three inch punch. [Tip: Use your body weight, not your arm strength.]

"You hit hard."
"When I have a person to hit, yes... yes I do."

As pairs continued to pummel each other, I looked over and saw Gryphon was finishing up with one of his students. I thought this would be the perfect time for me to ask for what I wanted. (See; I'm learning.)

Gryphon happily fulfilled my request.

He struck my back, my ass. He jabbed, he hooked. My front, my side. I stumbled, I stood. Happily, I did not slam my face onto the stage when I dropped to the ground.

Deep pain resonated throughout my body with each of his strikes. I cried out. I came back. I loved every moment of it.

He struck my ass in a way I had not felt before, hitting down at the top of the shelf, the pain reverberating like a sine wave throughout my rump.

He targeted under my arms, connecting with my ribs. I hadn't felt that type of strike in quite some time, the bite of the hit chewing on my lungs. It was horribly fun. For his efforts, I currently carry a memento of our interaction: a lovely big red bruise.

[For those who wish to dive into my Twitter feed or browse my Fet page, you can see a picture of my bruise, which also happens to include a rather nice view of my ass.]

When Gryphon finished, we hugged. I thanked him and he thanked me.

"You are fun to punch."
"You are fun to play with."


"However you do it is how you do it."

It was my question in the Fish Bowl.

"How/What/Why/Would you commit to full power exchange?"

The five bottoms all faced one another, speaking softly, speaking to only one another. No one was allowed to say anything to them. This was a time for the bottoms to speak.

And then my question was asked.

I'd picked a spot close to them so I could hear. I needed to hear them, needed to hear people who'd done this before talk about it. It was my question they spoke about. It was my question, my burning inquiry, that I was so relieved was actually asked.

"It's like living without chocolate."

Later, after the Fish Bowl, another class was added to the Grue schedule, a discussion just on Total Power Exchange, hosted by one of the bottoms from the Fish Bowl. I had to attend.

Only a few people sat in, but they were the people who needed to be there.

Two of the bottoms from the Fish Bowl sat next to each other, physically opening their bodies out towards me. One of the bottoms asked the rest of us who attended what our intentions for the discussion were. The other four people just wanted to listen. I needed to listen, but I also wanted to ask questions. For the most part, we pretended the three people sitting beside me, and the one who's knee I leaned against, were not there.

The two bottoms, though both in power exchange relationships, had varying experiences. One developed organically while the other set out for a TPE experience.

At first I was nervous to ask them anything. I played with my pen, put my notebook aside, and just listened. Later, when my knee-rest left, and the bottoms had spoken more, I finally got up the courage to talk.

Total Power Exchange scares me, and yet I find myself desiring such an interaction. The fiercely independent side of me keeps screaming, NO! You cannot want this! And yet (similar to how I can't deny my dominant side, much as my brain would scream that down as well) I cannot deny my longing to submit in such a way, the desire under the deluge that I want to give, and possibly live, in such a manner.

I left both the Fish Bowl and the TPE discussion with more information, which was more than I'd expected from the Grue.

Total Power Exchange has been on my mind for quite some time, both as a fantasy and at the possibility of opening myself up in such a way.

I'm glad I got to discuss it, and I know I need to keep discussing it going forward.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Poi Is Awesome

Going into the London Grue, I knew there was one class I absolutely positively wanted to host: Poi Is Awesome; Let's Practice.

At first I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I even had jitters about suggesting the class session at all. But a friend said they'd brought two pairs of poi, and their partner had another. With their assurance that they at least were interested, my mission was set. There would be poi practice at the London Grue.

As luck would have it, we practiced during the first session, which turned out to be a great pick me up for the day.

I plugged my iPhone into the sound system, turned on my current favorite song to practice to (Skrillex (feat. Sirah) - Weekends!!!), and we started.

I was a novice. I'd created my practice poi out of two tennis balls and a pair of clearence tights from Target, total invesment $6.14. For less than a month I'd stood in my living room, watching myself in the mirror (a no-no; poi is about muscle memory), swinging my tennis balls about.

I practiced front and side planes, worked on butterfly (two side planes close together), and had even gotten to a point where I could spin my butterfly in off time. A few times I experimented with trying to spin planes in front and behind me simlutaneously, as well as trying to move while spinning.

Now, with the opportunity to practice with people far more experienced than myself, I knew I could only get better.

When we started, just myself and my two friends practiced. Then one person who had experience fire spinning came over and showed me a trick or two.

One in particular, which I have come to love, involves me spinning my poi alternately behind my head and in front of my face. When I first tried the trick, I was nervous. Since learning the trick, whenever I want to practice it, I remind myself I have to let go and let my poi fly. It's exhilirating in an almost dangerous way.

As people drifted in and out of the class, some knew nothing and I found myself teaching and encouraging people to at least try.

At one point, Gryphon wondered into our area. He had experience flourtine flogging and took to poi quite easily. I, who still had not figured out how to do a basic weave, was impressed.

Once, when we were having a particularly good and racous time, Gray yelled over to our group. Apparently we were a bit loud and were inadvertantly interrupting the nearby Rope 101 class.

Opps. What could I say? Poi is awesome.

Little Moments

"There were so many times tonight when all I wanted to do was grab you by your hair and push you down onto my cock."

"There were about a dozen times when all I wanted to do was drop to my knees, unzip your pants, and suck on your cock."

I was frustrated.

The Meet & Greet had been fun, interacting with new folks, learning names, and generating ideas for classes for the next day. There was some drinking. There was a little play. But there was an obvious detail CherryBondage and I had not thought of: getting back to the Flying Dutchman for the Grue in the morning.

It was decided we would travel back to CherryBondage's home, retrieve what we needed, commute back, and crash at Hedwig's. When we got back to CherryBondage's place, I quickly realized it would be easier for me to just grab everything I had and bring it rather than parse out exactly what I needed.

But then CherryBondage and I missed the last train heading back into London.

Breathing heavy, having not been able to move as fast as her as I lugged my checked bag once more, I realized my over packing caused us to miss the train.

In a moment of desperation, and utter not-giving-a-fuck, I offered to pay for a cab. Twenty-four pounds seemed a mere pittance to the idea of 1- waking up her house should we have returned, 2- lugging my things back up to her room on the top floor, and 3- not spending the night in the bed I longed to sleep in with the man I longed to be next to.

I paid the fee. Forty minutes later we were at Hedwig's and I was again carrying my checked bag up stairs, again all the way on the top floor.

We left my bootblack kit in the hallway. I dumped my other bag in a chair in his room. I stripped quickly, not caring if I looked sexy doing it, and climbed into bed with Gray.

And then he said that. And I said that. And it was all worth it.


We laid in bed, well what was called a bed. It was a fold out "bed" from an Ikea couch, nothing more than two cushions on the floor, but it was his bed for the duration. Surprisingly, it was more comfortable than I imagined it to be.

He was reading. I was writing. He laid on his back. I laid on my stomach.

The day had been wet. We'd spent much of it inside the Flying Dutchman at the Grue, but came back to Hedwig's in the light rain.

We could hear people in the other bedrooms still awake, still happy, and still playing.

As I scribbled in my Moleskin, my right side brushing up against his body, he rested his right hand on my ass and gently massaged my rump. I smiled at the affection.

He liked my ass, and I liked that he liked my ass. He didn't stop his gentle caress til he was ready to go to sleep.


"My mouth misses your cock when it's not in it."
"You say the nicest things."


We'd planned on heading back to The Electric Elephant, a kind of goodbye to our spot in London. But when we started walking towards the cafe, we realized it was much farther than we remembered, and the bus we needed had a stop right in front of another small eatery, Ozzie's Cafe.

We ventured inside. It was even smaller than The Electric Elephant. He ordered coffee; I ordered hot chocolate. He got a traditional English breakfast; I got a simple egg sandwich.

I blew over my hot drink and tried to wait patiently for the temperature to drop to where I could drink it. We sat in a booth.

He pulled out his journal and told me he'd be writing for a spell. Seeing the book come out, I knew we wouldn't be chatting much for this meal. I pulled out my Moleskin, feeling inspired.

