that's messed up

Cigars, Social

2012-02-16T01:59:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Object

2012-02-14T23:11:00.000-05:00

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

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

And, of course, I am a Cabin Bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

Tickling

2012-02-13T22:59:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She quickly engulfed his cock in her mouth.

"Shit!"

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

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

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

Finally, torturously, he felt his cum rise.

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

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

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

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

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

We're Not Done

2012-02-13T00:18:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fisting." - me
"Am I going to fist you tonight?" - Gent
"Possibly."
"Why possibly?"
"If you choose to, you will."
Everything set out, he grabbed a coil of rope and pulled his chair over, placing himself in front on me as I sat on the couch. The Gent does not understand my love of rope, does not understand what it does for me. Still, he asked me to teach him some basic rope work.

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

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

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

"Are you worried about leaving a mark?"
"Yes."
"Don't."
I bit down hard, sinking my teeth as much as I could into his flesh. I heard his quick inhale. I bit and sucked at his muscles as he continued to practice. He told me to switch arms. At some point, he stopped practicing and reached down to again finger me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She Is Lost

2012-02-12T08:51:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avoidance

2012-02-11T10:01:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So we began working.

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

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

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

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

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

Religion and Reproduction

2012-02-10T01:37:00.000-05:00

This is a straight-up rant. This post isn't meant to be sexy. It's not specifically about sex, or fucking, or all the fun things my life occasionally entails. Fun Fact: In high school I was voted Most Opinionated. Here is a taste of why.

[Side note: I was also voted Most Boy Crazy. Snicker as you wish.]

NEWS FLASH: Catholics use birth control. Jews use birth controls. Muslims, Buddhists, and even Atheists use birth control. And you know what, that is just one of their many rights as American citizens.

In various religions, it is against their most conservative practices to use condoms, the pill, the patch, the ring, the matchstick, and/or the morning after pill. But you know what, people still use them.

Why?

Because condoms help against spreading disease. Because some women don't want to get pregnant. Because sex is fun and is often enjoyed for more than procreation. Because I wouldn't want to have the child of my rapist. Or my cousin. Or my father. Because, as Americans, it is our right to choose.

I can't help but be pissed when I hear Republican Presidential candidates equate the new healthcare rule concerning contraception coverage to an assault against religious freedom. Unless someone is removing the pills from their dispenser and shoving them down your throat, there is no assault on religious freedom.

You know what is an assault that involves religion? Trying to force your views and practices on people who do not share your beliefs, namely your employees who want to prevent pregnancy but can't because you refuse to cover the medication in their healthcare plans.

This mess has less to do with religion and more to do with women's reproductive rights. But conservatives don't want to talk about that. Women don't have sex for fun. What am I talking about? Meanwhile, those of you who've read my blog, or yah know have had hands on practice, know that thinking is utter bullshit.

The new healthcare rule is, in fact, a step to give women more freedom with their reproductive rights.

Hey Catholic hospital, you're a fucking hospital first! Hey Catholic college, you're a fucking college first! And you know what? Plenty of your employees aren't fucking Catholic!

So yes, you need to cover this portion of their healthcare in your plans just like you cover vasectomies and Viagra. And even if an employee is Catholic or Jewish or Muslim, they get to choose what goes into their body, if they want to use condoms, or have sex for fun, or prevent a pregnancy, whether from a lover or from a rapist.

I get so sick and tired of members of the right spouting bullshit trying to trump up the vote. This time they're speaking to misogynists who still believe they have a say in what I do with my body. It's my fucking body, assholes. Step the fuck off!

Mitt Romney, while governor of Massachusetts, passed a law requiring Catholic hospitals to offer emergency contraception to rape victims.

Please, re-read that last statement.

It is important because of a few choice points: 1- If the law was created, it usually means they had to make it in the first place, as in Catholic hospitals were NOT offering emergency contraception to rape victims. (Lemonade moments in-fucking-deed) 2- Romney is a fucking opportunist hypocrite, criticizing the President on reproductive rights after having signed into law similar rights in his own state. & 3- What the fuck, Catholic hospitals!?! Seriously, what the fuck!?!

I was baptized Catholic, and reached my first communion before my mother converted to Baptist. I went to a Catholic middle and high school. I went to a public college. I call myself Christian because I believe there is something greater than myself. Call it God. Call it the essence that is life. There is something.

But you know one thing I did learn while suffering through Religion classes I gave little to no weight to: There was this cool guy named Jesus who, if he were alive today, would be a Socialist. Feeding the poor. Healing the sick. You're probably going to hell if you're rich. And, shit, keeping the wine flowing and the party going. Cool guy.

One part about this current "debate" that I find incredibly disturbing is the Quiverfull movement. First, no birth control whatsoever? Not even the rhythm method? Scary. But beyond that, the idea that you can have enough children to eventually out populate the left/liberals/Democrats, and thereby usher our country into a conservative utopia, downgrades women into baby making machines, children into votes, and liberty and freedom into just buzz words.

But hey, why am I surprised? I'm a black woman and a bleeding heart liberal. It isn't like this country has been so welcoming of my kind, even if I was born here.

[Fun fact: go Google 'Mississippi apendectomy'. I just learned about this a few months ago. This country is so fucked up.]

/rant

Mr. Wrong

2012-02-08T23:48:00.000-05:00

Bad boys ain't no good
Good boys ain't no fun
Lord knows that I should
Run off with the right one*

But which one?

Thick steam surrounded, swirled, as Sam sat and wrestled with this choice.

Dominic or Thomas?

Daddy or Beau?

Who would Sam choose?

Both Dominic and Thomas were appealing. Both were gorgeous, desperately in love with Sam, and gave more orgasms than they got. But Sam had to choose.

Dom was thick, all muscle, with arms that could break a person in half. He enjoyed throwing Sam around, making it obvious who was boss. And Sam loved this, loved the loss of control, loved being an object, and yet cared for and comforted.

Dom picked up Sam at a bar. This was ballsy, considering Sam's friends were not the forgiving type. But Dom had a huge set; ones that, in fact, Sam loved to suck on.

Dom drove a chopper, wore his leathers proudly, and allowed Sam to lick every inch of his black outer layer. Dom drank whiskey, smoked big fat cigars, and took shit from no one.

Tommy was like air, like the breeze, like a deep breath into Sam's life. They met in a park. Sam was sitting on a bench reading the latest piece of fiction-candy purchased at the nearby large box bookstore. Tommy's pitbull decided Sam's feet was its new pillow to nap on.

They chatted about dogs, about books, about the better-than-average weather.They drank coffee at a nearby cafe. They made a lunch date. A dinner date. A 'come-over-and-fuck-me-now' date. Sam was hooked.

Tommy was a kind lover, always attending to Sam's pleasure. There was no top or bottom, just two lovers on a bed ravishing each others' bodies, taking in the scents and tastes. Sweat. Saliva. Sexual. Seductive. Sam didn't know when or how, but Tommy understood every place to touch, every spot to lick, where to caress.

Thomas or Dominic? Dom or Tommy? Dominic or Thomas?

They knew about each other. Sam kept no secrets. And almost at the same time, they each asked Sam to choose. Why, Sam never knew.

Maybe because they were, by nature, jealous men, not wanting to share Sam. Maybe because of ego. Maybe because of pride. Or maybe because they didn't believe Sam's explanations of polyamory, of loving more than one person, of loving equally.

Either way, Sam had a choice to make.

Taking a deep breath, Sam parted the thick mist and walked out of the steam room, the decision made.

*Mary J. Blige feat. Drake - Mr. Wrong

Floating

2012-02-08T07:33:00.000-05:00

She let her body lay on the water, gliding between the surface and the deep below. All she could hear was the lapping of the water and her breath. Her fingers delicately danced, feeling the liquid rest and then slip through her digits. She smiled, feeling like she was home.

"Is she drunk?"
"I don't know."
"Is she asleep?"
"Maybe. Hey, there's a bug on your nose."

She reached over, having not felt the errant insect, grabbed it, and tossed it away. They had broken her meditation, ended her floating for the night. She dipped her hips down, scissor kicked for a moment, and then swam to the edge of the cement pool in the seedy motel.

"That was impressive. I don't think I've seen anyone float for that long."
"Thanks. It just comes natural."
"Well, that was still impressive all the same." The older man smiled at her, turned, and left.

It must have been getting late. Most of her coworkers were gone. She guessed it was almost time for the pool to close. She lifted herself out of the water, sad her time was up. Bailey hadn't swam since last year, and it was only by dumb luck that it happened at this random work trip.

She'd swam in her underwear; no one knew about the pool til they got to their accommodations. Anyone who was dunked in the water went in with their clothing. Thankfully, when you were targeted, they at least let you remove your wallet and cellphone.

No one had bothered to come after Bailey. She was new, not yet acquainted with everyone, quietly hanging on the fringe. But she saw a pool and knew she had to swim.

She searched around for her things and then stumbled upstairs. But as soon as she got to her room, she realized she forgot her key. She, as quickly as a tipsy Bailey could, stumbled back down to the pool. Reaching the gate, she found the motel's rather large padlock.

"Fuck!"
"Hey, is this yours?"

Bailey looked over and saw a group of people crowded around a swing set in the dirt and patchy grass just outside the perimeter of the pool's fence. She approached and saw a rather attractive woman holding her room key.

"Yes. Thank you."
"Bailey, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm Nikki."

Bailey knew who Nikki was. Everyone knew who Nikki was. Tattooed, badass, hot Nikki was hard to miss. Harder still to overlook was combination of Nikki and her boy, Johnny, the older man who had complimented Bailey on her floating. Just as tattooed, just as badass, just as hot as his woman. Seeing the two of them was like looking into the abyss. You didn't want to rip your eyes away.

Bailey smiled, and attempted to hug Nikki for her kindness. Instead, she tripped over her own feet and fell. Johnny caught her before she landed.

"Sorry. I'm so clumsy."
"That's okay, darlin. We've all had a few."
"Maybe we should help you up to your room," Nikki suggested.
"I think I'll be..." Bailey put pressure onto her ankle and doubled over from the sharp pain.
"What's wrong darlin?"
"My ankle. I'm such a fucking klutz."
"It's okay hun; let's get you upstairs." Nikki nodded to Johnny. He scooped up the slight Bailey as if she were nothing, turned, and they all walked up to her room.

Nikki slid in the door key. As they all entered, everyone ignored the cat calls from the peanut gallery below.

"Which bed is yours, darlin?"
"Either. Both. My roommate left yesterday. The heat got to her."

Johnny gently put her down on the far bed. He and Nikki sat side-by-side on the near bed.

"Well, let's get your clothes off. Best to not get you sniffling along with a sore ankle." Nikki stood to help Bailey, wrestling with her tank top and boxer shorts. Bailey looked at Johnny, who had turned away.

"It's okay. I'm not ashamed of my body. You can look if you want."
"Thank you for the invitation, but I'll be modest for the both of us all the same."

Once finished, Nikki sat back next to Johnny. Bailey wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, with the excess resting in her lap.

"I'm decent now. Well, mostly."

Johnny turned back around, catching Bailey's eye and smiling. He then looked at her ankle, which was now a bit red.

"You'll need ice for that foot, hun. I'll go get you some."

Johnny grabbed the plastic ice bucket off the low dresser and set off on his errand.

"He's very helpful."
"Yes, it's one of the reasons why I bothered calling him after we first fucked. He didn't just kick me out of his house with cab fare. He fed me, made sure I found my underwear in the clutter of his home, and had me call him once I got home."
"That's very sweet. Somehow I'm not surprised by that."
"Some people don't see beyond the tattoos and attitude, but I guess you're different."

Nikki moved, sitting next to Bailey on her bed. She lifted Bailey's ankle and sat it on her lap. Lightly she massaged it. Bailey winced.

"Hopefully it's just a sprain. Usually you just ice and elevate for a few days to make it better."
"Ice and elevate, got it."
"Let me help you keep your leg up."

Nikki continued her kisses, all the way down to where Bailey had only dreamed she'd go. Lightly nuzzling Bailey's clit with her nose, Nikki then began licking and sucking the delicate nub. Bailey's breath quickened. Her hands gripped her pillow.

The door opened, with Johnny bringing in the ice bucket. He closed the door, sat the ice bucket back on the table, filled a Ziploc bag he pulled out of his pocket, and approached the two women.

"I see you're having fun, hun." Bailey wasn't sure if he was talking to her or Nikki.

Johnny used medical tape to lash the ice pack to Bailey's ankle. He then sat back on the bed and watched. Bailey wasn't sure exactly what would happen next, but she guessed this wasn't the first time Johnny walked in on Nikki 'having fun.'

Johnny once again caught Bailey's eye. And again, both she and he smiled. He began rubbing himself through his leather pants. Bailey glanced down, then back up at him. She nodded, giving her nonverbal approval. Johnny unzipped his pants and pulled out his rather firm cock. Bailey's eyes grew wide; she instinctively licked her lips, then craned her head back as Nikki inserted two fingers into her rather wet cunt.

"I think we've found a live one, " Johnny commented as he stood and came closer to the ladies' bed.

Johnny glided his fingers into Bailey's hair, gripped, and then brought her mouth to his cock. Bailey and Nikki shifted their bodies to better suite the new fun happening by the headboard. Bailey licked and sucked Johnny while riding Nikki's mouth and hand. She gasped when Nikki inserted another finger, allowing Johnny to ease his cock in farther down her throat.

Bailey gently placed a hand on Nikki's head, guiding her movements. Bailey grew closer and closer to an orgasm. Johnny began grunting and pumping harder into her mouth. Nikki matched her man's increased tempo.

With muffled cries, Bailey's body thrashed as she came. Johnny quickly pulled out of her mouth, preventing his release. Nikki slowly extricated herself from Bailey's pussy.

Breathing hard, floating on her endorphin high, Bailey looked at the two of them with gratitude, but also confusion.

"Where do you two think you're going? We're not done yet."

Falling Down

2012-02-06T23:39:00.000-05:00

The cold rain pounded her body; she didn't care. The frigid wind blew; she didn't mind. The rain masked her tears. The wind screamed louder than her cries. She was grateful for the torrent around her, grateful something rivaled the tornado of emotions inside her.

He arrived around 9, tired from work, not expecting to see her on his front porch. She was soaked through, shivering, somehow seeming both strong and weak.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I wanna fuck."

"Huh?"

"I wanna fuck you. You wanna fuck me, right?"

"Come inside."

He fumbled with his keys for a moment before opening his front door and ushering in his half crazed friend. Retrieving a large towel from his linen closet, he handed it to her. She took it, but just held it at her side as if he'd handed her a drink she had no interest in sipping.

"What's wrong, love?"

"Come on, let's go upstairs." She grasped his arm as if to pull him to his bedroom.

"I don't know if..."

"No, you're right. Let's just do it right here." She began taking off her clothes, an act he wanted her to do but for a very different reason.

"Why aren't you taking your clothes off," she snapped at him. He just stood, looking on her with pity. She was naked, shivering by his front door. This was not how he imagined their first fuck would be.

"Where is she?" His friend's gaze turned red hot.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Love, where is she?"

"She didn't show," she screamed. Her voice did not quiet; she began pacing. "We made plans. The restaurant where we had our first date, that little Italian Bistro tucked away in our old neighborhood. And I waited. And waited. And nothing. I called her phone; straight to voicemail. Straight to fucking voicemail. Didn't even have the balls to tell me why. Why?"

"Love, stop. Stop!"

"I don't want to stop. I wanna fuck you."

"You want to hurt her."

"I want to not feel her. I want to not see her or think about her or...or..."

He caught his friend as she collapsed on his floor. She balled, wailed as she had before he arrived. He took the towel from her hands and wrapped it around her. He held her tight. He waited for her cries to end.

She gripped his shirt, buried her face into his shoulder, and let it out. The pain was like a dagger piercing her heart with each breath. Softly she whimpered "why...why" over and over again.

Eventually, she stopped.

"Oh god. Oh god, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have come over here like this. And your shirt. Your nice dress shirt..."

"I have dozens of them, don't worry."

"Jesus. Well I feel real attractive right now."

"This is definitely not how I planned to get you naked in my house."

"I am so...so sorry."

"Stop. Everyone falls down, one time or another. Ready to get up?"

She took a breath and held it for a moment, before softly whispering, "Yes."

Vacation

2012-02-05T22:49:00.000-05:00

It was cool, with a slight breeze that rustled the nearby trees, but the light droplets that fell brought the chill down past her layers of clothing to rest on her skin and in her bones.

She didn't like the cold, and though it was nowhere near freezing, the temperature was much too low for her tastes.

She wondered why she hadn't moved to a more temperate climate, why she hadn't up and left this wet crisp home she'd known for so long.

But as the car pulled up, she remembered why.

He was smart, younger than her, but brash enough to not care. He was successful, generous, and caring. He was everything she'd wanted, everything she'd waited for, almost a dream.

And yet he was real, a person, not a fantasy. He left his wet towels on the bathroom floor, had to be reminded to eat more than just chips and dip, and forgot her birthday each year like clockwork. Still, he was her husband, and she was glad of that.

She only grumbled a little as she got into the car, damp and shivering.

"Sorry I'm late; traffic."

"Friday getaway; can't blame other people for having our same idea. So, any new thoughts on our destination?"

"Well, you want somewhere warm."

"Yes, there must be warmth."

"And I want somewhere that won't break our bank."

"As if there is somewhere we can't afford to go?" He gave a sly grin at her allusion to their more than modest means. "Fine, so nowhere too far. That rules out anywhere off the continent."

"Indeed."

"Ideas?"

"I have one."

"And..."

"I thought you liked surprises?"

~

As they stepped up to the ticket counter, she almost bounced with excitement. The attendant gave her husband the tickets. He was sure to not let her peak. They passed through security and took seats at the almost swanky bar in the terminal.

"So when are you going to tell me?"

"You'll see the destination as we're about to board."

"No hints whatsoever?"

"I didn't say that."

"Hmm... Tell me what you packed?"

"Why would I make it that easy?"

"Fine. Did you pack my bathing suit?"

"Yes."

"Did you pack my jeans?"

"Yes, but I don't think you'll use them."

"Interesting. Which of my dresses did you pack? My little black? My poofy ball gown?"

"Little black, yes. Gown, no."

"Ok. Shoes. Flip flops?"

"No."

"Boots?"

"Yes."

"Heels?"

"The black strappy ones you like."

"I'm loving this spontaneous vacation already. Ok, no flip flops rules out a beach. Possible jeans means we could be doing some walking, but there was no mention of sneakers."

"You didn't ask about sneakers."

"Did you pack my sneakers?"

"No."

"Well then, as I was saying... Little black dress means nice dinners. And boots mean sexy." Her eyes became wide.

"Have you got it?"

"Let's go to the terminal."

"First, what's your guess?"

A grin filled her face.

"The place where what happens there stays there, more strip clubs than anywhere else in the world, and legalized brothels. None other than Sin City, love."

"That's my girl. And if you're good, I'll buy you the hottest whore they've got."

"And if I'm bad?"

"I'll buy you two."

Panic

2012-02-05T00:43:00.000-05:00

Recently I hurt a friend.

There was a miscommunication. I jumped to conclusions. I went into protect myself mode. And, in the process, I let them down. For that I apologized. We have since reconciled and all is well with our friendship.

But as soon as things were better again, I began wondering why things had gone so wrong in the first place.

The short answer is I panicked.

I am a planner, not by profession but just as a general personality trait. I need to know details, information. I need to be able to say for certain I will be at this place at this time doing this activity.

This habit was brow beaten into me during my high school years. The only way I was ever able to hang out with my friends was if I knew all the details of our excursion and imparted this information to my mother in advance. Otherwise a curt "no" was her answer.

As an adult, I have come to do this for my own self easing. In part I continued this practice because it was good to have the information. But, to be brutally honest with myself, I know this habit has a lot to do with my Ex.

My Ex was a manchild. He made more money than me and worked in my industry longer, yet I had less debt, owned a car, and lived in much better accommodations.

It wasn't long into our relationship that I learned I needed to make all the plans. He was very lazy about our outings. We once showed up for a company party after it had ended. He hadn't bothered to check the event times.

We once almost missed a theatre performance because he didn't look up the address of the venue. It was that particular incident which tweaked my annoyance level the most. Before we left, I asked him specifically if he knew where the venue was. He said he did. I asked if he was sure, offering to look up the information. He assured me he knew where we were going.

When we pulled up to the wrong theatre, too close to the start of the show, I kicked myself for not looking up the location. Unfortunately I did not do this with my mouth closed. He grumbled his discomfort as I called information to find out the address. (This was before I owned my fancy phone.)