Sitting, eating, writing, and sipping on my hot chocolate, I made a mental note of that simple moment, that few breaths of us in another small London spot, sharing space together.

Movie Moment

It was kind of like in romantic comedies...

You hear the voice from around the corner, this new person in conversation with someone you already know. They talk for a bit, and you learn the texture and tone of their voice without yet seeing their face.

His was a nice voice, deep and rich with an English accent in which I could understand every word. I wanted to kiss his voice.

And then he came around the corner and entered the room...

I met Gryphon Friday afternoon.

Gray and I had spent the better part of the day wondering around London in a light rain that continually fell into the evening.

The morning began with confusion. I thought I was meeting Gray at one place; he hadn't informed me that in fact he'd crashed somewhere else.

So instead of rustling him up, crawling into a spot with my netbook, or resting my head by his knee, I found myself in a small coffee shop, sipping hot cocoa and trying to not be annoyed. The pleasant owners and a good book helped quite a bit.

When we did meet up, we found shelter in a small shopping complex. He sipped coffee and orange juice. I slowly ate a muffin.

We spoke about writing, his hopes and expectations during his Euro-Grue trip, and generally caught up on each other's lives.

Later we ventured back to my coffee shop, The Electric Elephant, which I highly recommend. (As one might expect, it is quite near the Elephant & Castle station for any Londoners interested in visiting.)

Afterwards Gray and I landed at Hedwig's place where plans for the Grue were cemented.

I helped Hedwig make lunch (a hearty soup perfect for the dreary day). Gray did some work. We all waited for the volunteer to arrive; we all waited for Gryphon.

He eventually knocked on the door as if on cue, right when Gray asked how much longer til the volunteer would show. As Hedwig and Gryphon chatted, I remembered smiling to myself at the thought of how movie like that particular moment was, both the arrival and the chatting.

When Gryphon rounded the bend and entered the room, I was pleasantly pleased that this time the voice matched the features. Gryphon had a tall broad frame, a handsome face, wore glasses, and smiled and joked freely. I knew I would like him from the start.

He warmly introduced himself to Gray and I.

As we all began to muss out how errands would be run, there was one unavoidable fact we could not ignore. Gryphon was highly valuable to our efforts because he had a car. However, he was also in the process of moving. Only three people (including the driver) could fit in his vehicle.

With Gray's quick assessment, it was decided I would remain at Hedwig's apartment while everyone else ran the errands.

I stayed on my spot on the small couch, read a bit (finished Story Of O actually), wrote a bit (the blog about finishing said story), and relaxed.

So much for that movie-fairy-tale thing....

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Dominant Ash

I was exhausted.

My flight from DC to London had left at 10pm DC time, and arrived at 10am London time. Because of turbulence, I'd only slept for about three hours while on the plane.

But I was in England. And CherryBondage was there waiting for me. We hugged for so long. It felt amazing to be near her again, to have her arms around me.

As we made our way towards the Underground, she gave me great news. Gray had landed about half an hour before me and we were all going to have lunch together. Already my London trip was starting wonderfully.

As CherryBondage and I headed down into the Underground, I realized our excursion, though fun, would not be easy. I lifted my checked back, packed to the gills with my bootblack kit, some rope, and other various items, and carried it down the stairs. And then up some stairs. And then down more stairs.

CherryBondage and I met Gray and two of our friends at the Waterloo station. With recommendations from both Gray and CherryBondage, we decided to head to The Breakfast Club for lunch. Afterwards we stopped by Sh!, a adult store catered towards women, and then swung by another sex shop, though this one catered to gay men.

Settling down, we encamped in a nearby Pret A Manger, seven hours after my arrival.

As I said, I was exhausted, had clearly over packed, and saw no way to relieve myself of my mistake any time soon.

In the moment, while sitting in the casual dining restaurant, all I wanted to do was push my chair out from my table, crawl under Gray's table, place my head on his knee, pull his heel into my crotch, rest it against my clit, close my eyes, and relax. But I couldn't.

Still, I was among friends.

As we chatted, Gray, who sat next to me, reached over and pinched my side. I kept my squealing low; there were other folks about. Gray then spoke about a new way of eating ash, a dominant way of eating ash. Of course I was curious, so he demonstrated the technique on me.

Occasionally when we've played, I've been a simple ash tray. I stick out my hand, Gray rolls the ash into my palm, and I hold it for him.

Gripping my hand, Gray squeezed my thumb and pinky together behind my palm creating a flat surface for his mock ash. Again I held back a yelp.

Pulling my hand to his lips, he licked the center of my palm, dancing the tip of his tongue on my skin. I now understood what others felt when my tongue graced their palms. It tickled in the most sensuous way I'd ever felt. I wanted to melt right there.

I couldn't have my head at Gray's knee, or his heel on my clit. I couldn't make my luggage weigh less. I couldn't magically be in bed, bathed, naked, and relaxed. But I did have Gray's tongue on my hand, felt the heat of his ash kiss on my skin.

Event though I was exhausted, Gray eating mock ash from my hand was enough to keep me going.


From this sign, you have about a forty-five minute wait.

This was my first time dealing with customs, my first time at the back of the never ending line that snaked for what seemed like an eternity.

As I glanced at those in front of me, with varying colored passports at the ready, slowly making their way to the promised land, I figured, since I had so much time on my hands, I would read.

I had started Story Of O just before my DC plane began boarding. Since I was in a high boarding number, I knew I had a wait. When I settled into my seat, I read a little more before drifting to sleep.

When we landed, I stowed the book in my carry-on; a nice little pouch in the luggage gave a perfect hiding spot.

Inch-by-inch, step-by-step, the line eased along. I, all the while, delved back into the French BDSM novel.

Behind me, two gentlemen chatted. I couldn't tell where they were from, though their English-speaking accents sounded vaguely American. Still, they occasionally slipped into Spanish during their conversation with great ease. My guess, because I never glimpsed their passports, was Mexico.

As I slowly moved forward, my mind lost in the French fantasy, I wondered if the men behind me glimpsed the book I was reading, knew the story into which I delved, had any idea of the life I lived.

With so many people around me, so many people waiting, I wondered if they knew, if anyone in line saw my book and understood the images floating through my mind.

As I turned page after page, I heard the two men's conversation in the back of my mind. Though I didn't pay attention to what they said, I did take note of their voices. I enjoyed the sweet smooth tones of their conversation.

As I read, I used the sound of their voices to cast the male leads in Story Of O. It made the book hotter, the tale more vivid.

I didn't want to break the spell their voices (and my imagination) had cast, so I never looked back on the duo. It wasn't until I was about to be called up by the customs officer that I glimpsed their faces.

My fantasy, as to be expected, out paced reality.

Still, I enjoyed my bit of light reading.

Lessons From London

1- Pack Light

Lighter than what you think light i
s. And then even lighter than that.

I landed in London and met CherryBondage at Heathrow airport. After a quick primer on the London Underground, as well as a handy little map that fit in my pocket (which I lost), we then proceeded to the Waterloo Station where we were to meet up with Gray and two other friends for lunch.

For the next six hours I found myself snaking through London, back pack on my back, one carry-on bag lugged by CherryBondage, and my checked bag which I hauled. This was packing light for me.

However, it was far from any notion of light. My hands hurt, even though I constantly kept switching them. My back hurt from the weight of my bag, though I would've taken that pain over my red palms any day. My legs ached as each time we encountered stairs, which happens a lot with the Tube, I carried my bag up each and every step.

Later, when it was time for play, Gray was a bit shocked to learn I had brought my entire bootblack kit, the source of much of the weight. That first day, and then hauling all my things to go stay with Gray, and then hauling everything again when I left was enough of a lesson.

I bought the bag for my travel bootblack kit yesterday.

2- WiFi, always use it.

Thankfully in London, WiFi is plentiful. Unfortunately I did not realize this until it was too late. Before left for England, I swung by the phone store to add international calls and texts to my plan, but not data.

So, when I got lost and need directions (multiple times), I whipped out my phone and used GoogleMaps. I thought since I kept closing down the app each time I found my way, the cost would not accrue so badly.

I was wrong.

I got a helpful text after that first data usage day, warning me of my the large amount of money I already owed. After said text message, I put my phone down and only used it when there was WiFi. And, if you pop into just about any shop and ask the person behind the counter, they're tell you the password.

Use WiFi; it'll save you money.

3- London is wet; get used to it.

It rained everyday I was in London. Not at every moment, but at least sometime during the day or night there was rain. After a while, I never walked out of a building without expecting at least a small shower or light droplets falling.

And, I must say, I did get used to it. Having come from a dry and cold area, it was nice to have moisture in the air. My skin and hair appreciated the change, and it gave me a reason to wear all of my clothes. (In this one section of my packing, I actually budgeted correctly.)

Skipped puddles, side stepping small sidewalk pools, and hopping large oceans in the street became a fun game I played with myself each time we went for a walk, which was often.

London's wet, but I liked it.

4- The Oyster Card is your best friend.

The public transportation system in London is excellent. The first thing CherryBondage did, once she nabbed me from the airport, was purchase an Oyster Card, the payment card for both the London Tube system and their buses. Paying for one week of unlimited Zone 1-3, as well as unlimited buses, and adding about five dollars to get me from the airport, was enough so that I never had to add anything to my card for the entirety of my trip.

My Oyster Card sits now with my passport, ready for when I go back to England. Though I still think the name is a bit cheesy, the reasoning behind it is quite true. With the card, London is your oyster.

5- Money: Post offices exchange currency without fees, everything costs double, & coin cash rocks.

Money gets its own note because so much of my time was spent figuring out the math behind currency.

Before I ever landed, CherryBondage gave me quite possibly the best tip ever: do not exchange money at the airport. Instead she spotted me the cash I needed for my oyster card and I paid for lunch with a credit card before we eventually made it to a post office.

As I sat and ate at The Breakfast Club with our group of traveling kinksters, I looked down the menu and saw reasonable prices. I enjoyed a hot chocolate and pull pork burrito for just under $15, which included tip.

And then we made it to the post office. Gray had previously stated a simple fact, but it didn't click in my head until I exchanged my dollars for pounds: everything costs double. I gave the attendant $400; ha gave me 219 pounds back. I then understood why Gray had only ordered a smoothie and a dessert. My lunch had cost me about $30.

Still there were was one advantage to the pound which I loved: their coin money. In England they have the one pound and two pound coin, which I had not realized was so convenient. I collected all my change in a pocket in my back pack, and just when I thought I was running low on funds, I realized most of it was jingling around with me. More than once my pocket of coins paid for my meal.

I will definitely be giving the Sacagawea another go of it.

So... those are just a few of the lessons I learned while in England visiting CherryBondage and attending the London Grue.

The stories of my sexy times will be coming quite soon.

Friday, October 19, 2012

A Few Thoughts

- At Rope Camp, my NYR Cabin name was changed. I asked for the switch; Cabin Bitch didn't feel right to me anymore. I am now Cabin Scribe. It seemed fitting to me, what with my recounting of our harrowing events of last year (and this one as well). Murphy worried that the name change told more about what I did then who I am. But I am a writer, have always been a writer, and will always be a writer no matter the circumstance, so in the end he accepted it.

- I don't know if it's considered a life crisis when you ask yourself the same questions every year or so. Is this really what I want to do for the rest of my life? Are these the people I want to be around, the job I want to perform, the life I want to live? But the bigger question, the one which I never give an answer to, is: Am I willing to change that?

- I hate the cold. HATE the cold. I was born in July, a summer baby, and have always felt immensely better in the dead heat than in the bitter cold. I've started layering already, breaking out my scarves and work hoodie. No more sandals. Short skirts now include crotchless tights. I need to make or purchase another hat. I hate the fucking cold.

- I leave for London in 25 hours. Writing just that brought a huge smile to my face. I don't know if I'll see any sights or just spend my time with CherryBondage, but either way I get my first stamp in my passport this weekend.

And I get to go to my second Grue. My first was amazing and I'm hoping the second will be just as awesome, if not more so. Unlike last time, there is only one "class" I want to "teach" and it has nothing to do with rope. Well, it could, though in this instance it involves tights and tennis balls and it's less about my teaching and more about me picking people's brains who know the subject matter better than I (being a complete and total novice).

- With my moleskin in my back pocket wherever I go, I have given myself a level of comfort I had not expected. I don't scribble in it every day, but when I do, whether it's jotting down a poem or random thoughts, flushing out my feelings or taking notes on a podcast I'm listening to, I feel like me.

Story Of O

I've spent most of my free time thus far during my London trip reading an iconic BDSM novel, Story Of O by Pauline Reage.

I'd heard of the book before I purchased it on a whim at Rope Camp. Having learned that it was the basis for two sites on (The Training Of O and The Upper Floor), I knew this was a story I needed to read.

I finished the book in thirty-six hours. It was that good.

As I read it, I saw all the little ways kink permeated the pages. Saw all the subtle notes of my life reflected in the story. Even just passing mentions of intricacies of my kink made my heart flutter.

But now, having gone through the journey, having just finished the book, having invested so in the main character, her development, her journey, I am left with a sickening rage.

The final page of the book tells of a deleted chapter, the final chapter, full of heartache and betrayal towards a character I had grown to love by a character I had grown to love.

It said simply:

In a final chapter, which was surpressed, O did return to Roissy, where Sir Stephen abandoned her.
There exists a second end to O's story. In that version, O, seeing that Sir Stephen was on the verge of leaving her, preferred to die. Sir Stephen gave his consent.

Having read those words, I damn near threw the book across the room. I'm holding back tears as I write this.

Through everything, through love and pain, questioning herself, questioning her love for one man and finding a deeper love with another, through two hundred pages of struggle and then finally to just be thrown away...

I do not understand... I cannot understand...

Sir Stephen was her Master, a man who found himself in love with her, who she gave all of herself to, and yet with one paragraph these iconic characters are sullied for me.

As O grew to love Sir Stephen, I too found myself falling for his character, at first hard and unbendable, but who morphed and changed even as he influenced O, pushed her further than she knew she could go. His great desire for her, his deep love for her, his need to have her fully and completely is something I cannot deny I desire from another.

I fear, and yet still find myself craving, to be owned. To give all of myself, to dedicate my being to another. But the idea of being thrown away, the idea of a Master disposing of his slave like she were just another fancy, brings my blood beyond boiling and scares away my resolve to even pondering the thought.

How can one call themself a Master, accept a slave, take on the responsibility of another life, brand them, pierce them, lock iron loops through them signifying their eternal bond, only to later set them aside like yesterday's paper?

I wish I had never read that page, wish I hadn't gone past THE END on what I thought was the last page of the novel. But now, having read that paragraph, I find myself trying to forget an ending I never thought would or could happen.

I'm surprised how much Story Of O struck a chord with me. Even with the dense winding of the translation (the book was originally written in French) and the mental hoops you have to jump through to absorb the writing, I found something about this book so compelling.

Maybe it is because the story is entirely from O's perspective, giving insight not only into how she lived, the things she did (with and to whom), but also the why. Reading her pleasure in being a whore for her lover. Reading her thrill in being taken by whomever her Sir chose. The reckless abandon of the sex scenes (of which there are many). How complicated she was, both in her desires for men and women. And how much she changed from the first page to the last.

I love Story Of O. I understand why you can base two different porn sites off of it. Having read it, I can already feel its influence on me, can already sense how it will shift my writing.

But, more shockingly, I can almost feel the shift in me. I can almost sense how I've changed through reading it. Can almost imagine how I will be different now that the last page is finished, the book is closed, and I'm supposedly free from the bonds of the words.

Because I don't feel free. I don't feel like the story has ended. The book still feels wide open, splayed, ready to be read again through my body, my desires, my lovers... through me.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

There There

~ a moment of terror ~

"There, there. It'll be over soon."

My father would always say that when I was going through something horrible, something painful. Like when I broke my arm falling from the tree in our back yard. Or when every centimeter of my skin itched from the chicken pox but I couldn't scratch any of it. Or when I got my period for the first time and my guts felt like they were being riped out.