When we arrived at the theatre, it turned out our tickets were for the week before. The box office gave us tickets in the same seats for the show that evening, no charge. After the show, I told him I was sorry for my outburst. We were able to attend the performance, not missing any part of it.

(But did you catch that? I apologized to him for criticizing him, even though he fucked up, twice. Yeah, my relationship with my Ex was not emotional healthy in the least.)

So, with those paragraphs of explanation, I can now get to the crux of my realization.

It is hard for me to trust people when it comes to planning events. It is hard for me to have faith that people won't fuck up in some way, thereby screwing me in the process. It is hard for me to not immediately jump ship just because the deck is damp.

In my mind, I have to take care of myself. I am an independent contractor, making sure my shit smells like roses. So if I get a whiff of funk, I immediately go into panic mode. I find a solution for myself and allow others to live or die on their failings.

In how I hurt my friend, I did not trust that they had everything taken care of. I doubted their abilities. I panicked. And for that I was and am truly sorry.

Sadly, to be frank, I'm not quite sure how I can keep myself from doing this again.

Suggestions?

A While

2012-02-04T04:06:00.002-05:00

Going into tonight's Dirty Things party, I had three aims. 1- There would need to be much cigar play. 2- I wanted to spend some time with N3rddom and KnownUnknown, who would be traveling from far away to attend the party. And 3- I absolutely wanted to kiss VoodooPrincess again. Thankfully, all three of my aims were met, and more.

Almost as soon as I checked in, I was down in the smoking lounge. VoodooPrincess and I both served as cigar sluts again, with Lochai adding his ingenious ideas for fun into the mix. There was much preparation of cigars, and eating of ash. VoodooPrincess, however, got the gold star for the evening with her inspired idea for an ash s'more. One of my highlights from my smokey fun time included a lump of ash atop a half eaten strawberry. My mouth was full of all new tastes and sensations.

I indeed had the wonderful thrill of kissing VoodooPrincess for quite some time. Once involved passing ash from her tongue to mine. Our first embrace was merely her proper greeting to me. I felt more than welcome in her presence.

Close to the apex of the cigar smoking, Celeste and Veskrashen arrived. Celeste found herself drawn to my hair, noting how soft it was. She then proceeded to run her fingers through my curls, then down my back and across my skin. I ceased contributing to any conversation and could no longer give service. My world existed only in the inches of skin her fingers caressed or scratched, the curls she twirled, and my breath.

As Celeste's manipulations came to an end, N3rddom and his crew arrived. I greeted him, asking if he wished to smoke the half of a cigar I saved him from our New Years play. He politely declined, taking a seat next to SirRonC to chat.

As people filtered in and out, I made my way back upstairs. I strolled about for a while, naked, until the cold got to me. Scurrying back downstairs, I restored some of my clothing, to the disappointment of some, including myself.

Back in the main play space, I approached Veskrashen and gave him a proper hug hello. Before I was too distracted for a cordial greeting. In a moment of "why not", I asked if he was interested in some sharp-and-pointy time. He said he was, but would need some time before we could play. I politely agreed and asked that he come find me when he was ready.

It was not long before we crept upstairs, found a table, and my naked body was once again under his blades.

"It's been a while since we last played." - V

"Tickle!" - me
"Really?" - V
"Shit! Shit shit shit shit. I shouldn't have said anything. Why did I open my mouth? You didn't hear that." - me

"You have this lovely bruise. I must poke it. It is in the Domly code." - V

"You growled again." - me
"You know, I use my blades, but it's always the growling women note." - V
"It's just something about it that brings the scene to a new level. It's layering the levels of kink." - me

"Your knives are beautiful, both in their decoration and their great ability to inflict pain." - me

His knives once again danced across my skin. We began with my body face down. He mixed light wispy strokes with hard languid movements and occasional pointed jabs of pain. He found my tickle spot, the mix of squirming from torture and almost giggling was incredible.

He used his blades against my shoulders to make me turn over. He started with my face. Next, my neck. He went after my thighs, my stomach. He lashed at my Mons, eliciting my highest pitched shrieks. The tip of one of his blades rested an inch above my clit. I moaned as I bucked my hips up into the air, wanting his blade tip just a little farther down.

His knives found my breasts and nipples. My moans increased. I breathed my arousal into my abdomen. I loved the feel of his knives squeezing and scraping my flesh.

He ended with a flourish, pushing his knives into my neck, crossing them on my skin, and growling his loudest of the scene into my ear.

As before, he placed his hand on my chest and helped me to slow my breathing. We waited until I was less swimmy headed. I did not need to immediately lie back down when I sat up, and I was able to walk around just fine a few minutes after that.

But, before we parted, Veskrashen gave me a taste of his beating stick. It was yet another implement that gave not a thuddy or stingy but burny feeling on my ass, my arms, my thighs. I made sure that stick stayed very far away from me after we finished our time together.

My night ended with a tie. Murphy had been rigging none stop for some time, but his last bottom was nowhere to be found. He still had time to tie and wanted to tie. I volunteered myself.

He put me in a chest harness and secured me to his Shibari ring. He stood in front of me, placed his head against mine, and for a moment we shared breath.

Punch "Ten." His right fist found my chest. Punch "Nine." This time, it was his left. He hit me again and again. By seven, the pain became acute. By five, I wondered if I'd be able to take it all. At two, I screamed and leaned into him. He told me I had done well, had been just right. With one, both of his fists hit my chest. I was happy the harness was there to hold me up.

Murphy hugged me, thanking me. I leaned into him and, for a moment, allowed myself to cry a little. He asked me why I shed tears. I explained I had held back my disappointment all night. However, when he manifested my emotional pain into a physical form, I then had to let go of the droplets.

I thought I was going to see Gray tonight. I thought he was going to give a cigar play class and I was going to be his demo bottom. Turns out that's not for another two weeks. I learned this at the beginning of my night. As soon as I felt the pain coming, I shut down those thoughts and attempted to concentrate only on what was right in front of me.

During the night, when I came down to put on some clothing, Lochai asked me if I was leaving. Of course he made his inquiry after I'd popped a chocolate covered pretzel into my mouth. I pointed to my situation, while chewing as best I could before speaking. He commented on how I was "always so fucking polite" as he waited for my answer. I assured him I was not leaving just yet, but merely trying to brace myself against the cold.

It took his inquiry for me to answer that question. I had thought about leaving the party. I knew I could go, since my passengers would not be returning with me. I knew I could just slip away. And part of me wanted to do just that.

But another part knew I should stay, knew that by opening up myself to what could possibly happen during the rest of my night I was self-soothing. And I did feel much better when I left than when I realized how our wires had gotten crossed.

It's been awhile since I've seen Gray. Our lives are busy. We live on opposite coasts. There is more than enough to explain why I was really looking forward to our planned interactions. And there was more than enough reason for me to slip into the bathroom, or hide in my car, and cry. But I didn't.

Instead, I sought out kinky fun from those around me. I enjoyed my time, enjoyed the party. And with a helpful reminder from Murphy, I acknowledged that though I was mistaken about the date of the class, I still had a promise to demo bottom for Gray.

So, yeah. Even with the confusion and resulting hurt, I found a way to make myself have a good night.

[pats self on back]

"What's on your mind?"
"Am I famous or infamous?"
"No, you're popular."

I decided to dress up tonight, literally. I put on an actual dress, and my boots of course, puffed up my hair, and headed out to Happy Hour feeling like the shit.

Upon arrival I was greeted by Big Sis, who remarked on how good I looked. Apparently she, and many others in attendance, had never seen me in a dress. Cargos, yes. Jeans, yes. Dress, no. I informed Amethyst I would be repeating my look, as well as other girlie outfits, at Winter Fire.

ManKraken! came over and embraced me. We held each other tight, the first time we'd been face-to-face in weeks. Later I promised I would find time to play with him at the upcoming event. (I cannot tell you how happy I am that there will be a 24hr Dungeon in one of the hotels; I will most definitely make use of it.)

At 7:45pm, after my quick dinner and much good conversation, I departed. I needed to pick up a Murphy & a Slut. About 45mins later I returned, cool people in tow.

I bought my first drink of the night, a Blue Thing. Created by my usual bartender two weeks ago, it is a mix of Stoli Blueberry, Blueberry Curacao, a splash of OJ, a splash of Sprite, and a splash of a third clear liquid from the fountain gun, probably soda water. Above all else, it is delicious, despite the fact that it looks like I'm drinking Windex as one friend informed me last week.

I mixed and mingled for thirty minutes before my meeting. All of Rhythm Section was in attendance. We talked about playlists, assignments, plans, and our many different musical tastes swirled together well. Thankfully, since we had the meeting out on the smoking ledge, in the cold, it was over in 23mins.

I returned to my mingling. I tried to keep up with an Ayn Rand conversation between a few folks, which included ArrogantSlut, but having never read any of the fiction discussed, I merely smiled, nodded, and hoped a subject I could contribute to was close at hand. Thankfully this happened when ArrogantSlut began to talk to me about impact, domination, and emotional reactions.

Both he and I were pulled onto the smoking ledge when ManKraken!, Slut, Murphy, & Celeste wanted to watch the latest Epic Rap Battle of History. When I learned ArrogantSlut had never seen any of them, I made it a point to remedy his predicament.

Since we were on the smoking ledge, he asked me if it was okay for him to take part. I gave my approval. He pulled out his pipe and pouch of tobacco. This brought a smile to my face. The conversation naturally shifted to me explaining cigar play.

Somehow we ended up alone on the ledge. I told him about all the lovely things I'd done and experienced when it came to cigars. He seemed intrigued.

Now that it was quiet, we went back to YouTube on my phone. I showed him three different battles. He seemed to enjoy them.

We returned inside. I placed my coat back by my bag. As I turned around, I noticed PenBeatSword was engaged in conversation with a circle of friends. He informed me he was about to leave. We both regretted not being able to talk some. I inquired about his phone number, since the best way at the upcoming event for me to schedule play time with folks would be through text. We exchanged information.

He then asked me for a moment in the closet. LadyAisha served as our lookout.

My butt rested on the ice machine, my hands by my side. He came in close and kissed me. Softly, slowly, we let our lips and tongues play. I heard the click of his knife opening. He danced it across my exposed skin: my chest, my cleavage, my neck. He reached into the top of my dress, pulled the fabric away, and glided the blade across my breasts.

Grasping me, he turned my body around. He leaned in, my ass against his hips. I ground back against him. He bit my neck. I gasped with delight.

I took his hand and guided it down, under the skirt of my dress, through the missing crotch in my tights. His fingers flicked at my clit. My breathing grew heavier. I felt the warmth growing. I asked permission to cum. He granted it. Later he texted me, saying he quite enjoyed that part of our interaction. After I came, he rose his fingers to my lips and I sucked away my juices.

Aisha called out the warning. We exited the closet. Time well spent.

I got another Blue Thing. I joined ArrogantSlut's conversation with a lovely gentleman. We spoke of family, gender, sexuality, and a person's ability to judge character. We each embraced before we needed to depart.

The night had grown long. The crowd had filtered to almost nothing. With a ManKraken!, Murphy, and Slut in tow, after a quick stop for salt and carbs, we made our way to our resting spots for the night.

Playing the Game

2012-02-02T00:42:00.000-05:00

We stood under the lights in a back alley, talking. Once again, I was in my dress blacks. Once again, we played pool and drank. This time he won, 3-2. The encounter did not last our normal length; he had to go to work early tomorrow morning, and technically I was still on the clock. Just three hours for tonight's interactions.

I attempted to take a photo of him. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get a shot that wasn't blurred or looked good. For such an attractive person, he is really hard to photograph. Of course there is the fact that he enjoys my struggle at getting the shot. Everything is a game.

He commented that a dark corner across the street behind some cars would be a good spot for us to fuck. I agreed it was an ideal location, as long as it was on the hood of one of the cars. He suggested doggy style. I didn't like the prospect of gravel on my hands and knees. He seemed confused. What he envisioned was more bending me over and my resting my hands on the hood. I explained I viewed this as hitting it from the back, not doggy style.

He asked why I wanted to take a photo of him. I said to attach it to his contact info in my phone. To... He interjected as I was about to give the real answer. I gave it after his interruption. It was an obvious answer. I still don't have a good picture of him.

He mentioned how I often, casually, slip into our conversations the fact that I find him highly attractive. It hadn't occurred to me til he said it how often I've mentioned his looks. I guess it's because I'm not used to someone as handsome as he having an interest in me. I made a mental note to try to break that habit.

I asked him what he thought my over-under was. How long did he think I would last? He said I was already done. I didn't understand his logic. He said I had already gone past the point where I'd be mad if I fucked him, therefore it was just a matter of time. He said it was a pity my submissiveness kept me from having what it was obvious I wanted.

I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, popped my hip, and prepared to tell him the truth. I told him what I thought I never would. It wasn't that I didn't want to fuck him; that much was completely obvious. It was that I was not going to ever ask for it. I wanted him to take it. I wanted him to grab me by my hair, drag me to that dark spot behind the cars, and fuck me til I screamed and beyond that. I wanted him to take it; I was not going to give it.

He made the point that this put all the power in his hands. This made it his decision. He had to want to fuck me. He asked me when I thought he would want to fuck me. I told him never. He thought this was sad. I explained my logic.

He enjoys tension. He enjoys the build up. We have these both in leaps and bounds. I can't foresee him releasing when he enjoys the suspense so.

He disagreed. He said he would fuck me when I needed it. When my desire to fuck him outweighed my enjoyment of our game, then it would happen. I pointed out there was a flaw in his logic. There is a vast difference between need and want. Also, either way, I could fulfill my desire by seeking out another.

He noted this was a possibility. But, more than likely, it will happen, sooner or later. Either I'll beg for it or he'll want it enough that he'll just take it. He supposed it would happen randomly.

I noted the two possible outcomes: my begging or his taking. I then inquired if I begged, did that mean he won? And if he took, did that mean I won? He found my conclusions to be too rigid. He assured me, when it happened, it would be obvious who was the victor.

Distraction

2012-01-31T23:35:00.002-05:00

I knew I only had a 50-50 shot of seeing the Gent. I knew I didn't want to wait around at home only to be let down by his inability to have me over. I knew I needed a distraction.

I ventured out to a kinky happy hour tonight. I dressed cuter than normal, just in case luck was on my side. I smelled good, looked good, and was in a generally good mood, but this was at the beginning of the night when I still held out hope.

As the evening wore on, my mood slowly dipped down. As the minutes passed, it seemed less and less likely that he would be free tonight.

I distracted myself with limes, booze, and friends. I spoke with a gorgeous couple, ArrogantSlut and WantAWhip. The subject of rope came up. I had just so happened to bring some; granted it was in hopes of using it on another, but being prepared for one eventuality can occasionally aid you in another endeavour.

We found a spot to tie, but did not start. It turned out they were about to teach a class on basic rope, a class I felt I did not need. Rain check for later in the evening.

I found myself at the bar. I slowly sipped my drink. I feasted on the limes of my friends. I realized my night was not going to work out as I had hoped.

I sent the Gent two photos over text. He responded. We chatted. He confirmed my assumption.

With the class ended, the lovely couple returned. It was time to cash in the chit. We again found a corner. I decided to be lazy. He sat in front of me as I tied.

I wanted to be playful, try something new. I had strict parameters: tying only. No beating (punching, slapping, kneeing, etc), as I had hoped. For some reason I didn't dare ask about kissing or massaging. To me, since one set of intimate acts was off limits, I didn't bother to inquire about any other.

I focused on my tying. On skin-to-skin contact. On cinching the rope tight. On having my body near his when possible. On the beauty of the forms. On the playfulness of my practice.

For a few fleeting moments, I was happy-bubbly-giggly. For a while, I was pleased I'd come to happy hour. For a bit, I wasn't disappointed.

We might be able to squeeze in a dinner tomorrow, but more than likely I will not see him for at least a week. Total suckage.

But I made new friends. I tied up a very cute muscular boy. And I have an open invitation to do it again. I'd call that winning.

Ropey Fun Time

2012-01-31T01:48:00.000-05:00

Most of the time we talked. We geeked out over rope. We ate grocery store sushi. I put in an order for a natural fiber kit. We enjoyed each other's company. Most of the time was filled with words.

But part of the night was more action than notions, more feel than say.

I was in rope first. N3rddom tied me while Nomad and KnownUnknown watched and chatted. I let myself get lost in the constriction, his constant push-pull, his control of my body. I brushed my hands as best I could against his stomach, against his leg, as he tied. He always had his body against mine. He spanked my ass. I squealed a little. My head became swimmy. The feeling was delicious.

Next I tied Nomad. She was in the mood for whimsy. I was in the mood to inflict pain. I experimented with a tie I'd seen recently. I trapped her arms, secured her chest to a hard point, and took away one of her legs.

I immediately went for her free leg. She hopped around, trying to get away. When her free leg grew tired, I switched them up. N3rddom, more of a Sadist than I, attached nipples clamps and linked them to her ankle rope. She did not move much after that. He grabbed a Hitachi and she quietly came.

We removed the nipple clamps and ankle line, but I wasn't done. I punched, slapped, spanked, and kneed her more. She'd never had such treatment before, but found she liked it. I enjoyed beating on her. I enjoyed the power, the control, the force of my will on her body.

Her skin turned red, especially on her thighs. I hugged her and caressed her hair as both N3rddom and I untied her.

We sat, chatted more. I grew sleepy. It was late and I'm suppose to wake up for work in six hours.

With the assistance of caffeinated mints (disgusting but effective), I safely made my way home from a fun Monday night.

Freaked

2012-01-30T00:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight, as I sat with SkinnyBitch on our couch, chatting about our weekends and life in general, the power went out. She was on my netbook, which gave her form a soft glow. I, however, was surrounded by darkness. I freaked, frantically trying to find the flashlight app on my iPhone. The power was back on in less than a minute. I silently cursed myself for not having my actual flashlight near me.

I am afraid of the dark. I think this is an obvious fact; if you have read some on my erotica, I'm sure you've noted a few of my characters share this trait. And though I know logically this is a part of me, I don't often acknowledge to myself how deep my fear goes.

I don't sleep in the dark. Ever. For most of my life I slept with a television on, a practice I learned from my mother. College forced me to change this habit, briefly, as my roommates did not appreciate the distraction as they slept. I used the sleep function on my computer to scroll photos, providing myself a light source at night that wasn't terribly inconvenient for all others involved. However, as soon as I got my own room, I again went back to leaving the television on throughout the evening.

As I've developed in my adult life, I've transitioned away from having a television in my room and adapted to just having some light source available as I sleep.

Music has also been a soothing balm to my fear. With a soft glow and random rock songs from the local station, I'm good to go each night.

My fear of the dark extends beyond just my sleep habits. Each night, when walking through the house, I keep myself in a cone of light. I transition from room to room, flipping switches as I go.

The hardest part of each evening is the half dozen steps from my bathroom to my bedroom. We don't leave the hallway light on, or any other lights in the house. I leave my door open, my destination a beacon for my trek.

I scurry rather quickly, trying not to be too loud, hoping the roommates don't notice I am running because of what is behind me or what might pop out beside me. I close my door quickly, locking out whatever monster might have almost snatched me tonight.

There have been exceptions to my fear. They always involved other people.

I've slept in the dark when someone is cuddled up next to me. Though my brain still ventured to it's scary place, it was easier to pull back to safer sane imaginings with another's flesh anchoring me to my present. When venturing down dark halls, if I am surrounded by people they provide a natural human shield. And since I sometimes work in theatre, I have acclimated myself to surviving occasional blackouts.

Eventually I want to play with my fear. I know, of all the things someone could do to me, this would be the biggest mindfuck possible. But I also know it would require an extremely high level of trust and understanding. This is very much a long term project.

So, what are you afraid of?

Good Night

2012-01-29T02:52:00.000-05:00

"Will you suspend me?"
"Sure."

My night started slow; I had arrived early for the play party. I wore my red teddy, black tights, and my black heals. My teddy had not experienced enough play in my opinion, and I felt in a flirty mood.

I initially talked to my friends, and contemplated what trouble I would get into. As more of my compatriots arrived, the party filled.

This was a two night event, coinciding with a convention taking part in the area, but I didn't know that at the time. As the night went on, and more and more younger folk arrived, I learned this evening was geared towards the under twenty-four crowd. The next night would only be open to attendees at or above that age.

My first play of the evening kept me sore all night. I'd seen Jx

Since Jx was not into rope, cigars, and their boots were purple, we decided on impact. I told them punching, kicking, scratching, kneeing, and hair pulling were all welcome. I completely disrobed and we began.