Father was always there to massage my scalp or rub my back, sometimes hugging me, holding me, rocking me gently and whispering, "There, there." Father protected me, loved me.

So hearing those words, my father's words, drip from the lips of this man, this monster, this thing that called himself Lover, shook me more than anything else I imagined he would soon do to me.

There was no love in his touch, no love in his eyes. There was danger. There was hunger. Hurt. Pain. Misery. He said it would be over soon. I hoped he wasn't also a liar.

The scratches, scraps, and bruises on my skin did not yet ache as much as I knew they eventually would. He'd grabbed me on my walk back to my dorm, slamming me into the sodden earth and wrestling me into his van even as I fought him the entire way.

I'd cut through the swath of trees that separated the high rise apartments just off campus from a side campus street, apartments too expensive for me to afford and far enough away from my classes that I didn't care. But I'd wanted to visit Brandon, my boyfriend, before my school week started.

My parents liked Brandon, I sometimes thought more than I did. He rubbed my back almost as good as my father and soothed me in more adult ways. He kept me centered, kept me sane as I studied to apply to medical school. I wanted to be a counselor, to help the hurt, the abused, the broken.

As I laid on the cold cement floor, the irony of my life's goal struck me.

As he riped apart my clothes, my wrists bound in clothesline, my whimpers silenced by a piece of fabric from my once comfy rugby shirt, my eyes darkened also by a torn piece of my clothing, I wondered how I as a counselor would I advise my patient going through this ordeal.

How would I comfort a woman about to be violated in who knows how many ways? How would I walk her through the physical pain and the emotional turmoil? How would I connect with her, soothe her?

I recalled hearing somewhere that you should relax and let them do what they want. I advised myself to do this, just relax, lying like a dead fish, my body limp.

I thought maybe taking my mind to another place would also be beneficial. Not some place happy, for I knew that would never work. But maybe a place of physical pain, unchosen pain again.

And then I remembered my father lying next to me, my abdomen riped in two from my blossoming into womanhood. I remembered his rocking me and rubbing my back.

I remembered the seemingly unrelenting pain, wanting to cry, wanting it to end, wanting to rip my insides out, anything to stop the pain.

And then I remembered his words again, and thought it fitting to go there, back to my bedroom in a house no longer standing in a room with a man no longer living. I thought maybe, some how or some way, his comfort echoed in this horror would help me survive a new pain that I quietly begged and pleaded would just end.

"There, there. It'll be over soon..."

The Question

"You work for X?"
"How are they with women?"

I was taken aback by the older woman's question. We had had no previous conversation, no words spoken at all between us. I was not in charge of the crew that day. Quite the opposite actually, having spent the past two hours working on my hands and knees on the floor setting up and wiring twenty-five uplights.

As soon as this unknown woman (who I believe was the client) asked this question, I did the only thing I could in the moment: I smiled, said, "Yes," and got back to work.

There was no way I could honestly or fully answer her question. She stood next to two of my bosses, chatting about the event happening that evening. I was low man on the totem pole, oddest possible person out. In fact I had only been standing there because I was waiting for the best moment to interrupt their conversation to ask one of my bosses about another project.

You can't ask that question while someone is at work. You can't ask that question with their boss right there. You can't ask that question and expect a real honest answer. I don't know why she asked, but that question has lingered with me since.

I couldn't say the thoughts that ran through my head in the following moments, as I pushed this case, packed that one, and was eventually cut til the load out.

I couldn't say how my industry is a sausage fest, how most of the companies are owned and operated by heterosexual white men, how often on gigs I am the oddest man out, a black woman surviving in this world.

I couldn't speak about the jokes I don't want to hear. The nicknames I insisted they stop using (which, to their credit they did). The dearth of female leads (let alone black female leads). I couldn't talk about my occasional nerves, my occasional annoyance, and my constant anger.

The feelings that bubbled up after she asked her question feel like a monkey on my back that was once quiet but is now cackling. It isn't one specific company; it is the industry. It isn't one slimy guy; it is the culture of ignoring their behavior and promoting the men anyway.

So no, I didn't answer her question honestly. And for her to believe I ever could or would was just a different form of privileged folly.


As I walked down a less than crowded DC street, I felt sad. As I strolled, with plenty of time to reach my destination, I pondered my feelings, the subtle ache in my heart. I wondered, Why am I feeling this way?

As per Doc's request, I have been more tuned into my emotions in the moment, noticing how people feel about me, and actively noting my feelings towards others. I thought for a moment, thought about my day, and it hit me.

I didn't want to admit, still don't want to admit it, but that doesn't make it any less true.

I miss the Gent.

He came up briefly at my last session, just a passing mention that I hadn't contacted him since August.

But then, walking towards my gig, it hit me. Yes, I missed... miss him.

I tried to think of why this was coming up now (since missing him has been mostly just background noise since I stopped contacting him). And I realized, almost as abruptly, that I was inadvertently triggered last night.

I was pulled over by a cop at 3am, his only comment (since I wasn't speeding and had not consumed any alcohol that evening) that I needed to change out my bike rack. Apparently part of it obstructs my license plate (grounds for a ticket). He gave me a verbal citation, asked me if there were any illegal items in the car ("drugs, guns." "Oh God no!") and then let me on my way.

One of the last times I saw the Gent, one of the last times I saw his smile, big and wide filling his entire face, he commented on my bike rack. He asked me how often I rode, and when was the last time I used it. And then, in only a minorly asshole-ish way, he verbally jabbed me for having a bike rack but not riding my bike.

As I walked down a DC street, past the Mall, dark at that time of night, I thought about him. As I passed a few people in the middle of Chinatown, a few faces made me think of him too.

It was then I also admitted a hard fact to myself: I was sad each and every time his face did not pop into my view.

I may never see him again, may never speak to him again, may never anything with him again.

In one of my previous sessions with Doc, I likened my feelings about the Gent to alcoholism. Doc said I wasn't that far off.

My feelings, emotions, my desire to keep going back to a man who was not all that good for me is like fighting an addiction. My brain is hard wired to seek out love from unavailable people. I was given the example of an absent father and my brain has equated my mother's relationship with him as to how love should be.

But that is not the kind of love I want.

When we started, the Gent was great. But then he began doing shitty things and never apologized for them. Cutting him off was, and is, a healthy choice for me.

Everyday, every moment, I make the decision to not call, not text, not contact him. With every breath I am fighting my brain's impulses, fighting my learned behaviour, fighting for a happier healthier love life.

So far, I'm winning the battle, but who knows how long the war (and my resolve) will last.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

A Girl

~ a story ~

"He's needs a girl."

We looked on at Kevin, smiling and chatting with the pretty sales girl.

She was cute, likable. When we'd wondered into the little boutique, she'd tried to help Quinn pick just the right necklace, but Quinn's style was specific. Nothing seemed right. The sales girl tried different styles, different colors, different lengths, but nothing could please Quinn.

Twenty minutes later, no new jewelry to speak of, Quinn walked out of the shop slightly disappointed but still smiling as we walked towards Kevin.

"Go talk to that girl," Quinn told him. "She's cute."

"Um, okay."

He threw his jacket over his shoulder and walked inside.

"What is he possibly going to say to her," I asked.

"Doesn't matter; he'll think of something."

As we looked on, the sales girl gave a wide grin, tossed her hair, and laughed at something Kevin said. I wasn't surprised; Kevin had a wicked sense of humor.

The sales girl played with her necklace as Kevin slipped an errant curl back behind her ear. She then tipped her head down, closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked up at Kevin and said something. He gave a fun little pout and slumped his shoulders, inciting another giggle from the girl. Kevin gave her a small wave bye and re-joined us.

"She has a boyfriend."

"Darn it."

"That's too bad," I said.

Kevin needs a girl. That's what Quinn said. Quinn, who knew all. Well, almost all.

Quinn, the reigning queen bee of our friends. Quinn, not malicious or mean, but most definitely the leader, the one everyone swarmed around, the one everyone followed. Quinn, Kevin's twin sister.

We walked towards the movie theatre at the end of the line of stores. It was a chilly Sunday. I pulled my scarf a little snugger around my neck, fighting off the cold as I followed close behind them.