Jx started by punching my right arm, transitioned to my back, and circled around to my left arm. They punched my chest, lightly hit my stomach, and continued to circle my body, abusing it as they saw fit. They kneed my rump, threw their forearm into my body, kicked into me; I rocked forward with their blows.

I began to cry. Jx checked in. I had forgotten to tell them this was a good thing. Crying in my play means you are doing it right. When I sob and wail, it is a catharsis. I take the pain in and breathe it out in my cries. Jx was very good at what they did.

They asked me how I would safeword. I tearily explained I used body language, crouching away from them if I needed a moment. I always do this in my play, in fact. If needed, I take a second or a moment to regain myself and then come back. If it becomes to much, I just don't present my body for them anymore.

Jx gripped my hair and pulled my head back. They slapped my cheeks, one and then the other, over and over, stingy pain shooting through my skin. They slapped my lips, a feeling I had yet to experience. I couldn't scream as they focused their fingertips over my mouth, muffling my cries.

Jx asked me to lie on the ground. They continued their blows, now using their booted feet. They reiterated that if it became too much, I should move away. They kicked, using their toe, again into my arms, my back, and now my thighs. They circled around again. They slapped my back with increasingly stingy blows. My cries soared into the floor. I let the feeling wash over me.

Finished, Jx complimented my ability to take a beating as they gently thumped my back. They massaged all over me, bringing my sobs down to normal breathing and my mind back out of my body and once again into the world.

I sat up on my knees, smiling. We examined Jx's work, seeing what bruises would soon appear. Jx was especially pleased at a boot imprint on my back, the lines of the tread visible on my skin.

We hugged. I was happy, warmed up for my night.

Rejoining my friends, I learned Jx and I had scared away some new folks. It seemed the crying didn't sit well with them.

Just then, I saw Lqqkout had arrived. I greeted him and offered him the ten cent tour of the space. I also mentioned my interest in playing with him that evening. We agreed to check back in with each other later.

Soon after, another friend arrived. AT and I greeted one another; I was happy he had made his way to the event. AT had newly arrived to town and I believe this was his first play party since settling in. We spoke for a bit before parting ways.

Randomly, I saw a new girl I had spoken to earlier in the night sitting on a futon in a corner. She had expressed an interest in rope, and I had encouraged her to speak to Amy Morgan who was installed under a hard point tying all those brave enough to ask. I sat next to the girl and inquired if she had had her time in rope yet. She had not.

Seeing her nerves, I offered to tie her myself. Relief filled her face; she agreed.

I scurried to my things, grabbed my rope bag, and returned. After a brief health talk, I decided I would tie her in a basic chest harness with her arms free. Then I would bind together her wrists and secured them up over her head and behind her back. With my work complete, she seemed to really enjoy the comfort of the binding. I let down her arms, but she kept the chest rope on for some time after.

After watching me tie the shy girl, another new girl approached me and asked for time in my ropes. Because she was more flexible than my first newbie bottom, I tied the second in a more constrictive harness. She enjoyed the experience as well.

A third girl also approached me; I tied her as well. Releasing my first bottom from her ropes, I used the strands to tie the third, who also opted to stay in the chest harness for a spell. My night was getting filled with lots of rope-y fun-ness.

"Will you suspend me?"

"Sure."

I'd completed all my ties by the futon couch in the corner of the playspace. For my time with AT, I needed a hard point. With all my rope secure and all the girls happy, AT and I made our way to a portable rig.

I secured my ring with my webbing and laid out my ropes. I asked AT my usual health questions; he was as fit and as tough as an ox. He took off his clothes, but I asked him to leave on his underwear, and his boots. I asked him what I was allowed to do. He said he had no restrictions. We began.

Working behind him, I bound his wrists and tied a tight chest harness around him. I pulled my excess rope through a carabiner, looped through his harness, and secured him to my ring. I then bent down and tied a cuff around his booted ankle. Asking him to bend his knee, I lifted the rope to another carabiner. I pulled his leg up, up, up, and tied off. I left his other leg free. Happy with my work, I moved in front of him.

I was in a playful mood and I could do whatever I wanted to AT. I wanted to punch him. I went after his thigh, abusing his one leg on the floor. I challenged his ability to stay standing. His thigh was all muscle. He smiled, confessing he was a cyclist. I liked punching and slapping the firm flesh all the same. It was the slapping that especially bothered him, causing his initial faltering.

I moved on to his rear. I punched one side of his ass while I spanked the other. I slapped his back, issuing hard stingy blows. He moved this way and that, trying to keep his balance, but he couldn't get away. When he could, he leaned into me, attempting to disrupt my hits. This didn't deter me.

All the while, as I'm abusing him and he's trying to evade me, neither of us can stop laughing. I'm giggling and laughing and beating on my friend as he's spinning and swaying and laughing with me. I'm up over his back. I'm down on my knees. I'm kneeing his ass. I'm spanking him. I'm tickling him. And we laugh and laugh and laugh.

AT is a pale man. Where my blows landed had turned his flesh a lipstick red. We both marveled at the effect. I scratched his back, and then wondered if I could scratch my initials into him. With what little nails I had, I scratched " P D ~ " onto his skin. It raised up nicely.

Both of us happy and out of breath, I lowered his leg, released his wrists, and freed him from my binds. We smiled. We hugged. Our scene was awesome.

AT now had another request; he wanted to flog me. We searched around for toys, but all had seemed to have vanished.

Instead we settled on watching Amy Morgan and Lqqkout play. I sat on the floor while AT rested in a chair. I leaned against his leg and looked on at the fantastic rope work before me.

AT lightly brushed his hand over my arm. I nuzzled my head into his leg, showing both my enjoyment in the small sign of affection and my giving back positive energy to him. As he read my interest into his gesture, his hand traveled across the back of my neck. I leaned into his fingers.

Going further, AT gripped down hard on my flesh. He massaged the knots in the top of my back. He kneaded away my worries about work, about money. Leaning forward, I dropped into his easing and found comfort in his efforts.

Finished with his caresses, I again leaned against AT's leg and went back to watching Lqqkout and Amy.

As I took in the scene, a beautiful girl approached AT and asked for a back rub as well. I leaned forward, giving him ample ease to work on the girl. After he completed his work, AT remarked how good it felt to have two beautiful women at his knees. This made me smile. I again leaned my head against his knee and his hand found my arm once more.

As Lqqkout and Amy's scene came to an end, so too did the event. Though the playspace was not scheduled to close until 2am, by 1:30am almost everyone was gone. I quietly slipped away, checking in on my friends. Later I came back, gave a hug goodbye to Lqqkout, and secured an IOU for future play.

Driving home, sleepy and tired, I smiled while recounting my night. I could feel the bruises from Jx rising. I could feel the warmth from AT's massage on my back. I thrilled in remembering the fun time I had giggling as I abused AT's body. It was a good night.

The Boy and The Man

2012-01-28T11:27:00.000-05:00

It was Sunday, cleaning day. If the boy did nothing else today, he had to clean. His life was so hectic, so full, that the boy put aside one day a week for normal adult activities. He would check all his mail, buy groceries for the week, and he would clean.

His grubby studio apartment wasn't much to look at, but it was enough for him. Between work, school, and his social life, he barely saw it anyway. His apartment served as the room where he collapsed each night, woke up, showered, and left in the morning.

The boy, however, didn't want to live in squalor. His first few months of his senior year had taught him well. Take out containers, cardboard pizza boxes, soda cans, and the few dishes he did use piled up in his kitchen. At one point, the boy realized there was a swarm of flies throughout his apartment and he couldn't see any part of the kitchen counter. And thus Sunday became his maintenance day.

But, more than that, it also became his personal day. No homework. No friends' issues. No complaining customers. He had grown to love his Sundays, even if they were full of things to do. Everything the boy accomplished made his life better.

This Sunday had gone well. He breezed through the mail, setting aside the paper for recycling. Grocery shopping had been relatively good. Since he'd gone fairly early, the usual crowd was not as bad as in weeks past. All that was left was the actual cleaning.

He'd started with the kitchen, which he hated the most. Memories of the first offending insects always had him worried a new pest would show. When all the containers were thrown out and the dishes in the dishwasher, he gathered up the trash and recycling, walked them down the hall, and stuffed it all down the cavernous shoots in the dirty closet.

Last was laundry. Sliding his hamper, he gathered up his clothes, flung this way and that, memories from his past week flooding his mind. He reached for a blue tank top hanging on the metal arm of his futon couch. Wondering if it needed a spin in the wash, because this one seemed mostly clean to him, he brought the cloth to his nose. Inhaling, his body tumbled back to Thursday night, the semi-crowded bar, and the man.

The man was older, much older, to the point where the boy wondered why he found the gentleman attractive at all. The boy usually went for guys around his age, guys who still drank, and occasionally did blow, and would suck his cock in the back alley as casually as shaking hands. But there was something about this man that captured the boy.

The boy had been leaning against the wall, drink in hand, sipping and spying the meat of the night. He was waiting to see who would prowl him. Instead, he set his sights on the man.

The boy hadn't seen him walk in, hadn't noticed him sit at the end of bar, didn't know if he was a regular or a visitor. When he saw the man, quietly staring at him, his breath caught in his throat.

It wasn't a mean or menacing look. It wasn't questioning or calculating. Instead, it felt like the boy had no clothes on. It felt like the man saw right through his skinny jeans and blue tank top. It felt like the man saw him, saw him and wanted him. And, it that moment, the boy wanted the man as well.

He took a breath, swallowed the last of his drink, and began the long walk to the other side of the room. There was no break in the man's stare, no moment where the boy didn't feel his eyes always burrowing into him.

When he finally reached the man, the boy sat next to him, and simply, boldly, asked, "Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Do you live close?" The idea of the boy bringing this man back to his cluttered apartment was beyond horrifying.

"No. Your place?"

"Downtown. Are you in the mood for an adventure?" The boy was in the mood for whatever the man wanted.

A fifteen minute cab ride, a long trip up an elevator, and about five lifetimes worth of sexual tension later, the boy sat on the nicest couch he'd even seen in the nicest apartment he'd ever seen in a building he could only hope to work in, let alone ever live in.

But now, he didn't know what to do. The man had disappeared, leaving him in the living room with a glass of water and a life's worth of acquired objects to peruse. But the boy didn't want to look at art or trinkets. He wanted the man, just the man.

When his anxiety almost had him running out the door, his bent head shot up from the shock of the man's voice.

"Why are your clothes still on?"

The man had reappeared wearing only a robe. The boy quickly riped off his clothes, the man always watching. When it came to his underwear, however, the boy suddenly felt shy, an emotion that had not crossed his mind since grade school.

The man must have seen his apprehension; he approached the boy, lightly placed his hands on the boy's hips, and slowly slid the fabric down. Now on his knees and at eye level with the boy's cock, the young one felt a heat so powerful he thought it would consume him.

With a firm push, the boy sat back on the couch. A little shocked by the change, his eyes were already wide before the man surrounded his cock with his lips. The boy gasped, and his breathing grew heavy as the man sucked and sucked and sucked.

The boy's hands found the man's hair, softly caressing his head. The man, never missing a beat, continued to blow this boy like no one had before, while simultaneously grabbing the boy's wrists and pinning them to the sides of his thighs. The man's grip was strong, firm.

The man's strokes increased. He took the boy's cock down his throat with the ease of licking a lolly pop. The boy, having never had a blow job this good, found it hard to hold on.

"Fuck. Fuck. I'm coming."

The man stopped. He lifted his head and looked directly into the boy's eyes. The boy didn't understand what was going on. He was so close, so close to the biggest fucking orgasm he had ever had. What had happened?

"Did I...did I do something wrong?"

The man released his hold on the boy's wrists. He stood, towering over the boy sucked up by the couch.

The man dropped his robe. Once again the boy's eyes were wide. This man, whose age could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five, had the body of an Adonis: muscles, abs, clean shaven. It was as if the god himself had appeared before the boy. He didn't know what to say or do, but he knew he wanted more than anything for this beautiful body to be against his.

"Your orgasms are mine. I decide when you cum."

The boy didn't understand, yet he understood. The man was in control. The boy didn't care; whatever this man wanted he would give.

The man gripped the boy's hair. With his free hand, the man stroked his own mostly erect cock. The man then shoved the boy's mouth onto his cock, plunging deep into the boy's throat. The boy happily sucked on the man's dick, happily thrusted his head forward and back, happily took all of him into him. The man's cock was the biggest the boy had ever swallowed, but he had given enough blow jobs by nineteen to never have to worry about a gag reflex.

The man continued to grip the boy's hair, fucking the boy's face. The boy's hands rested on the man's hips, using the feel to help him time the man's strokes. As they grew faster, the boy quietly marveled at the muscles of the side of the man's ass.

As the boy's mouth grew sore, he wondered if he would be able to please the man, wondered if he could withstand the man's pounding the back of his throat much longer. His lips were stretched. His throat had begun to ache. Still, he didn't want his cock anywhere else.

Well, there was one place he wanted it, and he got his wish soon after the thought occurred.

The man abruptly pulled the boy's mouth off his cock. They were both breathing hard, though the man's huffs were nowhere near as loud or as desperate as the boy's. The man looked down, saw the boy was still hard, and gave the slightest of grins.

"Turn over." The boy put one knee on the couch while his opposite foot rested on the floor. He presented his ass to the man, high, open, willing, and ready for the man's cock. The boy heard the tear of the wrapper, but had no clue where the condom came from. After a moment, the boy felt the man's cold fingers on his asshole, spreading the lube and opening his hole up.

And then the boy felt the tip of the man's cock tracing the circle of his anus. His hips instinctively tilted up, trying to capture the head. He wanted so desperately to have the man's cock in him, but somehow the boy knew he was getting teased. The boy remembered the man's was in control. Still, he begged with his hips for the man to enter his ass, and eventually the man did.

The man without warning shoved deeply, deliciously into the boy, filled his ass with the cock the boy had just previously tasted. The boy loved the feel of this dick inside him. The man lingered there, fully in the boy, before he gave another powerful thrust. A pause and a third thrust followed.

The boy ached with the pleasure, ached with lust and passion, ached to be fucked hard. Again the man granted the boys silent wish. He began thrusting in a slow rhythm, gripping the boy's hips. Then his thrusts grew. And grew.

Until finally the man was slamming his cock into the boy, gripping and pulling the boy's hips onto his dick, riding the boy harder than he'd ever felt. The boy panted, pleaded, thanked the man for his fucking. He pushed back his ass. He gripped the couch, trying to keep from falling. His cock, still hard, pulsed with the beat of the man's cock forever pounding him. And the boy could feel it, could feel the orgasm rising.

"I...may I... may I cum? Fuck, may I cum?" The man continued to fuck the boy mercilessly.

"Please. Oh god please. Please may I cum?" The man gripped the boy's hair again, bringing the boy's ear up to the man's lips.

"You want to cum?" The boy heard the sinister tone in the man's voice, heard the control.

"Yes, please."

"You love my dick inside you, pounding you hard, fucking you senseless?"

"Yes, oh god yes. Please don't stop."

"Oh, I won't." With his free hand, the man reached down and gripped the boy's cock, stroking it now to the beat of his thrusts.

"Shit!"

"You are such a nelly bottom. You want your cock pulled and your ass fucked, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You love me filling you up, all the way full, don't you?"

"Yes! Please don't stop. Please."

"Cum."

The man pushed the boy's body back down and drove into the boy even harder than before. The power of the man's hips shoved the boy into the couch. All the while the man never stopped stroking the boy's cock.

The boy convulsed as he shot into the man's hand and gripped onto the man's dick with his ass. The man brought his hand full of cum to the boy's face and slathered it all over. The man stuck his fingers in the boy's mouth and the boy licked his own juices off the man's hands. The pure ecstasy of the moment washed over the boy, fucked better, harder than he had ever been fucked before. His body was on fire; the heat consumed him whole.

The man grunted loudly, his final few thrusts shifting the couch a bit. The boy guessed the man had cum too. After his last stroke, the man slowly pulled his cock out of the boy and wiped the last bits of the boy on the boy's sweaty ass.

As the boy laid on the couch, a panting sweaty ball, the man reached down, put his robe back on, and disappeared.

What could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes later, he reappeared. The boy had finally regained his normal breathing, but still felt the residual warmth of the fuck. But now what?

The man approached, staring at the boy.

"I called you a cab. Don't worry; the fare will be charged to me. He should be here in five minutes."

The man turned to leave the room again.

"Wait!" The boy didn't know what to say, what to do, but he knew he wanted to see the man again. Knew he could not have this be just one night. "Please, I don't want... I... When can I see you again?"

The man turned around, smiling. It was a warm grin, as if the boy's response was both pleasing and unexpected. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, the man pulled out a card. Printed on it was a phone number, no name.

"Call this number in two weeks. I can give you once a month, no more."

"But..."

"No more."

"Okay." He turned around and walked away.

Somehow the boy made it home. Somehow the boy got up the next day and made it to class. Somehow the boy suffered through work. In all of this he couldn't remember how he had done it. Friday was lost for him. His only thoughts, as he trudged through his day, were of the man.

And now, just a few days later, breathing in the luscious scent of the tank top, the boy's mind was right back to that fancy apartment, that engulfing couch, and the man's cock jammed deep inside him.

And before the boy realized what he was doing, his hand was already down his pants, stroking his cock, as he sat on his futon, sniffing his shirt, remembering his Thursday, and looking forward to his next encounter with the man.

Story Told

2012-01-27T01:13:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday night I attended Bare, a storytelling event held at the Black Cat in DC. Part of the evening included picking a name at random from the "Bare pussy," cocktail napkins submitted by the willing. My name was in the pussy, but it was not pulled.

Ever since, I've had the story I wanted to tell stuck in my head, begging to be freed. So, for your listening pleasure, the following is a link to the audio file of me talking about my first night at my first kink event, Dark Odyssey Summer Camp 2010.

My voice is raspy because it's almost 1am and I'm tired as fuck. Still, I just had to get this out of me.

Story Told

Freedom

2012-01-25T22:58:00.000-05:00

Recently I was offered a full time job with a company I like. The work would've been nothing difficult and it would've paid me more than I made in all of 2010 by about five thousand dollars. I turned it down.

For nearly the whole of my professional life, I have worked as a freelancer. I've spent six years in an industry that often chews people up and spits them out. I'm getting to the age where one of three things happen:

1- You accept the fact that you will always be a grunt and just work more to earn more.
2- You get a full time job in another line of work and walk away with the many stories from your days as a freelancer.
3- You move up, advance, or find some other position with a company that does not work your body as hard.

Recently I spoke about how I now have to deal with the challenges of leading more for certain companies. In my industry, I've kind of made it. I believe I made quite a bit more this year than last year, though I'm still waiting on my multiple W-2s to confirm this.

Taking this job would have been smart. It would have been guaranteed work with a set schedule. No surprises, no slow seasons. Just ten hours a day five days a week, 10-99 (no taxes taken out). But I didn't.

The reason why my life is so brilliant currently is the same reason why I couldn't take that job: freedom.

I choose my schedule. Granted it is dependent upon me finding work for the days in which I wish to get paid, but that comes down to hustling. When I want to take a day off, I just say I can't work it. If my friends plan something and I get enough notice ahead of time, I will cancel a gig. I've canceled with every company I currently work for and they still call me back.

Why? Because I'm good at what I do. I show up on time (if not early). I come with not only a degree, but the knowledge I've built up in my six years of experience. Six years of dealing with bullshit. Pushing through when all I want to do is sleep. Being a bleeding heart liberal black woman who still works well with misogynists and nepotists and racists and conservatives.

They trust me enough to toss me keys, tell me the warehouses to visit, pick up their gear, and bring it back. They trust me enough to send me out with a truck full of equipment, a basic idea of what the client wants, a crew of 1-3 people, and belief in my ability to load in, watch over, and break down a show.

With my kink life soaring, with my new found status of social butterfly, I could not accept that job. I already paid for multiple events. I already planned out parts of my year. I set goals. I know what I want for the next eleven months. A full time job was not it.

Just last year I thought I was going to get a stable and secure position in an all together different industry. I submitted an application, along with an extensive resume that included my job history all the way back to college. I interviewed, twice. I went through drug testing. I thought I had it in the bag. Then came a curve ball, and it was over.

And ever since, I've been so happy that it didn't work out. In the allure of the stability, I forgot how much I love my freedom, love that I can lead the life I now have. Love that I can be me without hiding, without (too much) judgement. Love that my life is how I shape it, not fitting into a monotonous mold.

So no full time stable job for me, at least not in 2012. 2013...? Let's see how the next eleven months go.

Bare It All

2012-01-25T03:14:00.000-05:00

I was nervous. Speaker after speaker stepped up to the mic and recounted story after amazing story. One man spoke about his first ever visit to a bathhouse in Ireland. Another recounted his brief but wondrous life as a child porn star. A beautiful woman spoke about finding love when she least expected it. A gentleman spun the tale of his first trip to Amsterdam. And a man with a wonderful accent told us about his first ever kink event, and why you should always take the Monday after off.

All of this, plus the opening act, a musical performance by Kimi Lundie, was awesome. At one point my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so hard. I had a great time.

But there was one moment where I held my breath. I had put my name in the "bare pussy" for the opportunity to step up to the mic and tell a story.

I knew which tale I would spin: the first night of my very first kink event. I outlined the story previously today, twice, just in case I got lucky. The person picked would get seven minutes to speak. I wanted, oh how I wanted my name to be pulled.

I was the first to submit my name. Unfortunately I was not the last. There were about five names in the bag when Jefferson pulled out a name, not my name. Instead Marcus, his friend, told the story of the first time his chest was shaved. For the vanillas in the audience, it seemed tame enough. As a kinkster, with his talk of cigars and submission along with the shaving, it was full of sexy hotness to me.

I was disappointed my name didn't get picked, but that is pretty much the norm for me in these situations. I very rarely have good luck when it comes to random drawings. Instead, I focused on the show, and enjoyed every minute of it.

The gathering was a resounding hit. The line for the Black Cat was long. The show sold out. People were literally turned away. I look forward to the next installment, which hopefully will be each month. We'll see.

After the show, people mingled in the bar, chatting and laughing. I greeted Jefferson and BLP, met Marcus and Kimi Lundie, as well as other speakers, and had a generally good time. When we all realized we were hungry, a group of about nine of us made our way to Adams Morgan and late night falafels turned out to be just right.

Nourished and tired, the NYC crew were to crash with Marcus at his home. After a quick car and luggage shuffle, and multiple goodbyes, our night had ended at 2am, but not before I secured a Winter Fire get together with Jefferson.

All-in-all, a pretty fucking fantastic night.

[Many thanks to MaryLeo, without whom my cash starved ass would not have made it into the show. I owe her about three drinks, to be paid over the next few Happy Hours, fair trade for such good memories.]

Be Honest

2012-01-23T22:40:00.000-05:00

* You want me to be honest?

- Yes. And no bullshit. The word 'rejection' better not cross your lips.

* Hmm... Well, beyond rejection. Beyond failure. Beyond loneliness and heartache, the usuals.

- Yes.

* The thing I fear the most is... the dark.

- The dark?

* The dark.

- Really?

* Yes. In case the power goes out, I keep a flashlight right beside my bed. It's one of those crank ones, so it never runs out of battery. And before you ask, yes, I do sleep with a night light.

- A night light?

* I strung up some Christmas lights in my bedroom. They're plugged into the outlet controlled by the wall switch. It's diffuse, soft; I'm lulled in the dim glow each night. I used to have them strung up all over my apartment, but slowly they burnt out. So now just in my bedroom, the place I need them the most.

- Why the dark?

* Because. Because I don't know what's in it. Because I don't want to know what's in it. Because I don't know what waits for me there. Because I can't see, can't defend myself. Because I can't even run away; what if I'm running right to it, the monster in the dark? Is it right behind me? Right beside me? It's the most basic, most base, most gut churning "this must stop" fear I have.

- [short pause] Wasn't expecting that. Different.

* I'm special. So what's yours?

- Excuse me?

* What's your greatest fear?

- No no, we're talking about you tonight.

* And why is that?

- This is the getting to know you phase, so I'm getting to know you. What's the happiest day of your life?

* [pause] I don't know.

- Pick a day, above all days, that means the most to you.

* I can't. I just can't.

- Pick one.

* I can't. [pause] Everyday, everyday I can think of, everyday I'm suppose to love is marred by a moment of hurt. I can't pick a day; I haven't had my happiest day yet.

- Okay, then pick a moment. A single moment of happiness.

* [grins, shakes head] No, I don't want to pick that one.

- What one?

* It's too...no.

- Just say it.

* No.

- Say it.

* Fine. [sighs] It was a night with my Ex. We sat on the back patio of our apartment. It was a cool summer evening. Cool, but not cold. Almost perfect. He sat sipping his bourbon. I sipped on a beer. My legs were draped over his lap. He lazily rubbed my thighs. I slumped back and closed my eyes while he looked out on the parking lot watching the last bits of sunlight fade away. We had just had some really great sex, I mean really great sex, after arguing half the day, I don't remember about what. It was that moment that I thought, Yeah, this is it. This is what I want. Of course that turned out to be bullshit. I was high off the two hours of wild fucking and had no idea we would break up in about a month. But right there, right then, I, we were good. So what's the happiest day of your life?

- [huffs a laugh] Nice try.

More Important

2012-01-23T07:16:00.000-05:00

Hanging out with the roommates and their kids was more important than writing. I had spent a little time with the kids before work on Saturday, and had opted to fill my unexpectedly free Saturday night with adult activities. I wanted to spend time with them and the roommates. I wanted to hear their stories and see them laugh and watch their creativity at work. It was a fun morning before they had to go back to their other home.

A hot shower and masturbation were more important than writing. After the roommates and the kids departed, I slipped into a general funk. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my day. I knew the things I should do, the errands I should run. I knew I wanted to see the best friend, but she wasn't free. I slowly made my way home with a responsible adult plan of action.

But, as soon as I walked in the door, a fundamental fact hit me: I was alone in the house. My other roommate was gone.

The warmth in my abdomen had not subsided since my Friday date with the Gent. If anything, it ebbed and flowed, but seemed to be making it's way higher and higher up the hill of my arousal.

I took a hot fun shower. I danced to my music, singing a little. I washed my hair. I enjoyed the smell of my soap, cleaning off the last few days of scents. At the end, I let the scolding water thump against my back, trying to knead some of the knots out. I made a mental note to sketch the view I had of my folded arms accentuating my cleavage.

Drying off, I remembered I needed to clean my sex toys. The quick chore completed, I prepped my netbook to watch some of the porn N3rddom gave me. I slipped in my WeVibe. I never logged onto my netbook.

My body was in such a state of arousal that even on its low setting the WeVibe quickly raised me to the edge of orgasm. I closed my netbook and began writhing on my bed. The masturbation music for this session was only two songs: "Tell Me A Secret" by Ludacris & Neyo and "Hey Daddy" by Usher. I repeated the first song over and over, with the second getting the last few minutes of fun.

I inserted my blue dildo. I fucked myself, screaming as much and as loud as I wanted. My black dildo, my Lelo vibrator, and then "the lawnmower" followed. I screamed, thanking my Daddy wherever he is, and came over and over again.

Watching football with my brother was more important than writing. I hadn't seen my brother in almost a month even though he lives less than thirty minutes from me. I texted him before my shower, making sure he intended to view the game. He confirmed, and I headed over there after I made myself stop masturbating.

Pollard's assist to Smith's interception. Pitta's TD catch. I don't remember who, but the dive for a TD, football in his outstretched right hand, and the face mask of a defender trying to tackle him in the other. And then Billy Cundiff's missed kick. All I could do was shake my head to that.

Running errands was more important than writing. After I left my brother's place, I swung by Barnes & Noble to return a book. I looked for a new daily planner, and for some odd reason they were out. I went to the grocery store and bought food for my lunches for work for the week. I came home and prepped the food. I folded clothes. I turned on my laptop and it actually booted up. I backed up everything onto my portable hard drive. I put my poster back in the Family Room.

Watching the end of the other football game with DeepEnd was more important than writing. It was getting late and I knew I still needed to blog, but I was hungry. I slipped downstairs for some food. DeepEnd had turned on the living room television, the only TV in the house with a converter box, and was watching the end of the game. I threw some food on a plate, heated it up, and joined him.

The game lasted for fucking ever. Overtime. Multiple opportunities for each team to score. And, of course, the team I rooted for lost.

Processing my emotions was more important than writing. I opened up my netbook, brought up WordPad, and started typing. The words that came were not a blog entry. They were the mind dump I'd been putting off for most of the day. They were my worries, my pain. They were not meant to be read by anyone but me. I didn't cry, but I came close.

I let myself acknowledge my pain and all its causes. I read back what I wrote. I saved the file, closed my netbook, and laid back under the covers.

It was 11pm. I knew I could wake myself up early to try to write. I set my alarm for 6 and 6:30am. I laid down, then remembered to turn on my radio. With music lowly playing, I drifted to sleep.

6.25hrs

2012-01-22T03:03:00.001-05:00

My throat is sore.

My good karma must currently be off the charts. By some miracle, my work for this Saturday shrunk, and I found myself with a night off which I spent with the Gent at his place.

I arrived at 7pm. At 1am, he said it was time for me to go, explicitly waiting (without telling me) for an extra fifteen minutes because he dislikes my quarter hour distinctions. I then pointed out the flaw in his plan: I was naked and also needed to pack a few things. He dropped me off at my car at 1:15am, quarter hour added anyway.

I had his cock in my mouth tonight. It was delightful. He pushed me, trying to get me to deep throat him, softly encouraging my efforts. I sunk him in further than I had anyone else to date. I want to learn to deep throat, or, more accurately, I want to be able to control my gag reflex. I want to decide when and if I gag. I'm sure I'll be getting plenty of practice from my friends in the near future.

Only once during the night did I feel my dominance really manifest. I'm not sure how long I worked on his cock, but at a certain point he stopped me and got me to instead go back to working on his chest. I had previously kissed, caressed, and lightly bite his nipples.

However, after his request for me to scratch him while I worked on his cock, I took the leap that he liked pain. I bit, hard, and gripped the muscles of his back, sinking in my finger nails. This seemed to do the trick. He began biting my neck, jerking himself harder, and he soon came.

I was very submissive tonight, spending most of my time in some manner of undress and often the person initiating physical contact. He intentionally did not touch me til he saw fit to start playing.

One memorable moment was towards the beginning. He wanted me to masturbate to a cum. If you read some of my previous blogs, you will learn this is difficult for me. I often need 'assistance', either in the form of someone else's hand or something plugged into a wall. He was insistent. He felt I could do it. Hearing him say this got me hornier.

I was slow to start. He, of course, wanted to watch. He had me lie so he could see my hands at work. I asked if he was allowed to help me. He said he wouldn't touch me. That wasn't the kind of help I had in mind.

His voice is sexy. I can't nail down the specific quality, other than to say it isn't about bass or tone, but more the attitude. His quiet confidence comes across even in his speech.

I asked him to not stop talking; it didn't matter what he spoke about. I actually can't remember what he spoke about as I fingered my clit. By the time I finally reached my hand down, after having switched my hips for some minutes and listening to him, I was beyond wet. We, thankfully, had set a towel down on his sofa as a precaution.

As I began to masturbate, with his voice in my ear, I knew it would not be long before I asked for permission. He, however, made me wait; he wanted me to suffer a little. When he finally gave his consent, I thanked him and yelled my usual obscenities as my body rolled around on his couch. I loved doing this for him, cuming for him.

I came for him many more times tonight. Twice more as I fingered myself. About a half dozen times while bent over his couch, his fingers in my pussy, his free hand spanking me. And a few rolling orgasms as I gave him head while he fingered me.

I was curious if I would have been able to cum just from his asking, whispering, commanding it into my ear. He believed I could've tonight; I was that turned on. But he wanted to wait. He wanted to make me cum with his voice when he wanted. For being a novice, he sometimes shocks me with his spot on answers.

We talked, a lot, again. I got the ten cent tour of his home, which is way cleaner than any home I've ever lived in. There was cold pizza, yoga demos, and a three minute meditation experiment.

His clothes didn't come off til right before his dick came out. I tried to kiss him all night; we still haven't. And his penis did not enter any of my orifices, save my mouth.

All-in-all, it was a randomly fun night.

Interesting

2012-01-21T03:10:00.005-05:00

He hates that word. Hates it probably as much as I hate the word 'nice'.

Tonight was my second date with "the Gent".

"You're dangerous; I'm loving it." - my text to him on the way home; 'Toxic' was the first song on my radio.
"Stop Texting. Drive safe. Good night Mrs. Desires."- his reply.

"I'm knee deep in training." - his text to a friend that I read over his shoulder.
"Am I training you or are you training me?" - my magical question for the evening. (His text was referring to his work.)

"Who do you care about? Your mother? Your father? Your ex?" - me
"Yes." - him, as he cleared off my car.
"Why?"
"Because I care about them more than they care about me."
"Good answer."

It was snowing. Not at the start of our date, but by the time I was driving home there was enough accumulation to make my trek take way longer than my bladder wanted to allow.

I really had to pee. "No one can top you like you can top yourself." - DeepEnd, while I panted and cursed during a recent workout.

I didn't stop driving til I got home, accept once at a shitty traffic light. The unrelenting pressure on my abdomen, coupled with my heightened state of arousal, made me cum. I cursed the light, and the Gent. I crept into my house as quietly as I could. I tried to not wake anyone. I hoped I succeeded.

My head, right now, is still swimmy from the alcohol and the orgasms. I came two times in the bar. As I rode his knee, I grabbed his coat, pulled his ear next to my lips, and told him, "You have to tell me to cum." I've been trained well.

I came about a half dozen more times on my ride home. I cursed him and adored him for the cruelty.

We're not going to fuck, but I want to fuck him. He pretends like he's in control. He pretends like he decides. Really, it keeps bouncing back and forth, like an endless tennis match. My dominance is passive aggressive. He likes the games we're playing.

"Are you a happy drunk? A horny drunk?" - him
"I'm happy, horny, handsy. All the positive drunk qualities." - me

I felt him up. My uninhibited self wanted to feel his arms, the solid muscle of his biceps that I'd been staring at all night. Wanted to rub his back. Wanted to grip his ass.

He dressed down for the occasion. I dressed up; I had work in a nice corporate office beforehand. Clingy cleavage top. Dress pants. My ankle high Timberland boots. A jacket. All of it matte black. Under my dress pants, I didn't wear underwear.

He paid for the first two rounds, the drinks we nursed while we played pool. I paid for the last two, the two rounds that each included a shot and a beer. I got us very...happy.

I love eye contact. Once as we talked, I grabbed his chin and turned his eyes towards me. He looked, for only a moment, and then turned away. I turned his face towards me again. And again. And again. I liked looking into his eyes, trying to guess what was going on in his brain.

I close my eyes when I play. I close my eyes when I cum. I let myself get lost in the sensations. The touch. The heat. My chest, my breathing. I soak it all in, fall into the chasm of my body, never wanting to come up for air.

He adverted his eyes as he bounced his knee against my clit, but I caught him, once, looking at me. I caught him seeing my ecstasy. I wondered what it would be like to see him cum. I wondered if he would later masturbate to my face as I rode his knee while we sat in the crowded bar, and I reveled in the delicious warmth that raced through my abdomen.

He was very poised, very matter-of-fact that I was writhing against his knee in such a public place. Very ho-hum about me wanting to cum for him. He was good at projecting his confidence.

"I want your cock in my mouth."

I was not going to fuck him tonight. Mother Nature, and my need to torture him, had sought fit to prevent that. But the idea of him filling my mouth did excite me, but only to the point of teasing him. I would not have given him enough to make him cum, though apparently that had never happened to him before. Not yet, that is. Plans...

I like this boy, this new adventure, this creature that pushes me, enthralls me, that makes it hard and yet so easy.

We played five games of pool tonight. I won, 3-2. More accurately, he lost two, I lost one, he won one, and I won one.

And we did it, again. Our first encounter lasted 6.5 hours. This one, 5.25 hours, with no movie as filler.

I wonder what he'll want to do next Friday.

Bio

2012-01-20T10:48:00.000-05:00

Recently I've had to try to emcompass all that I am as a person into one paragraph. I submitted a short story, "Daddy's Girl" to an erotic anthology (which will let me know if my work has been accepted some time in April).

I also used that paragraph as my staff bio for the upcoming Dark Odyssey event, Winter Fire, which will be occurring in our Nation's Capitol in February during the Presidents' Day weekend.

Now don't fret my dear readers. I am on the Setup and Breakdown crew for Winter Fire. I work before the event starts and after it has ended. I will still have all the time in the world to bite into the meat of the juicy happenings. In fact, I have a list of possible playdates all set, which I sure will translate into many many sexy stories for you to read.

But I digress...

I found it interesting when trying to boil down the vastness that is my life into fifty words (the limit for the anthology). There is just so much to one life that it felt like an impossible task. Obviously, since I sent in the story, I made it happen, but there is no way to fully describe a person in such a small number of words. For goodness sake, there is a whole genre of writing just concerning who people are/were. So, to condense twenty eight years into a paragraph...

For me, it seems almost impossible to describe any life in only fifty words, even a life that lasts for one breath.

Since my bio was for an erotic anthlogy (and a kinky convention), there were obvious things I cut out: any mention of my colorful family life, my job, my shoe size. And there were obvious things to highlight: the fact that I am an "aspiring writer" since I've only been published once, in the sixth grade; it was a limerick; I couldn't tell you where to find it now. I, of course, made mention of my kinks, but there was no way to include all of them; besides, my bio would have then looked more like a singles ad then trying to encapsulate me as a person.

I did the chessy thing, mentioning how people can follow me on Twitter or read my blog, but only for DO; my hard word limit for the anthology made that an impossibility.

Now wouldn't that be meta? Someone reading my bio from the Winter Fire booklet, coming to this blog, and then reading this entry about the bio they read in the booklet that got them here. And now I have a headache.

So, for your viewing pleasure, my bio from my erotic anthology entry. Feel free to give your critiques, or post your own. How would you describe your kinky self in fifty words?

poeticdesires is an aspiring writer who's been exploring kink since she graduated college in 2005, and has been highly active in the east coast kink community for the past year and a half. She is a polyamorous switch and pansexual slut whose kinks include rope, fisting, bootblacking, and cigars.

No Matter

2012-01-19T11:29:00.000-05:00

It was the slightest touch, imperceptable to anyone save the two of them, but it was enough to seal her fate. The electricity in that simple act was apparent, screaming in her every nerve. She loved him, therefore she was lost.

He didn't allow love, didn't want it, didn't need it. He sought discipline, order, obedience. And she gave all of these, asking little for herself. Her only wish, her only goal, was to please him. But now that she had broken his rule, that she had shifted in the slightest way, it was over.

There was love and their was submission. He allowed the deep affection of subjugation. He allowed the attachment, the wanting this position would naturally encourage. But he made it clear, very clear, that if her emotions grew beyond those previously negotiated, if she longed for more, she was not allowed to keep quiet. She was not allowed to push her emotions aside. She must, was required, to tell him.

As per their contract, she politely requested a meeting. He chose coffee at a shop he liked to frequent. Walking through the door, she knew which was his favorite spot: in the corner upstairs by the back windows, with a little table and two chairs, the only two chairs that matched in the entire shop. He would look out on the diplapidated parking lot, at the tall trees, at the cars and trucks and middle class houses, just sitting and thinking. She always wondered what he was thinking.

When she climbed the stairs, he was there, sipping his coffee. Her tea was steaming on the table in front of the chair next to his. She was grateful she didn't have to wait. No gut wrenching worry, no playing out of their conversation over and over til he appeared. To be fair, they both liked to arrive early, always, so his beating her should have been expected. But she was not in her usual state. She anticipated this would be a heart ripping goodbye.

She took off her coat, resting in on the back of her chair. She sat, sipped her tea carefully, and took a deep breath.

"I have fallen for you." He sat, sipping his coffee, looking out the window, no immediate change evident. She was grateful for the warmth of the mug in her hands. Indeed, it helped keep her hands from shaking.

"I asked for this meeting because you made it very clear when we first negotiated our contract that should my feelings ever develop beyond what we agreed to, I had to come to you immediately."

"When?"

"In the foyer at Stephanie's dinner party two nights ago. I got our coats, helped you with yours, and then put on mine. As I buttoned up, you so delicately brushed a strand of hair from my face. That's when I felt it. I kept my head tilted so that you wouldn't see my eyes, so that I wouldn't have to look into yours. I feared what would happen if you saw how I felt in that moment."

He took a long deep breath.

"Yes, I noted that interaction, not completely understanding why though. Not until now."

Her eyes began to water. Though she knew she could not have prevented the feelings, she felt she had let him down, the only man she wanted so desparately to please. But still her inner strength kept her from allowing her tears to fall. It was time to settle on their fates.

"Sir, as your contracted submissive, under the directives we set forth six months ago, I have to now ask you what you want to do."

He did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. She knew the look on his face. He was thinking, calculating. But what would he decide? He tilted his head back, finished his coffee, and set down the mug. Finally, he looked at her.