Inside Quinn had her usual: small pop corn and a small diet soda. Kevin liked nachos. I skipped my bon bons.

But when Quinn opened the door to the theatre, I thought the better of it.

"On second thought, I'll be right back. I think I do want a snack."
"I'll come with you," Kevin said. "I need a drink. These nachos are like eating a salt lick." He handed his sister his food before following me.
"I'll get the usual spot," called Quinn after us.

We were to see an action flick, Quinn's favorite genre; she always sat front row. She liked to feel as if she was in the middle of the drama. I ignored the ache in my neck after each movie.

All the lines for food were long, so I picked one at random and waited. Kevin stood beside me, and then playfully bumped my arm with his shoulder. As is our way, I rocked to the side and then playfully rocked back into him, bumping his arm.

He hit me harder. I tried to hit him harder, but he stepped aside, catching me as I completely missed him, stopping me before I stumbled or fell on the floor.

My hands laid over his as I caught my balance and straightened up. I looked up at him, all six feet of him, and smiled.

Still holding his hand, I stepped backwards, stepped out of the line, and pulled Kevin with me.

"Where are we going?"

Walking outside, his hands still in mine, I looped around and to the side of the door, a small alcove normally inhabited by smokers. The smell lingered from fresh butts, but no one partook of tobacco at the moment.

I leaned against the brick wall of the alcove, looked up into Kevin's eyes, and pulled him in close, resting his hands on my hips. I grabbed the neck of his shirt and lightly tugged down. He bent his head to meet my lips as I kissed him.

I'd never done that before, never sought out and made happen exactly what I wanted, and I'd wanted Kevin for quite some time.

And Kevin didn't shy away, didn't flinch, didn't pull back. The smile that formed when I tugged on his shirt was different then the smiles he'd given me before; he looked like the mouse happy to be caught in the trap.

His lips were soft against mine. Slowly, we kissed. Sweetly, we kissed. Parting his lips, he lightly licked my tongue. My tongue played with his.

Letting go of his shirt, he lifted his head and looked at me with a wide and satisfied grin.

"What was that for?"

I stood up from against the wall, now bopping up and down on my toes, high from the moment, a smirk across my lips.

"You need a girl."

Random Observations

Some random observations that came to mind while at work this evening:

1- Baby, It's Cold Outside is really rape-y.

Like really rape-y. Not all of it, mind you, but parts of it are really REALLY rape-y.

"Baby don't hold out"
"Say what's in this drink?"
"What's the sense of hurting my pride?"
"I simply must go/The answer is no"

I've owned the Glee rendition of this song for quite some time now, I think almost a year actually, and yet it wasn't until I listened to it tonight when I realized just how rape-y it is.

My best guess as to why it took me (a person who prides herself on actually listening to the lyrics of songs) so long to come to this realization is the structure of the song. With two overlapping vocals, I often found myself listening (and singing along) to the "female" portions. (Female, for those who do not know, is in quotation marks because the person who performs that part for the Glee rendition is actually a gay man who happens to be a natural soprano.)

For some random reason, I listened to the "Male" portions more acutely tonight and I found myself smiling at how rape-y the lyrics are.

With a sly grin, I wondered if any kinky folk out there had already beat me to the punch. There must have been, or there must be, a scene with this song as inspiration. Hmm, or maybe I'll write something.

Ooo... new blog post coming soon.

2- Why do we not have unisex bathrooms?

When I left the vendor room to use the restroom, walking in front of me was a gentleman and a little lady.

You know the type: the flower girl with the huge poofy dress with a large bow in the back, twirling, giggling, getting lost in the fabric, the type that makes me smile and melts my heart and reaffirms my want of a podling some day, hopefully.

Well the gentleman led the little lady down the hall to the restrooms and opened the door for the men's room. The little lady then turned around and pointed at the ladies' room door behind her, saying, "I go in there."

The gentleman (I'm assuming her Dad) replied, "Only if your mother is in there."

I slipped by the two of them during this exchange.

As I chose a stall, I could hear the pitter patter of the little lady as she checked every stall. No one else was in the restroom except me. The gentleman yelled, asking the little lady if her mother was in there. And, since she wasn't, he beckoned her back out.

Here's my question: Why didn't he just stand there and wait while the little lady used the facilities? Did he really think someone (meaning me) would be offended? Was it that big of a deal for a man to be in the ladies' room?

I'm sure I could go off on a tangent about our shame based culture, about Puritanical beliefs and practices, societal norms, and blah blah blah...

It's just... Since attending a number of kinky camps, and sharing bathrooms with all genders at the same time, I realized at that moment, witnessing this exchange between a man and his daughter, just how much I didn't care if the man was in the restroom, and just how much he did care.

Our society (okay, tiny rant) has all these rules but for what? That little girl needed to use the restroom; would it really have rocked the world if the gentleman watching her waited patiently for her inside the restroom?

Maybe it's because I don't live a Puritanical life. Maybe it's because I don't give a shit about a lot of random little societal things.

It's just... dude, it's okay if you're in the ladies room. The world will not end. And I really didn't care.

Oh and by-the-way: he took her into the men's room.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Psycho Drama pt 2

As we (the slaves) were slowly pulled into the Barn, the cat calls immediately started. Our would-be buyers inspected their merchandise, lifting skirts, groping breasts, moving us this way and that.

Some of the slaves fought back, trying to lash out at the wealthy men. I cowered, cried, spouted the holy trinity in Spanish. (Later I decided to drop the language idea and just go with the wailing.)

When they inspected me, one person grabbed my arms, another pushed me, bending over at the waist, and someone lifted my skirt. Of course my friends went for my ass.

With the merchandise meeting and exceeding the buyers' expectations, it was time for the biding to begin. Our slave master dragged the first girl up to the stage where the General (played by none other than ManKraken! himself) hosted the auction. Laughter soon began.

He riped open her shirt, exposing her chest, and stuck his fingers down her mouth, asking her, "Do you like to suck cock?" With his fingers still down her throat, she gurgled a yes, was purchased, and escorted off the stage.

As the selling continued, my friend and I decided to sit down on the ground while the rest of chattel remained standing. My friend was selling the European slave angle, spouting an Eastern block language I can't recall.

As we cozied up together, trying to stay warm in the chill evening, we couldn't help but laugh at the show. Another of the slaves, the one that was totally naked, was brought on stage and prized for her exceptional height.

One of the slaves, the one in the wedding dress, was said to have been nabbed on her way to the ceremony. She had been a virgin, until she got a little pirate in her (a reference to our slave wrangler).

The girl in front of me had set out from the beginning of our psycho drama to not be compliant. She tried to fight off the buyers inspecting her. She fought on her way up to the stage. And she fought as she was sold off.

About a slave or two before I was to go on stage, the child soldiers decided to harass myself and my friend. They poked us with their air soft rifles, mock kicked and hit us. I curled up into my friends arms, cradling my head in her lap, crying and shielding my face.

This was when I had a brilliant idea: I would make a scene, trying to hold onto my friend, trying not to be taken on stage when it was my turn. I whispered my intent to my friend, who it turned out had had the same idea. We snickered with glee just before it was time for my performance.

When the slave wrangler came for me, I tried to cling to my friend. She spouted some the Eastern block language while I tried to hold onto me. The Pirate pulled at me, but I refused to get up, sobbing and crying. He dragged me along the chain until I was clear. With another person or two, he lifted me. Someone stuck an air soft gun to my head. The Pirate then muscled me to the stage.

I mock sobbed as the General came up with my back story, saying I was obviously a college student pulled on my way to class, seeing as I was still wearing my glasses. They stood me up tall, yelled for me to be quiet, and pointed out my various features worth purchasing. I was then sold and escorted off the stage to sit with the other slaves.

My friend, the last one to be sold, was brought forth. The General then conspicuously encouraged the rival gang to arrive, seeing as this was the last slave to be sold.

The gang members busted into the Barn. All us slaves booked it out the side door and headed for the back of the Barn.

We huddled together, still cold and still chained at our wrists, though thankfully not chained to one another anymore.

We watched as the battle broke out. Apparently some of the buyers were given weapons as well and fought with the child soldiers against the gang members.