She did not recognize the glint in his eye, could not read his face as she had so many times before. This was something different. What was this look? If she had looked up that night in the foyer, she would have seen the same face that now stared at her.

He reached into his leather messenger bag, pulled out a manilla envelope, and place it on the table. She knew it contained their contract.

"Since the terms of our agreement no longer apply..." He pulled out the contract. "I wish to alter them."

Alter them? "Sir? You...you still wish to have me?"

"You thought I would not?"

"But I..."

"Your affections have grown. You came to me almost as soon as you knew. You have followed my instructions to the letter. Why would I release you?"

"I just thought..."

"Besides, you are not the only person whose feelings have...shifted." She quickly inhaled, but then held her breath, taking in the earthquake his statement caused in her. My Sir...he feels it too.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a long thin box. He placed it on the table and slid it to her. Setting down her tea, she slowly picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace with a lock charm. The delicate nature of the metal hid its weight, both in heaviness and meaning.

"Will you accept my offer to be my collared slave?"

"Sir...I..."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes Sir. Yes."

He stood, walked behind her, took the collar from the box, and placed it around her neck.

When did he...? How did he...? How long had he...?

Hearing the click of the lock on the back of her neck finally pushed one single tear from her eyes.

No matter.

Blind Spots

2012-01-18T10:57:00.000-05:00

FetFest memory

Every person, no matter how hot or sexy they are, has a blind spot. For me, it's women. I get incredibly nervous trying to flirt or be around women who I find incredibly attractive.

Women are complicated. They have all these emotions. You never know what's going on in their head. They, sometimes, can be a little crazy. And yes, I say all this with the acknowledgement that I am a girl. (Suck it.)

My nervousness can be avoided under a few select circumstances.

1- In the midst of our talking, they point out someone else to whom they are attracted. My brain then switches me into assistance mood. How can I help them in the conquest of this person?
My ease also holds true if they are currently partnered; my brain ignores the existence of poly for these women unless it comes up in conversation. I become the friend, which to me is better than no interaction at all, the only other option my brain sees as possible.

2- If, for some reason, I am overly confident or have nothing to loose, I'm put at ease. This often happens at events when I'm surrounded by friends and high off of a number of scenes or general interactions with folks. If someone has whispered into your ear how much they love eating you out, another battered and bruised you, and a third massaged your scalp til you are floating above cloud 9, it is easy to not care if the pretty girl likes you.

I have practiced and learned how to approach people who catch my eye. I intentionally push myself to be more extroverted. It is my natural state to sink into the background and just watch & listen. As a writer, this has been helpful for my stories. As a young slutty kinkster, I have to work against this inclination.

So...to the meat of it.

Going into FetFest, my biggest blind spot was eating pussy. I mentioned this to a few friends who ended up easing me into the experience.

Outside of Cabin 1/2, Gray sat smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey while hanging out with K2 and TwistedView. I walked over to the cabin after finishing Lochai's Bondage For Sex class. Seeing Gray, I asked if I could sit and place my head on his knee. He agreed, and I disrobed as per usual, using my clothes to sit on.

I relaxed there for about twenty to thirty minutes, just taking sometime to appreciate the moment. Going into Fet, I knew I would not see Gray or interact with him as much as at Rope Camp, so when the opportunity came up to just be next to him for a bit, I had to take it.

After my time by his knee, I knew I still needed to go about my day. In earlier conversations that day, Gray, Glenda from NCSF, and Lochai all seemed to be encouraging me to ponder running for IMsL. I was unsure about the prospect, but thought I should at least go find Sara Vibes, the current title holder, and ask her about it.

In getting ready to go, I happened to mention to Gray that I had not yet eaten pussy. Of all things, it was this that shocked him. I explained how I got nervous around girls.

And I mentioned the one time I almost did eat a lovely red head out, that is until the girl started violently puking up the alcohol she'd consumed and had to rush to the bathroom off and on for three straight hours. The ordeal was a little bit traumatic. So no, the experience hadn't happened yet.

Gray, ever the friend, pointed out my little predicament could be fixed. K2, who had walked inside for a moment, stepped back out. Gray turned to her and asked, quite simply, "Hey K2, do you want to have your pussy eaten?"

She gave her agreement and things just kind of happened from there. To hear the full audio of my experience, because awesome friends do awesome things for each other, here is the LINK to Graydancer's Ropecast episode featuring the recording he made at FetFest. It's the last segment, about two-thirds of the way in. Once again, thank you Gray.

So, with K2 in a camp chair, my hands gloved, K2's legs spread and tied down, and my "It doesn't have look pretty; I'm just trying to eat pussy" line enshrined on Twitter, it was time to begin.

I was nervous, very nervous, but I did have an ace in the hole, so to speak. On the drive down from New York, Murphy and I had had a long conversation about blind spots. His was fisting, which I helped him overcome later. Since mine was eating pussy, he decided to give me pointers. He talked about technique, suggested some tricks, and most importantly, talked about reading your partner. He spoke about how, just like when giving a guy head, you listen for what they like and keep doing that.

Kneeling before K2, Gray's phone recording the experience, I began. I gently warmed her clit with my fingers. Then I bent over and slowly started licking around her clit. K2 spoke up, telling me I could go harder. She then started making noises, informing me what I was doing was right.

However, all of a sudden, I could hear and feel Gray stand up; previously he had just been sitting in a camp chair next to us. He placed his phone on K2's chest, the perfect spot to pick up her moans.

But then he came behind me. He placed his iPad on my back and also knelt down behind me, using me like furniture. To my delight, he then started fingering me. Naturally I started moaning.

"Oh honey, don't forget about me." K2 piped up as my focus momentarily drifted. I had gotten close to orgasming, but not quite. I redoubled my efforts, concentrating more on eating out K2 while still trying to enjoy Gray's hand inside me.

Of course then Gray decided he wanted to spank me, my ass being right there. Murphy, who had just returned to the cabin, suggested Gray use the Konami code. Gray spanked Up Up, spanked Down Down, spanked left, spanked right, spanked left, spanked right, squeezed a boob for B, squeezed my ass for A, and then said "She has the start button," referring to my manipulations of K2's clit.

"Are you a taxi?" Walking by our cabin, someone randomly yelled at K2.

Her response, "Do I look like a fucking taxi?"

This was an...interesting scene.

After a while, TwistedView asked K2 how I was doing. "She's doing a good job, but she's teasing me. I almost get there, but then I don't."

Oh, really?

I started going harder with my mouth, harder with my tongue. I finally slipped two fingers into her pussy and firmly massaged her G-spot. My stronger efforts did the trick. K2 asked TwistedView if she could cum. He gave his permission and her ecstasy rolled through, hard. In fact, she came so hard she later told TwistedView it felt like she had to pee. I'd call that a job well done, and on my first try no less.

We hugged; we both were happy; everyone enjoyed the show.

And as a post script, Murphy, ever the caring Big Bro, sang an impromptu "I Just Ate Snatch" for our entertainment. Good times.

My NeverEnding Bag

2012-01-17T10:43:00.002-05:00

FetFest memory...

On Saturday I attended Lochai's Bondage For Sex class.

For some special/odd reason, my Hello Kitty bag seemed to solve every issue that came up during his presentation.

When I first arrived, I sat in the Barn on a bench and grumbled to myself, "Dammit, when did I get so fucking popular?" I had checked my phone and saw I'd missed a bunch of texts and a phone call from my friends, no doubt in need of their Cabin Bitch.

Lochai, looking over, said, "Well, since you've been cute. And you're into rope. And you're a great submissive. And you're learning a lot."

"Oh, okay."

That shut me up real quick. If I could have blushed, my face would have been bright red. One, I did not realize I had grumbled so loudly. And two, I didn't realize Lochai noticed even a quarter of the shit I did. (Yeah, I really need to get over this ugly duckling bullshit. No matter how much I think it, I do not fade into the background.)

As people filtered in, I pulled out my notebook and buried my face in it, scribbling some notes on my day thus far before class started. Before lunch, Glenda from NCSF casually mentioned how she liked my spirit and suggested I go out for IMsL. Gray, who I happened to be walking with towards the Dining Hall, got bug-eyed and said I would be perfect for it. I noted the interaction, the conversation at lunch, and that I should talk to Sara Vibes, the current title holder, about it.

At the start of Lochai's class, he began with one small question: What is sex?

My answer: An intimate connection.

There were many many answers (oral, vaginal, anal, digital, etc.). For Lochai, it was anything you wanted it to be.

He started with the example of chocolate. Chocolate could be sex, to which, as a lover of hot, milk and dark, I had to agree. Lochai thought he had a piece of the sweetness, but unfortunately he did not. He asked the class if anyone had some.

I piped up, saying I did. Reaching into my Hello Kitty bag, I pulled out my last piece of dark chocolate, the last piece of the bar Gray gave me at Rope Camp. Put it to good use, Lochai.

I handed him the treat. He instructed NaughtyEm to lie on her back and purse her lips. Placing the chocolate on her lips, he then instructed her to not eat it. That was now bondage for sex.

Lochai next talked about how bondage could be physical or emotional. "We're not going to talk for two weeks." An example of emotional bondage, impeding the connection between two people.

Lochai went on to show a bunch of different ties and positions, getting the minds of everyone in the class working. Lochai cared more about us thinking and understanding the theory of bondage for sex rather than specific ties.

He suggested we make our ties simple enough to undo with one hand; this would allow for quick changes or using the other hand to please ourselves. He mentioned crotch ropes and using insert-ables, with a lovely cameo by KnaveKarina. Lochai strove for us to be creative.

However, there was one tie he did mention by name: Gray's Tie Em Up and Fuck Em Harness. Lochai couldn't remember the specific way to tie it, though. Once again, I piped up. He allowed me to show the class the harness, using my own rope on NaughtyEm. I was a giddy giddy Teacher's Pet, happy to have contributed to the class.

But wait, there was more.

After my small demo, Lochai showed how you could achieve a similar effect with webbing.

He then spoke about an easy way to use rope for sex: just use a coil as a dildo. With a demo bottom on the mat and ready, Lochai pulled out a coil, but he needed a condom.

Once again, my Hello Kitty bag came to the rescue. I gave him one. He unwrapped it, but then dropped the condom on the floor.

Did I have another?

I searched through my bag as others looked on their persons' as well. Aha! "Got it." I handed him a second condom. He wrapped the rope and gave it to his demo. She started masturbating with the coil, but needed some assistance.

"Do you have lube?"

"Hold on." Another quick search. "Got it." I handed him the packet of lube. Squeezing the slick substance onto the condom, she returned to her fun, and I smiled ear-to-ear.

And that's why I'm a full service Cabin Bitch.

Training

2012-01-16T09:53:00.000-05:00

With his hand on the center of her chest, he firmly pushed her up against the wall. She hit with a loud thud, a smile on her face. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, her dimples prominent on her cheeks.

His hand remained on her chest; his other was by her head, as he leaned against the wall and into her. His head was bent down. He breathed heavy, as if he were in a fight. And though no one would see them in the comfort of their bedroom, should they have magically glimpsed the interaction, they would have indeed seen he was battling a worthy foe.

He slowly lifted his head, locking his eyes with hers. His intensity was mirrored by her whimsy. "You are just so gentle with me," she chirped, egging him still further.

The hand on her chest slipped up to her throat. He squeezed, slowly taking away her breath. "So...patient...and...nurturing." She forced out the words, then brought her hand up to caress the side of his face. He twisted his head away from the touch.

He released the grip on her throat, instead securing his hand under her jaw. Standing up strong, he slapped her on each cheek once, twice, thrice. Random chunks of her hair, now disheveled, fell across her face at awkward angles. "You make me look so pretty," she softly crooned.

She did look pretty. He had to admit that. But this was not about being pretty or sweet or kind. He wanted to break her, had tried to break her, but never could.

She only antagonized him more with each attempt. She had learned early that the taunts made him angry. She loved his anger, fed off his rage. He wanted her to beg for him. She never had.

Each time, it always ended the same way:

He'd punch her chest. She'd call him her "big strong man." Then she'd caresses his chest. Her thigh would graze his throbbing manhood. She'd bring her lips close to his, but never gave him a kiss. And as she would back away from him, teasing him, the want, the need in his eyes would appear. And she had won.

Though he had lost, he almost always enjoyed the victory lap.

Seeing the look, the need in his eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed. As he sunk down to his knees, her other hand lifted her skirt. She wore no underwear. Lifting a leg, she rested her thigh onto his shoulder.

His lips quickly found her clit. Her hands gripped his short dark hair, moving his head, angling his work, fucking his face. One of his hands was allowed, this time, to reach up her skirt and squeeze her ass. The other had two digits bound for her soaking wet pussy.

She rode him hard, sinking down on his hand, and slamming his head into her crotch. Screaming obscenities, she came, and squirted onto his hand and into his mouth while calling him her Good Boy.

And because he found the magic button, because he ate her right, he would now get to fuck her. When he didn't, when it took forever for her to cum, or when his despair made it difficult to please her, she'd merely push him off, let her skirt drop, and go about her day.

The reason why she always won was simple: she stopped herself from caring about anything but her orgasm. From the moment he initiated the challenge to the moment she came, her focus was on her pleasure. His focus was on her pleading, her begging, her submission. When he asked for it, he got it. When he tried to force it, tried to train her, it was she who trained him. And since he'd fucked her hard the last few times he tried to break her, she thought it was going well.

Friday

2012-01-15T10:44:00.002-05:00

"You moan like a porn star." - Slut to me

"Oh, they just put on Metallica. I feel sorry for you. That means you're going to get punched." - Murphy to Slut

I recently had a roller coaster of a Friday.

It started off well. I drove SkinnyBitch to work, getting to spend quality time with her in the car. She picked on me a little, as she is wont to do. I laughed it off, enjoying the playful conversation. Heading home, I finished up a blog I had started earlier in the morning and posted the entry before I began to get ready.

I had, shock and awe, a date.

It was a lunch date with a recent friend. We planned it the night before on a whim, so there was little to no pressure going in. We initially met at the theatre where we would later see the movie we'd chosen, Shame.

The movie started at 2:30pm; we met at noon. Wandering around, we stopped by a store to buy a hat, and then found ourselves at a Starbucks. I got my hot chocolate, the impetus for choosing Starbucks, and they purchased lemon pound cake because apparently it is their addiction.

We sat and talked for some time before transitioning to lunch. We swung by a touristy restaurant, chatted more over our meal, and then headed to the movie.

I will not go into a full review of the film, but I will say I enjoyed it for a few different reasons. 1- There was as much said in silence and stares as there was in words and actions. 2- The cinematography brought a level of intimacy between myself and the characters that was both painful and beautiful. 3- The story centers around a sex addict; there is a lot of sex. But the moment that most turned me on, though, involved no fucking. It involved the main character sitting at a bar, a woman waiting for her drink, and him describing how much he wanted to eat her pussy. Just words, his voice, and the look on his face. I get warm thinking about it even now.

After the movie, we wandered a bit more. We hit up a bookstore, then tried the Starbucks again, but it was full. We settled on a quite casual dining place, took the spot in the back corner, and talked more.

Our interactions last 6.5 hours. It was...interesting.

After exchanging hugs, I jumped into my car and sped away. I had a party to go to.

Arriving at home, I quickly ran upstairs to use the restroom and then came back down to chat with my roommates. And thus, the quick moving crash began. DeepEnd and SkinnyBitch were to leave the next day. DeepEnd had a family emergency. We talked about schedules, the puppy shuffle, and their flight plans.

I only had about thirty minutes before I needed to be out the door again. I found some carbs to down, since I had not eaten dinner, and changed into a quick cute outfit. I packed my toy bag and headed out.

On the way to pick up Slut, and on the drive to the party, I felt deflated. I wondered if I should have still gone. I wondered if it would have been better if I stayed home with them. I felt like shit. But I didn't tell Slut or bother DeepEnd or SkinnyBitch. I drove to the party, I smiled for the people in attendance, and I hoped I would feel better.

The small show put on was quite fun. I found myself smiling before I even knew I had. Unfortunately, not only was I battling an understandable funk, I was also tired. I found myself yawning a lot.

After the small show, the space opened up for play. Murphy setup by a hard point. Slut was the first he strung up. I took on my Cabin Bitch-ly duties and assisted, feeding him rope as needed.

As I watched them interact, I could not help but smile. I loved the way they connected, played with each other. I remembered why I wanted to come to the party in the first place: to be with my friends. Watching them, helping them, made me feel better.

As Murphy cycled through his multiple ties of multiple people, all the while with me feeding him rope, I also chatted with folks. I gave away a Moo card. I saw an old work acquaintance from back when I was in college. My mood rose.

And, later, Murphy made me fly. I giggled a lot, dropping into a whimsical headspace. As he tied, I was curious about what harness style he would use. I paid attention as best as I could while endorphins raced through me, and planned to try to replicate his work later.

As I came back down to Earth and he removed the lines, I asked him for some advice. I wanted a rope reading list. I have many rigger friends, from who I've learned a lot, but I have not yet taken the time to read as much as I'd like to about the subject. He gave me a list of about five books (one of which I purchased recently for an incredibly affordable price).

After my time in rope, I gave my hugs goodbye. It was late, I was sleepy, and I still needed to drive home. Slut stayed with Murphy, as I suspected she would, and I made my way back to base.

As I slipped into bed, a full day behind me, the mixed emotions of it all lulled me to a brief, but deep, sleep.

Don't Pretend

2012-01-14T03:18:00.000-05:00

- You like my ass. Don't pretend like you don't. I know you think it's hot.

* True. Your ass is quite impressive.

- And you want to fuck me. Don't pretend like you don't. I see the way you look at me when you think I don't notice you staring.

* True again.

- Good. At least I know you're not a liar.

* Did you think I was a liar before?

- No, but I reserved the right in my mind to see if my first impression was incorrect.

* So you tested me?

- No, I asked a question and you answered it.

* And that's not testing because...?

- If you had lied, I would've given you another chance.

* What would the other question have been?

- Didn't think that far out. But I did decide one question wasn't enough.

* I see.

- And just so that you know, we're not going to fuck.

* Excuse me?

- We're not going to fuck.

*Is that like today, in the next hour?

- We're not going to fuck, ever.

* Hmm, and why is that?

- Because you want to fuck me. And as much as I'd love to fuck you, and I'm sure you'd love it more, I'm not going to just because you want to.

* So you're depriving yourself just despite me? That seems petty, and hurting yourself in the process.

- Hmm, petty? Maybe. But I see it more as denying you what you want until you beg for it, and then denying you again. It's like torture, sexy sexy torture. And as for hurting me, I am not in want of people to fuck, as I am sure neither are you.

* True. Quite true. So really this is closer to a thought exercise.

- Maybe. Actually I like the way that sounds. I especially love the delicious warmth racing through me just now.

* Are you cuming?

- No, though I have before just from fantasizing. No, it's the anticipation, the build up, the tension. The carrot dangling on a stick. Because, really, do you ever want to eat it? Everything tastes better before it's in your mouth.

* You did it again.

- I know. That one was on purpose.

Random Facts

2012-01-13T09:55:00.000-05:00

I like being fucked, a lot, and well. Random Fact: In the top drawer of the small storage container beside my bed I keep a box of condoms, a box of latex gloves, and a jar of lube. If you want something, best prepare for it.

Daddy likes fucking me, a lot, and well. He especially likes fucking me at my apartment. Random Fact: My place is on his way home, only a five minute drive from his job. On my days off, Daddy loves dropping by during his lunch hour and eating my pussy as his meal. The best lunch visits are when I've been lazy, having stayed in bed and snoozed for hours, when he walks in the room. The sleepy dreamy feeling of his tongue playing with my clit, his soft lips caressing mine, and his teeth lightly nibbling about is overwhelming.

Daddy loves my pussy. He loves to eat it, beat it, fuck it, and fist it. Random Fact: Daddy prefers fisting me to fucking me. Though both he and I love it when he bangs the shit out of me, Daddy still loves fisting me more. There is, of course, his Dom-ly desire to watch me squirm, knowing he's the one causing me to wiggle. But he also has greater control, easily dictating when I cum, and, when he is feeling in a bendy mood, he can jam his cock down my throat while still wrecking havoc in my cunt. Fisting 69's are the best.

I love to suck my Daddy's cock. Random Fact: Sucking his cock is more intimate to me than fucking him. My Daddy's cock is so pretty. I always take a quick moment to admire it before enveloping my mouth around it. My tongue running up and down the shaft. My lips kissing and caressing it. My mouth so full of him. And when I gag, heaven.

Daddy once asked me what my ideal fucking session would entail. I told him it wouldn't be a session; it would be an entire day. Random Fact: I am a slut, a big one. I love to do a lot of sexy, kinky things. Daddy eventually fulfilled my fantasy, though it did not actually encompass an entire day. It took about six hours.