And then the fighting took a turn, migrating to where we, the slaves, were standing. I had already decided to try to make a run for it. The other girls screamed and got out of the way. I slipped on my safety glasses, the pair I'd hidden in my hoodie pocket at the start, and swung around to the opposite side of the Barn.

Through the windows I could hear the General narrating the fight.

I tried to find a spot in the darkness to hide, but none seemed adequate. I wanted to slip past the front, but people hovered by the entrance. I ended up entrenching myself by the back stairs, hoping no one would see me as they passed by.

Unfortunately, one person did.

The head of the rival gang came by, asking me if I had any ammo. I said I didn't, again hoping he would just leave. Instead he asked me what I was doing. Hiding, I said simply.

And then it dawned on him: I was a slave.

He grabbed me by my hair, put his air soft rifle to my head, and used me as a human shield as he brought me to the rival gang's barricade (they used one of the hanging massage tables from the outdoor truss set on its side on the ground). All the while he kept yelling, "I got one!"

On the way to the barricade, I saw the Doctor, who was for the purposes of the drama a Russian spy, splayed out on the ground, quite dapper and quite dead.

The General, after another few minutes of fighting, ordered everyone back inside. The drama had ended.

My fellow slaves were sad that I had not made it; my friend had pinned all her hope on my escape.

As a souvenir for the event, I kept my length of chain, my lock, and I was given the key by the organizer. I wore my chain around my neck for the rest of the evening.

My friends and their ideas, as twisted as they can be, are also so much fucking fun.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Psycho Drama pt 1

They named it The Faces Of Human Trafficking.

Yup, me and my friends went there.

In soliciting for volunteers to participate, there were a few roles to fill: wealthy buyer of trafficked humans, trafficked person/slave/chattel, rival gang member, and child soldier (which would be played by littles).

Did I mention I love my friends?

I chose to be chattel and showed up as asked an hour before the show was to begin. As we congregated outside the Barn, it was getting chilly. Thankfully I wore a hoodie.

As I looked on my fellow slaves, I noticed I was a bit over dressed, just in a simple school girl outfit. One person was in a wedding dress. Another was completely naked; we huddled around her to keep her warm. As we received our briefing from the show coordinator, I contemplated changing clothes before we began.

With seven slaves shown up, the organizer explained the plot and what we as slaves were asked to do. The organizer also gathered the other groups, explaining their parts, and passing out safety glasses to those who needed them.

Along with there being child soldiers and gang members, there were also air soft guns and rifles for them to wield against each other.

Did I mention we go all out for our fun?

Thankful that I was wearing a hoodie, I slipped a pair of safety glasses into my pocket; I had plans of my own for later.

With some time before we were set to start, I ran back to my cabin to change. I had a tank top which had been riped apart but I'd sewn back together. Slipping it on, I ran back to the Barn. After it was advised I take off my bra (lest I want it to be destroyed) and a fellow slave riped open my shirt some more, we were ready.

Our slave master started lining us up. To bind us, he used an individual piece of chain and one lock to secure our wrists. Each of us also received a hood to put over our faces... after our hands were bound. Yes, it was funny to those watching.

Running a single long chain through every lock, I positioned myself as next to last. The last slave was picked for her role, and seeing as she was a friend, I wanted to be able to laugh and chat with her throughout the show.

A photographer came over and took pictures of the assembled child soldiers, and then small army with their general, and then the line of slaves. I was glad for the hood, as I could laugh without ruining the photo.

Our slave wrangler then moved us along, leading us over the grassy hill and into the Barn where the buyers (and the audience) awaited.


With busy season for my job in full swing, I have once again experienced a bout of seasonal financial panic. I've shut down most of my spending, packing food for work, trying to figure out the cheapest way to park my vehicle, etc.

But there is one thing I can not and will not skimp on, one thing I allow myself to impulse buy always: music.

I've spoken about my love for music before, how at times it saves me (see my Twitter feed). I find myself falling in love with new artists, new sounds, new songs regularly, riding multiple waves of NME almost all the time. (NME: New Music Energy; poly folk can laugh, or cringe, as they wish).

Recently it has been three artists, one album, and two songs that have taken my heart soaring.

The first was Frank Ocean. He crafted his first solo album and released it this past summer.

I learned of his work through an NPR music review. Frankly, NPR has never steered me wrong. (And, to be completely honest, I should've listened to them on a negative review that would've saved me $12.)

Ocean has worked on other artists' albums but this one was his own baby, Channel Orange, and I love it.

I've found myself repeating songs over and over, getting lost in the over arching story, imagining an entire dance performance around the lyrics.

Often, when I listen to music, my mind goes to dance, or creating a music video, shaping some sort of fantasy with the song as the background.

With Channel Orange, I saw two bodies moving over a plain stage, teasing at first, push-and-pull, but then together, connected, wrenched by each other's love.

There is one particular song on Channel Orange that really strikes me: Bad Religion.

Frank Ocean is infamous in the hip hop and R&B world for admitting that he fell in love with a man when he was young. Bad Religion is a poetic documentation of his inner struggle. He equates loving someone who can't love you back as a bad religion, "This unrequited love/To me it's nothing but a one man cause/And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup/I can never make him love me." 

The beauty and pain of this song, of this album, is more than worth your look, your time, and if you so choose, your money.

My two latest musical muses have been songs I randomly discovered. The first is Adele's theme to the new Bond movie, Skyfall.

The story: I was waiting for a party to end, waiting to be able to breakdown the gear and go home, killing time by playing on my phone, when I pulled up YouTube and saw it as a featured video.

And then I played it. And played it. Over and over, I think at least five times in a row.

Adele's voice is one I can get lost in, one I have gotten lost in with her other music. This song does not disappoint.

This song's fantasy was a bit... different.

I imagined myself decked out in a tight modern dancer's outfit, my hair down and flowing, all while also spinning fire poi.

(By-the-way, for those who don't know, I'm pretty sure this can never happen, seeing the whole threat of my hair catching on fire and the outfit burning and sticking to my skin and all; hence why it is a fantasy.)

I saw myself jumping, leaping, twirling while spinning, gracing the air around me with the fire's heat and my body's extensions, lines, curves, flame and movement creating a dark dance with Adele's voice in the background.

I haven't purchased this song just yet, but I did make my first pair of practice poi. Let your mind go where it may.

The last song, the newest song, the now song, is less about the major name listed and more about the minor artist featured: Wiz Khalifa feat. TheWeeknd - Remember You.

TheWeeknd's voice. His voice. Oh my God his voice. And the lyrics. The sensual, sexy, oh my fucking God lyrics. I heard this song once on the radio and immediately thought, Who is this?

After some Google-fu, I found him.

TheWeeknd is Canadian (as many fine folk are) and has yet to release a studio album (guttural scream!). He has released mix tapes, and his first studio album is due out next month.

I tried to purchase the single on iTunes, but unfortunately it is only available if I purchase Wiz Khalifa's entire album.

TheWeeknd is another voice where I loose myself. While listening to this song, while listening to this man sing, I loose all sense of time and place and am floating on a racing roller coaster through the sky while being eaten out by his voice.

He has the kind of voice that makes me want to fuck him. Yes, it is that good.

Bad bitch, girl, I think I might get used to yah
I might have to take your number when I'm through wit yah
All I ask of you is try to earn my memory
Make me remember you
Like you remember me

I want to fuck to this song. I want to fuck to this song on endless repeat, sweaty, nasty sex, where we don't care who hears, what anyone says, what anyone thinks. Where we get lost in each other's body, each other's breathing. Where we get lost in fucking.

I love this song.

I will admit I'm a little pissed I can't get the song. I've found it on YouTube and have already played it three times while writing this blog. 

Sometimes, when it comes to amazing music, you just have to wait. So, for now, I'm being patient. And I keep hitting play on YouTube.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Busy Day

With the sacrifice of my Saturday a given, an unintended consequence arose. All of sudden I only had one day left at camp. One day to go to class. One day to play. One day to make everything happen.

When I woke up Sunday morning, I already had a tight schedule. One class, four play dates, participating in an elaborate scene, and I still wanted to spend some time with friends. I wondered how I would make everything work.