I wanted it all, everything on the menu. Random Fact: It's easier for me to tell you what I don't like than for me to tell you what I do. I wanted sensual foreplay. I wanted him to bind me, beat me, spank me, cane me. I wanted the rough body work with punches and slaps all over my flesh. I wanted many many bruises to remember the day by.

I wanted service, to give unto him, to feel like I earned the treat of his touch, his attention, his cock.

And I wanted to screw in every way we knew and loved. I wanted it in my ass. I wanted it in my pussy. I wanted to worship his cock. I literally wanted it all.

And he gave it to me.

His final flourish, though, still lingers in my mind:

"I've allowed you to cum, my Good Girl. In fact, I've allowed you to cum multiple times. Now it's my turn." Pulling his cock from my cunt, he ripped off the condom and shoved himself fully into my mouth. I gagged and came again in an instant as he began fucking my face.

By the end we were sweaty, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted. And we planned to do it again... next year.

Mr. Pitiful

2012-01-12T08:19:00.000-05:00

He sat at the bar, an empty glass in front of him, another in his hand. He sipped his bourbon slowly, slowly for him at least, and tried not to think of her.

He knew this was a mistake. Drinking was for remembering, not forgetting. Trying to drown his sorrow would only in fact make them worse.

But it was Sunday. It was their day. So he sat at his same place at the bar, sipping his bourbon and remembering.

They'd met a few years ago. Her eyes caught him. Her body enticed him. He was hooked. She looked on him with carnal eyes, like a predator stalking its prey. Now, as he thought back on this, it seemed ironic. His long time submissive had hunted him down and captured his heart.

Sunday was their special day. Each had busy lives, too busy to do all they wanted, but they always had Sunday.

She'd clean, primp herself especially the way he liked it, smelling of sweetness and looking even more sugary. Her short skirt, her two pony tails secured high up in her head, her little ankle socks with lacy frills, and her black and white saddle shoes. Just the thought had his manhood strain against his jeans.

He'd prepared himself especially for her, too. His leather boots, shined to a brilliant luster. His leather chaps, smooth and supple to the touch. His leather jacket, embroidered with a screeching devil on the back, dark red and hellacious. His pressed white dress shirt and tie. She loved ties, especially when he'd take it off, wrap it around her neck, and cinch it down tight, too tight.

He longingly remembered the beatings, the begging. Oh, how he loved the begging, hearing her plead, "Sir, sir. Please sir. Please oh please may I cum. Oh please may I come." The silky sweetness of her voice tempted him to always say yes, but he never broke. He chose when she came; her begging would make no difference to the time, only give more fury to his thrusts as he fucked her.

He especially loved fucking her when she floated in the air, strung up by his aromatic raw hemp which scratched against her skin. No limbs were free. All she could do was hang, a floating fuck toy for his pleasure. After he'd beaten her red, and spanked her silly, he'd fuck her til he was exhausted.

Both were sweaty messes by the end of their time on Sundays. Both yearned to do more the next week. But once, it was only he that readied one Sunday. Only he that waited at his door for hours. Only he who worried where she was, what was wrong. And then only he who happened to open the door, see the letter on his porch, read it, and descend into a depth of hatred and heartache.

He carried the letter in his back pocket. It was worn with time, constant folds and unfolds. He pulled it out now and read it once more. Read the flippant dismal. Read the relaxed way she threw him out like garbage. Read the words from the person he thought loved him.

He craned his head back, downed the rest of his bourbon, and signaled to the bartender for his check.

And then he turned to his left, saw a woman walk in, and knew he was done. She looked so much like his love, so much like the woman he drank for, yearned for. It wasn't her, and yet it was her. Her face, when it was innocent and wanting. Her manner, when she was submissive and pleasing. And her eyes, when all she desired was him.

And in that moment, he fell in love with a woman he just saw, a woman he had not yet met, and pitied himself still more.

She gave a small smile, sat down beside him, and asked the bartender for a bourbon. The man told the bartender to put it on his tab.

She Saw, He Saw

2012-01-10T23:06:00.000-05:00

Walking into the tavern, she saw him almost instantly. His tall and brood frame stood out often, especially among groups. He looked relaxed, at ease, possibly tipsy. He drank and spoke animatedly to their friends. She walked over to the bar and ordered a drink.

He saw her as soon as she entered. To him she seemed to breeze in, glide across the sticky wooden floor, and lightly land at the bar. If there were cares in her world, they were far far away. He envied her ease in the aspects of her life that he glimpsed on their weekly encounters at the tavern.

She peaked over and saw him leaning against the wall, a pretty girl so close to his frame. The girl was young and smiling, seemingly happy for the attention of this big strong man, this handsome individual that decided to talk to her. She saw the girl bat her eyes, toss her hair, and sip her drink slowly. She saw what she could and would never do, never be. She returned to her conversation.

His eyes found her across the bar, sitting on a couch, talking to a group of their friends. Her face was animated, possibly telling a story, maybe recounting one of her many adventures. She had so many to tell. She wasn't like the vapid young girl who captured his current attention, if you can call practicing flirting on an easy mark attention. He admired her gumption, her constant efforts to push herself, to take risks. She had seen more, done more in her two years since breaking free of social constraints than he had even dared in his ten years free of his old repressive beliefs. She was everything he dreamed he could be, but never dared try. How he envied and loved her for this.

As she paid her tab, she saw him sitting, alone at a table, fiddling on his phone. It was late; most of the regular crowd was gone. This was fairly normal; both she and he tended to be one of the last to leave. As she tipped the bartender, she weighed whether she should approach him, whether she should try to strike up a conversation so late in the night. He was surely tired; she was exhausted from her long day. But the idea of spending just ten minutes with him made her heart sing. However her decision was made for her when she saw the young girl return from the ladies' room, sit next to him, and drape her leg over his lap. She gripped her purse a little tighter and briskly walked out the door.

He loved the arch of her back when she leaned against the bar and stood slightly on her tippy toes to get the bartender's attention. It was late, so she must have been cashing out. In his mind, he ran through the things he might say to her. What new and kinky things had she gotten into? Did she have any plans for the upcoming hotel event? Would she be interested in playing with him? The thought of her naked flesh offered up to his powerful hands more than excited both his mind and body. As she finished, he mentally prepared himself to approach. But just as he would get up, the vapid girl returned. He hadn't even realized she was still there. She sat next to him, asking what he had in mind for the rest of his evening, and draped her leg over his lap. He calmly, sweetly began turning the girl down, trying to explain he had just met her and he did not take the leap to the bedroom so quickly. He wanted her gone, but meant her no harm. When he felt she got the picture, when the girl understood she would not have him that night, the one he wanted was almost out the door. He saw the final few strands of her hair trial behind as she left.

First Day Back

2012-01-10T07:43:00.000-05:00

I woke up to an alarm today, a day which will not be full of fun.

Unlike previous years, I have come to a point in my career (wow, I can call it that now) that I get work during our slow season. Not a huge amount; I won't be swamped like I will be March through June, but enough to get by. I'm experimenting this month with not tapping into my savings and seeing if I can, miracle of all miracles, pay all my bills without touching the little bit I stashed away when times were good.

But, unfortunately, that brings me to today, this morning, at 7:25am right now. I'm writing, I'm tired, and all I want to do is go back to sleep.

I cannot stand the first day back; I never have. My body got into a rhythm of waking up by my roommate's knock on my door. I'd drop her off at work, read a book in my car for an hour (I'm quirky; just accept it), exercise, eat lunch, write, chat with the other roomie who gets home early, and then pick up my first roomie from work or meet her at a Happy Hour.

This pattern would be all well and good if I made any money during the day. But, since I don't have a five figure book deal that includes a share of the profits from units sold... Nope, I'm not Stephen King yet, so this routine, though lovely, was fleeting.

There are somethings I feel now that I felt back when I had to go back to school after Winter Break: a stiffness in my neck from stress, the intoxicating allure of my bed, my emotional temper tantrum after I hit the snooze button for the fifth time.

However I endure. I guess the shitty part of all this is I'm not making much money today, about $80 before taxes. It's simple menial work, but it's work. And it's $80 more than I had yesterday. And I'll make another $80 tomorrow, and another $80 on Thursday. And, after having lived through five years of this business and having years where I did not get any work during the slow season, I really can't say no to it now, as low paying as it may be. At least I'll finish before midnight, which I will not be able to say in a month.

Nag

2012-01-09T23:16:00.000-05:00

Recently I acted like a well adjusted emotionally aware adult.

I received a request from a friend, to which I immediately and gladly said yes. But, as soon as I gave my agreement, there was a nag in the back of my throat, a little pop in my brain. I felt something, I wasn't quite sure what, but I knew I needed to talk to them about it.

So, being the highly evolved person that I am, I actually spoke up. I quite inarticulately expressed my feelings, my reservations. In stumbling language, I described my nag. Together, we worked through my issue. We are now good.

I feel the need to write about this moment for one very big reason.

In a previous post I spoke about the three words that I would like to color my year (bravery, forgiveness, and endurance). In this instance, I could have reacted differently. I could have swallowed my feelings. I could have seen this as me being petty or envious or "over emotional." I could have ignored that nag and tried to move on. But I didn't.

Instead, I forgave myself for having the feeling, because I was feeling quite guilty over my emotions. I was brave and spoke to my friend almost immediately about it. I stopped myself from accepting the hurt and found a way to move beyond the moment. I thought about and spoke about my feelings. I talked it out and came to multiple acceptable conclusions. I helped make myself feel better without sacrificing myself as a person.

So far, almost two weeks into my three words year, I'm liking the results. Let's see if I can keep this up.

[image]

2012-01-08T23:39:00.002-05:00

- Send me a picture.

* Of what?

- Send me a picture.

* Of... what? :D

- You know what.

* And yet I keep asking.

- Be creative.

* Ok.

* [image]

* Guess the body part.

- Mmm, a game. I will say... hand.

* Good. Now, your turn.

- [image]

* I don't have to guess what that is.

- Really? But it's covered by clothing.

* Its form is distinct.

- Yeah, I like to think so.

* [image]

- Ah, that's my head rest.

* Correct, and it's cold without your lips warming it.

- I bet I know somewhere on your body that is very warm.

* And wet.

- I'm sure.

* When do you get home tonight?

- Late.

* Boo. And here I was going to show you my new night shirt.

* [image]

- O.o

- :D

* Sure you can't, um, catch a cold?

- I am feeling awfully feverish right now.

* Flushed?

- Positively sweltering.

* Perspiring?

- Buckets.

* Shivers?

- Yes, but for some reason only near my abdomen.

* What an odd symptom.

- Absolutely baffling.

* You should have that looked at. And I, being a doctor and all, would be more than happy to...fit you in.

- Your bedside care?

* Very attentive, hands on healing.

- I will need all your skill to work out the, um, kinks.

* All your kinks will get worked out, as soon as you get your cute ass home.

- Speaking of, can I get one more piece of motivation to get through my day?

*[image]

* Like?

- Oh yes. Spank you very much.

* You better.

Intoxicating

2012-01-08T01:38:00.000-05:00

From my experience at Dirty Things...

I sat on the floor, naked, my chest covered in ash. The Girl sat next to me, naked save for garters and stockings. Her Daddy sat in a chair beside us. The Empath barely stood, as far away as she could be in the small ten-by-ten room.

I relished being in their presence, smoke sticking to my skin and in my hair. I relished the sight of the body of the Girl, so beautiful, so close to me. But, most of all, I relished the power her Daddy held over her.

"Cum." With one word, the Girl's body moved, flexed, bent to his will. Her breathing increased. Her hands struggled to find a hold. The reaction was definite and magical.

"Cum harder." The Girl's breathing grew heavier. Her frame shuddered. Her Daddy held a hand against her back for support, lest she fall over.

"Now, direct it."

"NO!" The Empath protested fervently. The effect the Daddy's manipulation of his Girl on the Empath was more than magical; it was wondrous. The Empath felt the Girl's orgasm. The swell rolled through her body as well. The Empath was caught in a trap, unable to be released. She could just barely keep herself up against the wall.

The Girl was new to her control, new to this sensation. The Girl did not know, yet, how to guide her energy. The Empath only found small relief in this. She still felt uneven passion ebbing across the room to her; she still could not get away.

As I sat and watched, something else happened in that room, something I would not reveal to those around me. As the Girl tried to direct her shudders and starts to the Empath, tried to grow and release her ball of energy, I began to feel it. A soft pulse of lust emitted from her body. I was so close to her, a breath away.

It wasn't obvious at first, just a slight warmth in my abdomen. But it grew. And grew, as the Girl sought to manipulate the Empath.

I kept quiet. I continued to smile. I now relished in the growing warmth inside me. I let the delicious sensation roll around. However, I did not allow myself to get lost in it. I slowly let it melt in, instead of letting it takeover.

Later that night, long after the Daddy was finished having his fun with the Empath, after my multiple rope moments, when everyone gathered their things to go, I sought out the Girl. I would not leave without saying goodnight.

I floated on a rope high through the room. I saw her, as bubbly and beautiful as I'd always seen her. I breezed over, smiling; she always made me smile. She saw the change in me, the delicate balance as I hung in the air.

We hugged our bodies into each other. She lightly kissed the nape of my neck. I nuzzled into hers. Our cheeks found each others, brushing softly. Our noses lightly grazed. Our lips, so soft, met. We kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

I massaged her back. She ran her nails down mine. I gasped. She bent over. She sucked one nipple while pinching the other. I moaned. She switched. I moaned more.

She took to one knee. Her hand ran down my thigh, against my mons, and finally, after I slightly parted my legs, a single finger found and stroked just above my clit. My breathing rocked with my body. I softly brushed my hands against her hair.

I felt it building. And building. And building.

"Please may I come." I said it low, a whisper, the lightest of pleas.

"Please, please may I come." Louder. Begging. A need.

"Yes."

"Thank you." My abdomen contracted. I struggled to breathe. My hands flexed. It ripped through me.

"Cum." Her Daddy had been watching. Her Daddy gave the command. She obeyed. Her body and her breathing shuddered. We leaned on and into each other.

Our breathing returned, we found ourselves hugging again. It was time to go.

"You are intoxicating," I told her before I had to drift, high and happy, on my way home.

Hold On

2012-01-08T01:34:00.000-05:00

From my experience at Dirty Things...

He told me to go tie myself up. I scurried off, happy to have the practice, and wanting to try something new.

I used my gifted red rope, along with a length of swapped black rope, for my chest harness. I used my gifted raw hemp for the hip harness (which included a crotch line for extra fun). I cinched to the hip piece and looped around my legs as I had done before. I added all the lifting lines before I began my ascent, just as I had practiced.

But next was where things changed. I added a fourth lifting line to a new point, the one he had suggested some time ago. I lifted myself, lowered my chest, and floated above the world, my body weight resting solely on my hips. My arms could almost graze the floor.

I lifted my chest back up, re-secured the line, and lowered a leg. I discarded the long chest rope and switched it out with a shorter from the leg on the ground. I moved the new chest rope to the side, lifted myself once more, and floated sideways. I drifted, sunk into this new feeling.

I again resettled my leg and moved the chest line. Securing the rope to the back of the harness, I floated half sideways, half face down. I absorbed this new position, and its different set of strains.

Feeling the time had come to stop, I lowered myself down, sat, and coiled my ropes. I wondered if I could, somehow, perform the transitions without lowering my leg. I promised myself I would practice this new sequence again, soon.

My things packed away, and the night nearing at its end, I found him unraveling his tie. He asked if I was ready. I informed him we had no time, that the night had left us. That was, unless he wanted to do something "fast and furious". He smiled at the comment. He went to the organizers to ask a question.

I sat and lounged and talked, letting myself wind down. He came back and spoke to another. He stood behind me. And then his rope was around me.

With one quick cinch, and my instant inhale of breath, I understood what was about to happen. I quickly flung my glasses away, caught by another who held them til the end. He cinched my chest again, and again, and again. He pressed into my body with his boot, first at my back, then on my chest. He forced my torso down onto my crossed legs. He then pushed my chest down to the ground. He grabbed my leg and wrapped the rope around it thrice. He pulled tight and cinch my leg to my chest.

All the while, whenever his body came close to mine, I leaned into him. I rubbed my cheek, my shoulder, my hand onto any part of him that was near me. And he caressed me with his hand, his hair, and his rope.

With my body secured, he held me, brushed my face, and said, "We don't have time for me to ease this in, so I'm going to push it." He counted 1, 2, 3. He struck my sternum, a warm glow now living in my chest. "Hold on to that for a while." And he held me.

After a moment, he began unwinding the ropes. Even with the strands flowing off my body, I felt the glow still in my chest. Even as we sat, cuddling, happy to be with one another, if only for a moment, I felt it. On the drive home. As I slipped into bed. As I write this, I still feel it.

It is caring, affection, friendship, connection. I hold on to who I am, who we are, all that has happened before, and all that is yet to be.

Columbus

2012-01-06T00:15:00.001-05:00

I really needed to pee. Like really. Like dancing outside the bathroom door, holding my crotch, needed to pee. And for some fucking reason, he was taking a shower at 1am. 1am! Who the fuck showers at 1am?

He didn't hear me knock over the running water, so I had a decision to make. I weighed disturbing him and having an awkward situation over pissing my boxers outside the bathroom. I figured he'd understand if only for not forfeiting our security deposit.

"I'm sorry Columbus, but I have to pee." The room was filled with steam, a normal occurrence for the both of us. Hot showers, living in the apartment together, and his sister were probably the only things we had in common.

I raced to the toilet and gratefully relieved myself. I could barely make out his figure in the shower as I finished. It wasn't until I stood that the steam parted, he turned around, saw me, and opened the shower door.

Even through the haze, I saw how delicious his physique was. Columbus was a firefighter, and only spent half his time in our apartment. He trained every day he was here, running on the treadmill for hours at a time. The weights in the living room were his too. I knew he was fit, but holy shit... Milk chocolate skin, dark brown eyes, an eight pack, strong arms, stronger legs. Who was this man living in my home? How had I not seen this Adonis under my roof?

Oh yeah, he was my best friend's brother. I just never thought to, well, look. We were roommates out of convenience, orchestrated by his sister to both our and her benefit, and the arrangement went well. We barely saw each other, and when we did it was cordial but noncommittal.

However, standing in the bathroom, his naked body before me, wet and glistening, the last thing on my mind were polite gestures.

As I took in the wonderment of his body, I then realized he was sizing me up too. I had needed to go so badly, it didn't occur to me that Columbus had never seen me in such a state of undress. I wore the aforementioned boxers, which were short and hugged my ass just right. I also wore a tank top, gray, body hugging, no bra. I then realized my nipples were hard and most likely visibly erect to him.

Something else was also becoming erect.

We stood there looking at each other for about thirty seconds before I turned to walk out. I wanted to fuck him. I really wanted to fuck him. Fuck, I wanted to fuck my best friend's brother.

Holy shit, I needed to leave. As I turned away, I felt his hand grip onto my wrist. I stopped in my tracks. Turning back, I saw the look on his face, the wanting in his eyes. I saw him lick his lips, those full lips which I now imagined on mine.

"Shit." My hands found his face as I rushed into his arms for a kiss. My sleep clothes moistened with the water against his body. His hands found the small of my back and my ass.

He pulled me into the shower. The warm water only intensified the heat between us. He pulled off my now incredibly wet clothes. He pushed me against the wall. He bit my neck. He pulled my hair. He slid his hand in between my legs. He lightly bit one nipple; he sucked the other. I started moaning.

"Shit." I lifted a leg and wrapped it around his hip. He lifted my body against the shower wall. He pounded his hand into me, harder, deeper.

"Shit." I got closer, closer to it, that intense moment when endorphins raced through my body, ripped my abdomen in half, and I would scream not only obscenities, but his name. As I got closer, my breathing increased, but so did his. Normally I'd have my eyes closed, but his stare was fixed on me and I didn't want to let it go.

"May I..." He inserted another finger. I gasped.

"May you what?"

"May I cum for you?" A wide smile spread across his face. Did he know about orgasm control? Did he know what I did with the people I brought home and quickly ushered into my room? Did he know about me?

"Hmm..." Oh no, even if he didn't know, he was tormenting me. He may or may not be in the scene, but he already had a feel for topping.

"Please, please let me cum for you. Please Columbus." His thumb sped up its motion on my clit.

"Cum my little slut." I finally closed my eyes, gripped my legs tight around his hips, and rode his hand hard. I screamed loudly, "Thank you, Columbus. Oh, fuck, thank you. Shit. Oh God. Oh God. Columbus." Since we were in the shower, I don't know if he noticed me squirt.

After my orgasm, he slowly lowered me down. He stood six foot even; I looked up into his eyes from six inches down.

"My room or yours?" His question was simple, yet full of subtext. I lightly caressed his quite erect cock.

"Mine." Yes, he would soon learn all the fun things I liked to do, and loved to have done to me. Yes, he would fuck me, but did he know he would also beat me, tie me up, slap and punch me? Did he know what he was getting into?

Oh well, his dick was hard, I was horny, and it was only 1am.

Sideways

2012-01-05T23:13:00.000-05:00

It wasn't that we didn't love the scene that was going to happen, but in the moment, it was that we both needed it.

Both Murphy and I were exhausted. We'd barely gotten any sleep between the Bomb-iversary and leaving for FetFest. While Dov had passed out in my back seat during the ride, Murphy and I had chatted for all the hours down to camp. He had wanted to make sure I stayed awake. I had appreciated the company. We had talked about this and that, but we'd also decided we would have a scene that evening.

Neither of us got a nap before night fell. There were sprinted hugs to give, gifts to handout, takedown practice to administer, people to meet, an opening ceremony, a Waffle House run, and random rope-y fun-ness to be had.

So, when I came up to the Rope Village, because again I was dumb and didn't get myself in a cabin by with my friends, Murphy and I both needed a jolt. For him, it was something to kick start his event, to help him find a passionate spark to the weekend.

For me, it was a grounding, a coming back. I had already pushed through fatigue, an emotional struggle through my walk at the Labyrinth, and Green Eyes whispering horrible notions in my ear. I needed comfort, centering, the love I share with my family of friends.

So Murphy and I were about to go to the dungeon to make ourselves right when fate tempted us. We peaked our heads into Cabin One and found EmberOfSerenity, Gray, And Janice all naked on a bed and inviting us in. The struggle, the shear will to pull ourselves away from them was excruciating. But we did, myself securing a rain check for cuddles later in the event.

During our walk to the play space, Murphy spoke on how the feel of Fet differed from Rope Camp. He could already sense it would be closer to fireworks (fits, starts, pops, flashes of play and fun), as opposed to Rope Camp (a long, smouldering extensive burn). I thought this could be good for him, a challenge to adapt to his feeling yet still make this event his own.

Taking our place under a wench, Murphy had me remove a little bit of clothing, but basically kept my school girl outfit in tact. I'd worn it because I knew he loved this particular look.

He tied a chest harness on me, our connection immediate and strong. He attached me, for the first time, to the hard point on my side. He lifted my left leg and worked on securing it to his ring. But I faltered. I didn't keep my balance. He caught me, brought me back up, and righted my stance.

I giggled even as I almost went topsy turvy towards the floor. Murphy got me standing and encouraged me to be strong in my right leg, to find my center. I held the position until he lifted my right leg and had me floating sideways.

My giggling and smiling continued. He brushed his hand on my cheek, then punched my chest. I floated counterclockwise. After a full rotation, he again punched me, this time in the other direction. I drifted; I relaxed; I flew. My smile would not go away.

Slowly he lowered the wench until I softly landed on the blue mat. He untied me; we hugged; I felt like me again.

Recharging

2012-01-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

Once again my friend Graydancer wrote something that got me thinking; I know, shocking. Read his entry, then read my thoughts which came to mind when I pondered "What recharges me?".

- When I'm driving, alone, often on my way to see friends, but occasionally on my way to work, I'll just sing. I'll sing loudly and proudly, and probably badly, but I let go. For the good songs, I start car dancing, rocking my shoulders and hips back & forth. Usually I'll end up speeding, dashing through traffic with cat-like skill and precision (yes, I know, not the best adult behavior). Always, always, I smile throughout.

- When there is no one in the house, and I feel relaxed and at ease, I wash my toys, put on my masturbation playlist (what, doesn't everyone have one?), and I don't just masturbate, I fuck myself. Best of all, I let myself scream.

When I'm coming, I love to scream, usually the name of the person helping to facilitate my fun. When I'm alone, though, I call out Daddy along with a multiple curse words or deities. Sometimes I entertain the idea of audio recording myself during my fun, but I never have. That time is mine and no one else's (well, one other person, but I haven't met him yet).

- My sleeping buddy is soft, squishy, and oh so hug-able. At night, when I'm naked and under my covers, I press him against my chest, run my face on his fur, and drift off to sleep, Cabin Shell watching over me.

- This blog is a testament to my love of writing. However, there are words that I put on paper that you will never see. I carry a small brown journal where I jot down thoughts, ideas, worrying questions, wondrous dreams, and any other fucking thing I please.

One night recently I finished my blog early and still found myself writing before bed, this time in my journal. Beyond processing, it is my special pages, my mind on paper, expelling all the swirly words that need to not be in my head anymore.

- After I finish my run or my yoga DVD, I always feel better than when I started. My exercise is not a New Year's resolution, but more a means to an end. If I work out, my rigging improves. If I work out, I like the way my body looks more. If I work out, the endorphins get me high. If I work out, I like me more.

Once, I processed some emotions while on the treadmill, broke down crying while I jogged, and quieted myself before either of the roommates saw. I pushed through not only the pain in my legs and chest, but also the pain in my heart. Feeling it thump in my torso, breathing heavy, exhaustion at my heels, I am over run by the accomplishment of getting my ass off the couch, out of bed, or just up and doing something.

- Happy Hour, lunch at the mall, or just chilling in their homes, being with my friends is sometimes just the salve I need to heal my loneliness, boredom, despair or doldrums. It's not the alcohol, or the cute baby (though my niece is super awesome), but the time I get to spend with my chosen family.

The long meandering conversations, the catching up, the highs, the lows, the new, the old. It's telling my kinky stories or hearing about their annoyances at work. It's about introducing new names into their lexicon when it comes to those I care about or about learning what new passion invigorates them. It's about meeting new people and cherishing all those who are already there. Above all others, being with my friends, whether for four days or four hours, renews and recharges me.

So, what recharges you?

Care

2012-01-03T17:56:00.000-05:00

I spent most of today in a hospital. I came to the need of a friend, sat by their side through the slowest waiting room ever, many doctors, many nurses, more waiting, and lots of questions. In the end, my friend was discharged with no new answers but much less pain.

It is a cliche to say that people have negative feelings around hospitals. But, for me, the first half of my life was spent in hospitals. My mother is a medical secretary. I've heard stories of me falling asleep under her desk, waiting for her to get off work. From sixth to eighth grade, I walked from my school to the hospital and waited in the lobby for her til 5:30pm. I did my homework, listened to my Walkman, purchased snacks in the cafe, candy from the gift shop, sometimes wrote, and often napped. I had a couch that almost everyday was my couch. That hospital was warm and inviting to me, a comfort.

That feeling began to change my freshman year of high school. Uncles died in a hospital. I visited him only once. By then he had shrunk, withered to almost nothing, just skin and bones. He died at about age 90. Our visit with him, my only visit with him in the hospital, was his last before his passing.

Granddaddy was next. We called 9-1-1 after he had an apparent stroke in our home. It took two or three men to get him down the stairs and out the front door. We waited in the emergency room for half the night until he was admitted and my mother took us home. He survived that ordeal but his life was forever altered.

He was no longer the big, strong, imposing man who had picked me up from elementary school, carried me in his arms down the hill for my birthday party, and occasionally squeezed my knee. His first night back at home both my mother and I had to clean him up after he soiled himself. He died my senior year of high school, while I was on spring break in Puerto Rico. His funeral was the day I came back. I am still so very thankful my mother saved me from that experience.

Aunties passed my junior year in college. She too wasted away until no one could deny she needed to go to the hospital. And, once again, my visit with her was one of her last.

And then there was Ella.

I don't fear hospitals. It's just I haven't been there for happy moments since my childhood. I didn't attend my niece's birth. And, save new life, are there any other happy reasons to go to the hospital?

When someone is sick, when you are tasked to care for them, everything in your life is brought into perspective. So many things seem insignificant, little, petty. Every move, every thought, is full of awkward anxiety. Remembering everything I wanted to do today, and figuring out when I could do it later on in the week. Wondering how long the ordeal would last. How bad it would get. Hoping it would get no worse.

When I drop into the mindset of caregiver, I often drown out most of my thoughts or any inclinations for myself. I skipped breakfast and didn't eat lunch today til 2pm because I worried about leaving my friend's side. I snuck in a work email while they slept only because I was a day late in responding. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I kept myself awake just in case. I didn't dare pull out my book until they informed us of the impending discharge.

And, just now, I got a phone call. In my mind, all I could think was, "Please may it not be from X. Please may they still be okay."

I worry. SkinnyBitch tells me I worry too much and should stop. If I knew how, I would.

For now, distraction. Yoga, shower, playing with the dog, and Happy Hour. However I'll have my cell phone always by my side, hoping it doesn't ring, but still there just in case.

Charlie & David (pt. four)

2012-01-02T23:52:00.000-05:00

This was not what I planned, not at all. My living room was in disarray. I'm sure my neighbors thought World War Three was happening over here. I'm quite shocked the cops weren't called. Lying in my bed, resting in his arms, the fresh scrapes on his knuckles starting to scab over, admiring the content look his face. No, this was not what I planned.

The fighting didn't take long to start, to my great astonishment.

David finally let go of my hand when we approached my front door, seeing as I needed it to get my keys out of my pocket. He remained between myself and Charlie as we entered. As I flung off my shoes and put my jacket aside. As I hung up their coats. As we actually raided my fridge; left over Chinese was our meal for the evening.

We all sat at my breakfast bar, not speaking. As I finished my few bites of combination fried rice, Charlie broke the silence, commenting on my modest abode.

"Nice place."

"You haven't seen most of it." David had seemed tense since I made the suggestion of the impromptu meal. His unease was now obvious, singing behind each of his words.

Charlie slid his hands over David's shoulders and began massaging. David quickly flung his friend's gesture away.

"I guess that means I should give you two a tour." I put on a big smile, hopped off my chair, and opened my arms wide like a ring master.

"This is my study, with my desk and a nice window that looks out on the back alley.

"This is my living room with my Ikea couch, four year old television, and old lamps I found at Goodwill.

"This is my bathroom. Please ignore the filth; the maid is on vacation.

"And this is my bedroom. I have a queen sized bed, seeing as I like to stretch out." I stood on the bed and began jumping. "And I have plenty of room to flop." I let myself fall on the mattress giggling loudly as I bounced. Charlie laughed loudly. David smiled.

Charlie moved as if to get up on the bed; David grabbed him by the arm. Charlie flung David's gesture off this time.

"So this is my humble home." Neither man looked at me.

"Are you two okay?"

"We're just fine," said Charlie.

"Actually," began David, "Will you excuse us? We need to talk privately." I could see Charlie's teeth clinch. David gestured towards my bedroom door. Charlie turned, quickly relaxing his face, flashing me his signature smile again.

"We'll just be a moment," he said before walking out the door first. David followed, and lightly closed the door behind himself.

I don't know why they bothered leaving my room, though I'm grateful my bedroom furniture was left out of the melee. My walls might as well have been made out of paper. I heard every word, and every blow.

"What the fuck was that?" seared Charlie.

"No, not this time. Not with her."

"What the fuck do you mean 'not with her'? She's just another piece of ass from Happy Hour."

"She giggled."

"She's a girl. You know, the kind that tends to love sucking your cock."

"I thought that was just you." Charlie didn't connect with his swing. I heard choking sounds, presumably from David holding him by his neck. "I am so tired of being your bitch. I am so fucking tired of your game. No amount of blow jobs is worth having to be around you anymore."

The shoe print on my wall where Charlie pushed off was perfect; no smudge at all. The impression left by David's shoulder blades was not. I lost a lamp with that exchange.

"You wannabe James Dean motherfucker." This time Charlie connected. The blood from David's nose created an interesting constellation on my carpet. "If not for me, you'd still be alone in the corner of the bar waiting and hoping for someone to come talk to you. I picked you. I fucked you. I made you the hottest piece of ass there is after me."

David rushed Charlie, slamming him into the wall by my bedroom. A few picture frames dropped to the floor. I think it was Charlie's elbow that made the small hole.

"You selfish asshole. I loved you. And what did I get for it? Watching you fuck someone every week and calling it poly. You never loved me; you don't know how love. You barely know how to fuck."

When Charlie tripped David, his head thankfully missed my coffee table, instead bouncing off a sofa cushion and landing on my carpeted floor. As they rolled on the carpet, they bumped into the stool holding my bonsai tree. The little thing tumbled to the floor, but I have faith it will recover from the trauma.

"You whiny little faggot," screamed Charlie.

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," sneered David.

"We're done."

"Yah think?" I believe I heard Charlie spit on David before he left. Charlie slammed the door on his way out, shaking the walls.

After a moment, I heard a light knocking on my bedroom door.

"Um, come in."

David's clothes were rumpled, and his nose was dark red with dried blood.

"So, was this what you had planned?"

I sat in shock for a moment, unable to find words. David started to laugh.

"I remember seeing you your first night at Happy Hour. It was the last night I'd gone before work pulled me away. Since Charlie was gone, I had quietly eased in. No one took notice as I sat in my corner and just watched." As he spoke, I saw why Charlie had compared David to James Dean. He had the perfect brooding look about him.

"When you walked in, there was just something about you. It wasn't your clothes or your demeanor, but that knowing look you had. That's what made me remember you.

"I watched as everyone gave you their Charlie and David stories. I saw the devilish grin that crept across your face. So when you played coy that day a month ago, I knew you were up to something, though I don't suppose the past few minutes was what you had in mind."

"Hmm, no. Though something similar, maybe." My devilish grin reappeared for him. He laughed again.

"May I lie down for a moment?"

"Of course."

David tentatively got into my bed and set his head on my pillow. He looked at me, studying my face.

"Thank you."

"Um, your welcome, I think." He closed his eyes.

"I was ready to go. I just needed a little push." I don't know why, but I lightly rested my head on his chest. He wrapped his arm around me.

"I guess this means no more Charlie & David; no more storms."

"Oh, there will be a Charlie and somebody soon enough. I, however, am going to enjoy my retirement."

"Retirement? You're not playing anymore?"

"No, I'm not Charlie's wing man. Speaking of play, what are your limits and what are you doing in ten minutes?"

"That's cute Rocky, but how about we wait til you're not bleeding on my sheets."

The First

2012-01-02T04:34:00.000-05:00

I woke up to the smoke alarm around noon as SkinnyBitch and DeepEnd prepared food for the kids. I couldn't go back to sleep.

I hung out with the roommates and the little ones before they had to depart. One child, as I stood in the kitchen drinking fruit juice, wrote me a note: "I Love you crustin". I helped the tiny humans pack up their things, hugged them all goodbye, and teared up a little as the car drove away. The house was quiet and empty without them, but only for a few hours.

SkinnyBitch started cooking for our dinner that night. I ran to the grocery store to pick up the supplies she still needed. When I came back, Alice laid on one of the sofas. I ordered her to not get up. I grabbed a blanket, covered her, closed the curtains, and turned off the lights. She said she didn't think she could close her eyes. She slept until our friends started arriving.

As SkinnyBitch cooked, I cleaned and helped setup tables and chairs. When we were to a point that I could steal away, I went upstairs to take a shower. While getting ready, I had my first transportation text of the evening. I shuttled three people from public transportation hubs back to the house. I also fit in a quick run to pick up mixers for our bar.

When I did begin to settle into the party, I found myself at the bar pouring people drinks. This was when we realized we needed ice. I made one last run to the grocery store and parked in such a way that I would not be blocked in; I didn't want to risk having to go out again.

When I returned, 16lbs of chill in tow, all of our guests had arrived and most everyone was eating. DeepEnd, thankfully, had whipped up a batch of his Long Island Ice Teas and set it aside for me on the bar. I poured a glass and tried to calm myself back down.

People chatted; I poured more drinks. Eventually I got food, but ended up eating it in fits and starts. DeepEnd & SkinnyBitch, in their dual Dexter shirts, carved the two chickens SkinnyBitch had roasted while I took pictures and feasted on the skin. People mixed and mingled. For some unknown reason, it took me a long time to get into the flow of things.

Eventually, around 9:30pm, folks said they were ready for cigars. I brought down my kit, graciously suggested those who did not want to be caught in the haze should depart, and finally started to feel at ease. Stripping down, I found myself in the middle of everyone, my bootblacking kit set up and my humidor ready to serve.

Four men, including DeepEnd, ManKraken!, and ThreeWay elected to enjoy tobacco that evening. I let each choose his taste. I then unwrapped, wet, cut, and lit all four cigars.

Once everyone was puffing away, I turned to DeepEnd's boots. I gave them a thorough cleaning before getting on my knees and loving on his leather. As I kissed and caressed, he reached down, massaged my head, and scratched my back. As a friend watched on, she asked why he was using his hand as an ashtray. "Just give her a few minutes. Then you'll see why the little bit of pain is worth it."

Once I completed my worship, DeepEnd presented my treat. I ate the ash from his hand. Occasionally he blew smoke into my curls. (I had, in fact, washed my hair to remove the straight locks just in case cigar service was on the menu for the evening.) As has become our way, we ended our moment with a small kiss.

I completed his blacking with a thorough treatment of the leather with shoe grease. As I worked, DeepEnd mentioned he read yesterday's blog, and said the party sounded fun. Once again, I forgot people, including individuals I know, read what I happen to share with the world in this forum.

When I finished with DeepEnd's boots, he informed me ManKraken! was waiting for me. I turned around and saw ManKraken! had a hand full of ash. I ate the morsels from his palm. To his right, ThreeWay was also ready. I licked up the flecks from his hand as he quietly moaned.

ThreeWay commented on how much he enjoyed my work to his fellow cigar smokers. DeepEnd also complimented my skills. ManKraken! said my eating of ash felt like getting a blow job on his hand. "Yeah, it's like getting a handy, literally."

With the cigar service mostly ended, I gave quick bootblacking service to two other individuals whose leathers needed work. I remained on the floor, naked, taking in the party, finally relaxed.

The 1st is RockStarIsis's birthday. A round of birthday spankings broke forth. As she was bent over a chair, taking her licks, I whispered to DeepEnd "hockey stick." He asked SkinnyBitch to retrieve the implement. DeepEnd traded all 27 of his licks for one swing of his hockey stick. RockStarIsis took her blow, cursing for some seconds afterwards. I softly rubbed her ass to soothe her.

I don't know who opened the first bottle of champagne, but I will gladly take credit for how most of us drank it. I asked to partake of my share of champagne in the hip hop video fashion. I tilted back my head and waited for the liquid to be poured into my mouth. It dripped down my face and onto my chest, but also into my eyes. I shut my lids and calmly asked for a napkin to save my eye sight for the evening. Many people after me enjoyed the beverage in this way. I loved inspiring fun for others.

I stayed naked until it was time to give the last rides home. For the majority of the rest of the evening, most of us congregated in the living room and talked, or surrounded all the food on the dining room table and ate. The festivities ended around 2:30am.

Now that was a fantastic way to start a new year.

Moments

2012-01-01T06:54:00.003-05:00

My New Year's Eve, in moments.

- I sat on the floor of my room, naked, talking to SkinnyBitch as I straightened my hair for the Dark Odyssey New Year's Eve party. SkinnyBitch laid on my bed, unable to sleep; it was her intention to take a nap, but it just was not happening.

After watching me struggle with my inferior flat iron, she finally asked, well pleaded, to let her finish the work. I sat, cross legged, grateful for the aid and the time I got to spend with her as she hovered above me helping me get ready.

- "Are there any cop cars around?"
"No, I don't see any." I flung a banana peel out my window onto a median full of grass.
"Why exactly were you concerned about the cops being around? What would they have charged you with?"
"Um, littering?"
"Littering. Yes, littering while in the operation of a vehicle."

- It is a blessedly wonderful moment when suddenly you are the soft squishy center of a sandwich. No matter how brief, the encounter is always delightful, especially with good friends as the bread.

- After she'd tied me up, beat me, fucked and fisted me. After I came a few times, and we giggled while we cleaned up. After our night had truly begun, Slut and I stopped for a moment, hugged each other, and said how happy we were to see the other again.

- Standing by the kitchen island in just a tie, my necklace, and my school girl shoes, I asked, "Should I put my clothes back on?"
"I think you look wonderful in what you're wearing now."