Quickly getting up, I showered, changed into a cute dress (cause this was my last day, dammit, I was going to look good), and headed to breakfast.

After food, I went to the one class I knew I wanted to make, Playing Well With Others. I had already taken one of Vesper's classes and knew that this one was a must see.

As luck would have it, two of my cabinmates attended. We shared a futon couch as Vesper spoke, asking everyone questions, engaging the entire class in the conversation. The discussion focused on Monogamous and Polyamorous relationships, how they differed, and elements that were important to every relationship.

At the end of the class, with most everyone gone (including my cabinmates) I found myself in a conversation with Vesper and one of the other class attendees. As one would expect, we mused on relationships and life in general.

As it was soon time for lunch, once our extra-class discussion came to a natural end, I asked Vesper if he'd like to have lunch together. I had felt a friendly vibe from him from our initial meeting and wanted to get more time to chat. He agreed. We strolled down to the Dining Hall.

During our meal, he flagged the camp organizers over. Vesper's flight home was that evening and he needed a ride to the airport. I was now very happy I'd asked to spend some time with him.

As the organizers thought on who could give Vesper a ride, an idea occurred to me: I could.

Yes, my schedule was tight, but I could postpone a playdate for later that evening, opening up the time I would need to get him there. With Vesper happy to have a ride with someone he actually knew, we called over to the organizers; problem solved.

Of course, this opened up a new can of worms for me, but I do love rising to challenges.

And thus began my three hour whirlwind.

First their was lunch with Vesper, chatting and laughing and such. Then, right after lunch, I rushed back to the cabin, changed, and waited for my first play date: cigar play lessons on the grass in front of my cabin.

I told the gentleman with whom I played simply, "You scare me. I appreciate that."

He replied, "The way I get girls to play with me is I scare them."

"Like I said, you scare me and I appreciate that."

He requested my clothes off. I left on my red underwear with the words "I HATE U" printed on them. I think he appreciated that.

After smoke-and-heat-and-ashy fun, and the promise of more play together at some time in the future, I grabbed my things and caught a taxi to the Dungeon for my second play date.

Jim was waiting for me. I was five minutes late.

We found a sex swing, setup two chucks (one in the swing and one on the floor), and then began our fun.

The date was Jim's idea. He quickly cleaned my boots before licking my leather and slipping his hand inside my pussy.

"You have to be quiet; they're having a class."

Behind Jim, across the Dungeon, I saw a group of people sitting in folding chairs having what seemed like an intense conversation.

I wanted to scream as Jim's fingers danced inside me. Orgasms rolled, but I had to muffle myself, my hands often covering my mouth, quieting my ecstasy.

When we finished, with about ten minutes to spare, Jim and I chatted for a moment.

As we spoke, I kept looking down at his boots. In a moment of asking for exactly what I wanted, Jim granted me permission to kiss his boots. I kissed and caressed his leather, allowing myself to get lost in the smell and sensation, but only for a few precious minutes.

Cleaning the swing and collecting my things, I put my dress back on. I thanked Jim for the fun and then ran off.

Arriving at Vesper's cabin, I was right on time. He said his goodbyes before we walked to my car.

During the ride, we again got to chatting, learning still more about each other. My initial vibe was confirmed in that car ride. He's a cool guy; I could definitely see us being friends.

I gave him a hug before he flew away, and then I flew back to camp. I still had two play dates and a psycho drama to perform in.

Lost Day

It seemed like a great idea at the time. Since I was on setup crew for Summer Camp, eight days of my life to be spent at my kinky home, I figured sacrificing one day would not be so bad.

Well, it wasn't... at first. My call time for work wasn't super early. I got breakfast. I saw folks.

And then I put on my work clothes, walked towards my car, and dropped myself back into the real world.

When my gig ended, I raced back to camp. It was late, almost 3am when I arrived. I immediately changed my clothes and roamed around, hoping to catch the last bit of fun for the day.

I ventured down to a small fire surround by camp chairs just outside of a nearby cabin. There I found Big Bro chatting. He'd had an intense day, but didn't want to talk about it.

Instead he suggested I head up to the Dungeon. The Switches play party was due to end soon, but maybe I could have a little fun before it was over.

Rushing up the hill and across the tennis courts, I entered the Dungeon but found no fun for me. Whatever play there had been was long over. Only a few people remained, lingering about, none of them playing.

Feeling down, but not yet out, I meandered over to Sex-o-Rama. Climbing the few stairs to the shared balcony of the horseshoe of cabins, I peaked into the individual sex spaces, hoping to spy a scene or two.

The Makeout Room was empty. In the Brothel, three folks were having fun on one of the beds. In the Peep Show, two other individuals were having loud sex.

I quietly tip-toed over the wooden balcony, first watching the duo before the trio.

As the duo fucked, I kept myself hidden, not daring to go inside the cabin. With their chosen bed by the door, I was able to view their carnal delights through the cabin window and the plexy glass of the Peep Show stall.

I made sure to not interrupt them but I also didn't want to miss their display. I greatly enjoyed watching them and hearing the sounds the bottom made as they were being fucked quite vigorously.

When the duo finished, I slowly and silently eased back towards the Brothel. Like my luck before, I was able to watch the trio's fun through a cabin window. They were less animated than the duo, and I was more easily viewable from their vantage point, though.  I do not believe they saw me, but I still opted to not stay long.

With my last embers of hope dying out, I ventured back up to the Dungeon. No one was playing, a testament to the chill in the air and, I believe, everyone's wish to save their energy for the last day and night.

Resigned that I was not going to get into any trouble that evening, I made my way back to my cabin, snuggled in my bed, and fell fast asleep. Having lost a day of camp, I knew Sunday, my last day, would be busy.

Mild Morning Freak Out

I woke up, opening my eyes, and at once searching for Tessie. It's what I do almost every time I wake up. Sometimes, with my occasional tossing and turning, he ends up on the floor. But then, a millisecond later, when I saw him sitting next to my knee, looking right at me, I felt this urge to do something.

I quickly took off my necklace and held it in my hand for a moment, the metal dangling by my eyes, before wrapping the jewelry around my wrist and locking it there.

Yes, that could work, I thought.

But then I missed the weight around my neck. I missed the feel of the metal against my skin. I missed the easy motion of playing with the ring absentmindedly.

I tried to unlatch the necklace from my wrist, but as if to mock me it wouldn't come off easily. It was almost as if the metal wanted to remind me how tied to it I am, how much of myself I have poured into this one symbol.

I finally got my necklace off my wrist and put it back around my neck (where it lays now). And though the idea of wearing it around my wrist is still a bit appealing, I have time before I need to make a decision regarding the adornment at events.

So, the cause of my mild morning freak out...

All while I was at Rope Camp, I think I was asked about "my Top" or "my Sir" or "my Dom" about a dozen times. There was nothing wrong with these questions. I, in fact, was happy people asked me instead of holding onto their assumptions.

But that doesn't mean the questions didn't get to me.

I don't have a Dom, a Top, a Sir. (Wow, the tears have started to come already. Okay, locking it down.)

I am unpartnered. I mean that in the broadest sense. No one in my life calls themselves my partner.

I have so many friends I love and cherish, who I would never give up for anything. I have people that I care about and love, so many connections, but I have no partners.

When I spoke to Gray about the reoccurring question at Rope Camp, shortly after we'd left, he wasn't surprised. My necklace, though it is just a necklace (not a collar), conveyed an idea to those who did not know me. He liken it to wearing a black handkerchief in my back pocket and being upset about heavy S&M questions. I suppose it's closer to wearing a gold band on my left hand's fourth finger and being upset when people think it's a wedding ring.

And I get that.

I've gotten the question ever since I first bought my necklace and put it on. I've had this piece of metal since I started in the greater public kink scene, since my first event, since before I joined Fet. So yes, the question comes up.

Still, it doesn't make it any easier as a person who is searching for the life she wants to lead and trying to find people to fill the major roles she hopes to someday have in her life to have to always correct the unintentional mistake.

And, I wonder, how many have not thought of me in that way, not pursued something with me, because of their assumptions, because seeing my necklace made them immediately think Hands off.  Is it a subconscious thought in the back of people's mind, a quiet barrier to possible connections, possible partners?

Each time I was asked about my Dom/Top/Sir, each question was a little needle in my side, a little reminder of what I don't have.

It's not set in stone, just an idea, but I don't know if I'll keep wearing my necklace at events, at least around my neck. It may dangle from my wrist. It may jingle in my pocket.

It won't go away, that much I do know, but maybe a change of place will ease the frequency of the confusion and possibly lessen my occasional small heartaches.


Friday, October 5, 2012

Go See Loopers

Go see Loopers.


Gray wanted to see a movie to help with his event drop, his normal salve to ease the pain. When spit balling on what movie to see while I drove us away from camp, he suggested Loopers. I had vaguely heard of it, but was mostly ambivalent about the flick.

And then he looked up the movie's rating on Rotten Tomatoes: 93%.

"Okay, let's go see Loopers."



When the film ended, I sat there in the theatre not speaking for a few minutes. I only pulled out my phone because I wanted to Shazam the song playing during the closing credits. I had no desire to really do anything but sit and process.

Gray left me, saying he'd meet me in the lobby. When I did eventually join him, I still couldn't speak. It wasn't until I was in my car driving, leaving the parking garage about five minutes later when I could finally start verbalizing the storm in my head.

That movie cracked my brain in the best possible way. It was the type of movie that made me want to write more, made me want to be better at my craft. Holy shit, it was just that good.

I know as I write this I may being doing you, my readers, a disservice. I went into watching this movie not expecting much. In fact for me it was even more of an escape than usual as I was on an emotional roller coaster, having just left Rope Camp.

Still, I loved this movie.

Without giving too much away, let me make a few points.

1- The script for this was amazing. Amazing. I say this as a writer, as a story teller. The tale they crafted was spun so well, I was in awe. My loyalties changed at least half a dozen times throughout the movie, if not more. I loved someone, hated them, and then loved them again multiple times. I was always trying to guess the ending, hoping for some resolution that would save the people I loved. I never got it right, not even in the end.

2- This movie made me cry. Not sobbing, but a hurt-my-heart cry for the characters I was so invested in, for the life I wanted to imagine them having long after the lights came up. I shed no physical tears, but instead my heart wept at the end for their plight.

3- One sequence will never leave me. It was scary and twisted and dark without ever showing any blood. It lasted less than two minutes. It still haunts me, still needles at the back of my brain, still makes me think "What if...?".

So, in this person's humble opinion, Loopers was the best movie I've seen all year. And yes, I loved The Avengers. And no, Twilight can go fuck itself. (Haven't read any of the books or seen any of the movies.)

I don't know if Loopers will get any nominations, don't know if it'll win any awards. But, in my humble opinion, Loopers is the shit.

Hands down.

Mic dropped.

Go see it.

Eight Days

It was the longest time in a row that we'd spent together. Every night we slept in the same bed (though not always just the two of us). We ate (almost) every meal together. It was eight straight days of being around each other, eight straight days of time together.

When he left, when I hugged him goodbye, even though I knew I'd see him in just under three weeks, I got into my car, drove just far enough to be out of sight, and started crying.

Eight days.

It was as if I was hit by a box truck to my chest. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond trying to regain my composure. My heart actually hurt, ached in fact. It was a severe dull pain that didn't go away until I made myself drive.

I made myself go play dodgeball.

I left him at that specific time so I could make the game. The thought had occurred to me that I could skip the game and drive him to the airport; I'm glad I didn't.

I arrived just as the opening horn sounded. I stood on the sidelines and cheered on my team before being allowed in to play. I ran around. I caught a few balls. I smiled and was happy to see my friends. Afterwards a few of us went out for a beer and greasy food. It was what I needed.

Little moments over the course of the week still punctuate my memory.

A locked intense stare while demo bottoming for his Military Style Bondage class. Following his rhythm for push ups (which I hate) but my unwillingness to let him down.

Sitting on the ground while he and others stood around me, smoking and chatting, patiently waiting til I again received his ash.

My head on his chest at night as we slept. His arms around me when we adjusted. Hearing his heartbeat in my ear.

Listening to him talk for hours, twice.

His smile, when it appeared every so often, even when it wasn't because of me.

My forehead on his boot, my hands cupped on his heel, as he slipped his foot out from his leather.

And, yes, there was sex and play. But there is always sex and play.

Eight days. Eight straight days of Gray in my life.

Even with the eventual hurt and the occasional frustrations, even with the drop all at once. Even with it not being perfect, because we are not perfect people. Even with the tired and tedium and sometimes some bullshit, I could not be more thankful.

Eight days of Gray, eight days of my Teacher in my life; really can't beat that.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

A Good Time

It was Friday night at Rope Camp.

Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate was winding down; fewer than a dozen people remained in the Pavilion, though we all stood around smiling and chatting, still enjoying each others company.

The social had gone well. Even though I arrived late. Even though I had to run back to the cabin for supplies. Even though I didn't black one boot. There was laughing, good conversation, chocolate, some whiskey, and of course cigars.

Funny enough, there was also coconut rope.

As per Gray's standing request, whenever I took his ash into my mouth, my boobies had to be out. For this particular evening I wore my black-top-gray-skirt dress and was easily able to free my chest for his amusement.

But somewhere during the social he decided he wanted me in coconut rope. Dictating that I should just pull my entire torso out from my outfit, I pushed my dress down to my waist.

And then came the rope.

He wound it around my chest, over my nipples, secured it under my piercings, and placed knots in wicked spots all over. Just wearing coconut rope is a predicament in itself. You feel it dig in with each and every breath.

Throughout the evening, the attendees of the gathering would approach me with one of two requests: may I touch it or may I pull on it. I granted both, either slipping into to teaching mode or willing bottom space.

To make up for the lack of bootblacking at the get together, Gray instructed me to lie on the floor of the Pavilion. Then he and Rough provided the necessary boot action by suffering my body with their leather.

Both men stood on my body in various places (back, thighs, hair) and marveled at my ability to take all their weight with my flesh. Gray also thought it fun to kick my crotch. But as I laid on the floor, Rough's boots on my hair, and the toe of Gray's boot occasionally connecting with my cunt, I heard laughter from the attendees. As I learned later, Gray decided to dance in between his crotch shots.

When I stood, I let both men in on a small detail they failed to realize: with each of their movements, my nipples rubbed up against the floor. Not only did I feel their leather bound blows, I also contended with the abrasions of the rope and the floor. Personally, I think I was bad ass to have taken so much.

With just over half a dozen people left, Gray removed my box tie. And oh, it hurt just as much coming off as it did going on. Gray made sure of that. Gliding the rope along my skin, whipping my body around, push and pull. If ever there was any doubt, yes Gray is most definitely a Sadist.

When finally the last inch of rope was gone from my body, he rubbed all over my skin. I slumped forward, relieved at the soft and caring touch.

However, with my coconut rope gone, I now felt the cool of the evening. I pulled my dress back up and slipped on my jacket. Our small group continued to chat.

I don't remember how we got on this topic, but there was one conversation exchange I will not forget.

"How about making a bottom cum til they pass out," someone suggested.

"No," Rough argued. "How about making me cum until I pass out." I grazed Rough's left bicep. He turned to me.

"Hi," I said with a wink and a smile. Everyone burst out laughing.

And then it happened, my last highlight of the get together.

To end the evening, and once again I don't remember how this happened, but somehow we all ended up in a group hug coalescing around Rough. I stood behind him, my face on his back.

And then people, while still in the hug, started hurting me.

Rough stepped back, pressing the heel of his boot on the top of my right foot. And Elf pinched the back of my neck, right where he had bitten me before. And another pinched my left arm. And I think Gray went for a pressure point on the right side of my jar. I can't really be certain because my eyes were closed for almost all of this, but fuck did it hurt.

My face sunk into Rough's back as new sensation after new sensation took hold. I screamed and yelped as they all laughed and enjoyed my pain.

And yet, we were all still hugging, throughout the entire time. It was funny and odd and... something. Something.

A good time. It was a good time.
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