- [Text messages]
"Happy New Year!" - me
"HAPPY NEW YEARS MY SWEETHEART. JUST GETTING OUT OF CHURCH. BE BLESSED." - Mom

"Happy New Year!" - me
"Happy ya know, thing" - DeepEnd

- As I prepped my bootblacking kit to work on N3rddom's boots, the handle for my saddle soap broke off. I was so baffled, I didn't quite understand what had happened. Not a moment later, MrBlackBeard stepped over, took the saddle soap from my hands, and, with his muscular arms, pried the can open. "Gotta use these arms for something."

- "I have never had my boots blacked before. There was no one else I wanted to do it other than poeticdesires."

- As I laid on the floor, loving on N3rddom's boots, I felt a caress down my back. His hands ended on my ass, punctuating their arrival with a loud smack. He warmed each cheek multiple times. Then he began punching my back.

Just as I was about finished loving on his leather, with the new coil of rope he had just purchased from Twisted Monk, he hit all over my back, multiple tendrils of stingy pain shooting across my skin.

- He handed me the half finished cigar. "I want you to save this as a promise for us to finish it later."

- "Are you sure I'm suppose to be turning left? This seems like we're going back the way we came."
"It's the internet. The internet is not wrong."
"And that's the house. Yup, we have gone in a circle."

- "Why are there so many people in this IHOP?"
"It's New Year's."
"They all look like they just came from church."
"They probably did. It's called a watch service. Just in case of the rapture."
"Yup, and none of us look like we're saved."

- Around 4am I happened to check my Twitter feed, beyond just posting the hilarious tidbits of our IHOP conversation. It seems me mentioning one little dream involving cigars and a beautiful woman sparked an entire conversation I completely missed, to my great disappointment.

And yes, we shopped at BJ's. I agree, because it is me, this was quite funny.

- "Did you see her, the girl in the pink dress? It was not a dress. I swear it was a shirt and she just kept pulling it down."

- "I finished the book."
"Really? How did you like it?"
"It was okay. The secondary characters weren't developed well and the ending was abrupt, but I liked the main characters. The thing that bugged me though was the sex. You read a thousand pages, a thousand pages to finally, finally get to the sex, and you basically get a brush off. I wanted more sex, dammit."
"Yeah, that book is basically just an excuse for rape."
"Oh my god, yes. Ten pages, rape. Ten pages, rape. And the one time when she was like, 'It's not spine-y?'"

- "How's it going lately in the house?"
"It's been good."
"Good. Yeah, you are now in the community."
"I was in the community before."
"No, you were in the sex and fun and play time and now I'm going to my home alone and getting some sleep space. Now you're in it, you're all up in the community."
"Yeah. Well, even with the aggravation, the trade off is worth it."

Bedtime: 7am

My Sweet Banana

2011-12-30T23:26:00.000-05:00

"I love you, my sweet banana. That's what my mother called you when you were a baby."

I was five months old when my grandmother died. I've seen photos, and have been told I look like her. I have no memory of her at all, though.

The one lasting impression she left on me was rather dubious. So the story goes: I was crying while in my high chair when my grandmother balled up my fist, pulled out my thumb, and stuck it in my mouth.

I sucked my thumb until age twenty (yes, 2-0). I only stopped when I got my tongue ring. I traded one oral fixation for another, with rather pleasant results. No one could get me to stop sucking my thumb, ever. Not even high school or college stopped me, though they did severely damper my addiction, relegating it to mostly at night as I drifted to sleep. The echo of my long lived habit manifests in my occasional humming as I lull myself to sleep some nights.

I'm not writing this post as a woe-is-me entry. It's just... my mother doesn't talk about her mother much. I know my mother loved her mom. I know it. And I know it was very hard for her when she died. My mother had a five month old, happy with her little girl, and suddenly her own mother, without warning, had a stroke and was gone just a few weeks before Christmas.

Out of the blue today, my mother, who has discovered the wonders of text messaging, sent me that message. She texts me everyday, which is fine; it keeps her from freaking out when I don't call for long periods of time because I'm busy with work or my kink/social life. But I didn't know my grandmother called me that. I'm twenty-eight years old and my mother is just now mentioning this.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would've been like to have had her in it. I was lucky enough to have had her sister, my Aunties, jump in and take up the responsibilities. My mother would drop me off at Aunties during the day while she worked, and she'd pick my up at night. Aunties, Uncles, and Ella were another family for the two of us.

It wasn't that my life was without love. Quite the opposite. Having talked to my friends about their childhoods, I feel very lucky for the experience I had growing up: no emotionally or physically abusive parents, a rather amicable custody situation, and, though we were far from rich, we were able to get by without my realizing how on the brink we sometimes stood.

Yet I find myself thinking about this woman, who I never knew, who loved me. I find myself imaging how I would try to tell her about my life now. I find myself postulating how I would be different as a person if she didn't have that stroke, if she wasn't taken away from us.

I guess this is the right time for this mental roller coaster ride. She died in December. I know the holidays bring back that memory for my mother each year.

With people around me who are pregnant, or trying to get pregnant, or already have kids, there is this quiet wanting in the back of my mind for the life I have yet to live. And, tonight, there is the dreaming of what it would have been like to have heard my grandmother's voice as she smiled at me, held me in her arms, and called me her sweet banana.

Comfort

2011-12-30T00:31:00.000-05:00

The scent of his hair lingered on her hand. The delicious smell wafted up her nostrils as she randomly rubbed her itchy nose. That scent, his scent, made her smile.

There time together had been innocent. She'd gone to the party to relax after a stressful week at work. They'd known each other for some time, having met through the friend who hosted that evening. They saw each other, sat on the comfy couch, chatted, and commiserated on their difficult work lives.

Then, randomly, he reached in for a hug. They had already greeted each other, so this gesture seemed a little odd to her, but she knew him and liked him, so she accepted the affection anyway. He squeezed her tight. The embrace was just this side of being painful.

As she felt his body against hers, somehow this hug was different from their initial greeting. There was even more warmth, more comfort than before. It came from a place of knowing they each needed more than the other had previously been aware.

He began to nuzzle his head against hers. She returned the move, switching her head back and forth, gently brushing her ear into his hair. Her hands began kneading his flesh. An audible sign escaped his lips.

She let her mouth join in on the affection. She lightly kissed his ear, then ever so slightly gripped the top of his lobe with her teeth. He moved his cheek onto hers, and lightly kissed the inside of her neck. His hands had started working on her back as well, kneading and massaging the tight flesh.

They kept their embrace, lost in their own world, while the rest of the party continued around them. Their lips never met. There was no sex. Instead they shared affection, a desire to be close to someone, and found in the other the comfort they each needed in that moment.

On her car ride home, as she still smelled him on her hand, a warm wave of comfort hugged her, and she smiled.

Three Words

2011-12-28T22:29:00.000-05:00

Bravery. Forgiveness. Endurance.

Life has a way of falling into place for me as of late. I wanted to write something thought provoking tonight, but lacked a topic...that is until I read my friend Graydancer's blog. His latest got me thinking (again), and thus my entry started germinating.

His latest blog, Word Up, talks about an idea from Chris Brogen, using three words to "describe the themes you want to focus on for the upcoming year." These are not goals, but instead are touchstones for your year, ideas to go back to and strive to weave into your everyday life.

I knew mine before I even finished reading.

Bravery

I think some people who know me would say I posses this quality. I try to live a very open life. I want to be truly me, always. But, right now, I must admit next year scares me.

I have a lot on my plate. I have opportunities in both my work, kink, and writing lives that get me all twitchy. I fear I will not be able to live up to who I want to be, what I want to do, how far I want to push myself in the next twelve months.

So, I shall hold tight to the idea of being brave.

I will take on new work responsibilities, viewing my new found leadership potential as a challenge (not a threat).

I will go to my events possibly knowing people. However, either way, I will hold up my head, introduce myself to many many people, and see where life takes me from there.

I will write, not thinking about how others will view my work, love or criticize, hail or trash. I will write for me, for the love of my stories, my characters. I will pour my heart out onto the page and see where life decides to let the words flow.

I will be brave, even when I'm scared. Even when all I want to do is curl up in a ball under the covers and snuggle with Tessie. I will not let myself be less than all I could possibly be, with or without the jitters.

Forgiveness

I want to work on giving myself a fucking break. Often times I beat up myself for little missteps, mistakes, bumbles, opps, etc.

I am a much harsher judge of myself than I will ever be of anyone else. I seek a level of ability, or near perfection, I would never expect in others. I chastise myself for small mistakes when the same deeds in others I merely brush off.

This year, I will endeavor to not lecture myself on the simple faux pas. I will work to accept that whatever happened happened, that I do not need (nor should I ever expect) to be perfect, that people will still love and care about me if I do something stupid, or forget something minor, or just plain fuck up. I must learn to let things go, to release my anxiety, to let it roll off my back.

My friendships, and my life, are not balanced on the head of a pen. I need to stop believing that they are.

Endurance

I have set myself up with multiple highly ambitious goals:

- attending ten (or more) events

- taking every Sunday off for my writing

- finishing at least one (if not two) novels

With that as just my baseline, I have more on my plate than most would ever dare eat. But, I have an ace in the hole: endurance.

Often people ask me how I survive at events. For those who don't know, I usually go to bed around 6am and am up around 9am. My standard answer is adrenaline and shear force of will.

To an extent, this is true. My job has assisted in teaching me how to function on low amounts of sleep. However, when I am at an event, for the most part, it is those two ingredients that get me through.

However, for the year, this will not work. Instead, I know I have to pace myself. I know I need to budget time for work, play, AND rest. I have to learn to endure not just a night or a weekend, but for weeks, months, my entire year.

I have faith in myself to be able to achieve all my goals. I will have excellent amazing sexy fun times at events. I will write and write and write. And I will finish, dammit; I will finish.

So, those are my three words. I encourage you to ponder the idea, and then head to Gray's blog and let him know what yours are.

Charlie & David (pt. three)

2011-12-27T23:05:00.001-05:00

I didn't return to Happy Hour the next week. Or the following week. This was a delicate game and I wanted the boys to stew a bit. I waited an entire month, in fact, before I returned.

And when I did, the room was abuzz with the tensions between the two men. It seemed my leaving was when the fracture began. Charlie wanted to go after me, but David was fine with finding new prey. Charlie didn't want to be bested by my ignorance, but David saw it as charming and was patient enough to wait for a week.

They ended up pouncing on another piece of fresh meat that night. The following week they waited for me, until around 11pm. Then they settled for coveting one of the older bears of the group, one who had secretly whispered to me that he expected to never be in their sights. I was glad to hear he had his storage closet moment. Two more hot new young things were the third and fourth weeks.

All the while, everyone wondered where I was. This had been the longest I'd been away, previously earning the status of "new regular". And everyone wanted to see what would happen when I returned. Charlie seemed antsy and David more cold and distant; most believed it had to do with their missed opportunity in me.

When I arrived, early, there were only a few people chatting and eating. They immediately grabbed me, brought me over to the table, dished on all that had happened, and asked why I'd been away. I gave my planned excuse, work, and everyone bought the lie.

Everyone also wanted to know if I was going to accept the advances of the Charlie and David that evening. I was coy, dodging around the questions, buying time until they arrived. No one needed to know what I had planned. I wanted to be sneaky; it was oh so much fun that way.

The duo arrived later than before, each with a haggard and worn look. Though they had performed their weekly spectacle, I wondered, as I saw them enter the bar, whether they did it anymore for fun. Or was it just out of habit. Or some weird belief in their obligation to the group. I wondered why it had started at all, and if it would ever stop.

It didn't take ten seconds for them to see me. It didn't take ten seconds for the table to clear. It didn't take ten seconds for them to surround me again, this time all at once, no hope of a swift exit. It didn't take ten seconds for my plans to continue.

"You're back," said Charlie.

"Yeah. Work. Busy. You're Charlie, right?"

"You remembered."

"Yes. Chaplin, not Brown. And you're Dan?"

"David."

"Right. David. How have you been?"

"Hungry." David's one word answer was said low, almost whispered, full of bass, and was not talking about his stomach. Charlie shot him an angry look. David either didn't see it or ignored him. I pretended like I didn't know exactly what David wanted.

"Um, I know a good sushi place. It's close by, right around the block from my house. Field trip?"

"Great idea," said Charlie.

"Great." I hopped off the chair and swung on my jacket. David gripped his hand over mine as I pushed in my chair. He interlaced his fingers with mine, holding my hand.

"Not letting you go this time." Charlie again shot him a look, but this stare was filled with jealousy.

"I'm not going anywhere." I playfully pulled on David's arm and led the two men out the door.

As we walked, David continued to hold my hand. Charlie followed behind. I could feel his eyes on us.

David's grip was firm but soft. Lightly, he brushed his against the back of my hand. This was not as I had planned, but I liked holding David's hand. I decided to go with this new development.

When we got to the sushi place, we were informed the wait would be thirty minutes, an inconvenience I had anticipated.

"My place is just around the corner. Do you want to raid my fridge instead?" The grin on Charlie's face was a mile wide.

"That sounds like a great idea," said Charlie.

"You don't know us." David looked interested, but also concerned.

"Everyone at Happy Hour likes you. They told me so when I came in tonight. You know Jane? She's like my big sister. If she approves of you, I do too."

"Let's go raid a fridge then," Charlie said, a new glee in his eye, even as he glanced down at David's hand and my hand still interlocked.

(to be continued)

The Morning After

2011-12-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

She awoke, no headache to speak of, but her throat was dry. She rolled over to grab her water bottle when it all came flooding back to her.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!

The company holiday party. Joining her boss and other coworkers on the back patio. They had cigarettes. He smoked a cigar.

Why did he have to be smoking a cigar?

All she had wanted was to get away from the noise. All she had wanted was to be near him. But, in that moment, with his sweet scent wafting around her, all she wanted was him.

She leaned against the wall, taking in their aimless conversation, trying her best to not be noticed. They generally ignored her, granting a head nod or two. As the cigarettes slowly stamped out, soon it was only the two of them that remained.

She wasn't sure he had noticed her before the others had departed. He turned to her, took another puff, and tilted his head to the sky breathing out the smoke.

"What kind are you smoking?"

"You smoke?"

"No, I..."

She had drank too much. She peaked outside her bedroom window. The car was in the driveway. When had she gotten home? The drive back, and dropping off the intern, came back. The kid talked too much.

"I like to be around people, men, who smoke cigars." He gave a puzzled look. She grinned, bit her lip, and turned away. It was cold, so much so she would have shivered if the heat in her loins wasn't warming her.

"You look like you're almost done." She nodded towards his cigar. "Can you tell me when you are about to finish?"

"I have one puff left." He took it, filling his mouth with smoke, and slowly releasing it in her direction. She closed her eyes, took in the sweet scent, and relaxed back into the wall.

"May I do something for you, something I know you'll like?" He thought for a moment, then nodded his approval.

She pushed herself off the wall and slowly approached him. Her short skirt. Her low cut tank top. Her knee high leather boots. Her tights with the crotch cut out. All of it made her feel sexy. She could feel the heat of her desire pulsing towards him with her few but deliberate steps.

Standing in front of him, even in her boots, he towered over her. She lifted the cigar from his hand, turned up his palm, and rolled the ash into the worn flesh. Placing her hands behind her back, she tilted over, displaying her chest just a little more. Easing her head in, she paused just in front of his hand. Looking up into his eyes, a carnal passion filling his gaze, she grinned again.

Then, tilting her head back down, she began to lick the ash out of his hand. Long languid strokes into his palm, in between his fingers, all around. Softly she sucked on the small mounds at the base of each finger. She traced the lines of his palm with the tip of her tongue. She swiveled her head back and forth, licking, sucking, fucking his hand.

Before she understood what was happening, she was again against the wall. The hand which she had been loving now gripped her hair, pulling her head back. His body leaned into her. His other hand violently pushed her thighs open. He then learned her tights were crotchless and she wore no panties.

"Yes. Yes. Yes!"

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!

With his foot, he shoved the metal trash can in front of the door. Meanwhile, two fingers played in her pussy while his thumb stroked circles around her clit.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Open your eyes." His voice was booming, commanding. She would not dare defy him. His stare was calculating, controlled.

"Do you want me fuck to you?" Her voice was gone now. All she could do was pant or moan or whine at his manipulations. He brought his face closer still to hers. He would not unlock his eyes from hers.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice had turned ice cold, threatening.

"Yes." She said it as a whimper, as a plea, as a secret she had promised never to reveal.

"Hmm." He tilted his head, measuring her up, taking in her response.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Someone banged on the door. The noise broke his stare, broke her trance, broke the moment. He loosened his grip on her hair a little and paused his fingers in her pussy. Shocked, horrified, not knowing what else to do, she turned and ran, feeling his fingers slip out of her as she fled.

She hurried around the building, quickly found the intern, and sped away.

Oh god, what have I done? What have I done!?!

She paced her bedroom floor. She could still feel his grip in her hair, his fingers in her pussy, the smell of cigar smoke on her skin.

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up. It was him. She answered.

"Hello?"

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

"I... Um..."

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes."

"Midnight. The patio. Bring your favorite cigar. And this time, you won't be able to get away."

The Hand

2011-12-26T11:54:00.000-05:00

There are toys to be played with, laughter to be sung out, and gift cards to cash in. Therefore today I give you all another story I wrote some years back. Enjoy.

The Hand

She lay in bed, trying to pretend everything was normal. The radio was on. Her boyfriend was next to her. She was fine, in no danger at all. But she could not sleep.

It was the hand, his hand, back lit and shadowy, resting on his side. She couldn’t be certain; in fact she had to be wrong. The hand wasn’t looking at her, staring, waiting until she closed her eyes. Hands aren’t scary.

She tried to calm herself. Her boyfriend’s snoring began to grow louder. Her mind gripped onto that reality: her loving companion, asleep next to her. Maybe he would rollover, taking her view of the hand away. She waited. And waited. For once, he slept soundly.

She would convince herself this was silly. It was just the darkness of the room frightening her. She would overcome this foolishness. She closed her eyes. And opened them a nano second later. Did it move? No, she knew it hadn’t. It is a hand. Hands are not that quick, especially the hand of a sleeping lover.

She would do better. Count to five. Yes, she would close her eyes and count to five. She could do this. It was simple. She closed her eyes and counted 1 … 2 … 3…

She quickly opened her eyes. She had felt something touching her neck. But it had not moved, not even a fraction of an inch. That hand was still on his side. Yet, it felt like fingers, cold fingers, had tried to wrap around her neck.

But how could this be? The hand was exactly as it had been, unmoving, seeming to stalk her still.

This is in my head. I cannot let fear control me. I will do this.

She would close her eyes again. She could count to ten this time. She would do this, in hopes of willing herself to sleep. She closed her eyes. 1 … 2 … 3

Breath escaped her. She opened her eyes, reaching for her neck. Once again, she felt the cold fingers against her skin. And once again, the hand was there, unmoved.

She could not sleep. She could not think. Her fear gripped her mind. How would she survive this night with that hand always watching, waiting for her to close her eyes?

He can help me. I can rouse him.

Slowly, she reached over to his back and gently pushed him. No response. She tried again, harder. He stirred, finally.

Like many other nights, he turned over and pulled her close. She snuggled into his embrace, relieved she no longer saw the hand in the scary light.

He gripped her hip, as he was prone to do. The gesture sent soothing waves through her. She relaxed and closed her eyes, nuzzling into her pillow.

And as she began to dream of their coming beach vacation, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the breeze toss up her hair, she did not feel the cold fingers slip around her neck, as it squeezed the life out of her.

Not Part Three

2011-12-25T11:55:00.001-05:00

It's Christmas you perverts; did you really think I was going to have the time to be thoughtful and imaginative when I have family and roommates and presents (oh, presents) to handle. For fuck's sake, I stayed up til 3:15am finishing one of the gifts I gave (a blanket that was suppose to have been given back in August; yup, it took that long).

However, since you actually ventured to my little internet hideaway, I won't leave you wanting. For your enjoyment, I've posted some of the pieces I wrote in my grimy poetry house days. Yes, that means I cheated. Good thing my Daddy hasn't arrived yet. Otherwise I'm sure my ass would have gotten a right good lashing (and he'd call it my Christmas gift).

So enjoy these oldies but goodies:

Tryst

She laid across the chaise,
an odalisque of ebon marble,
with a kir in one hand,
and her raven coif flowing over her bare chest.
Con fuoco eyes seized me,
ordering my entrance into the chasm within her.
Our torrid bodies coagulated until,
in the cacophony of our screams,
my chastity escaped from my body into her.

Stolen Sight

Small little peaks,
Small little moments,
Excite me.

He sat next to me,
Crouched over in the chair,
Angled away from me, just so.

His shirt slipped up, and,
At his belt line,
A patch of skin from his back was displayed.

With all my restraint
And all my strength,
I kept from brushing my fingertips,
Or just flat out licking,
That delicate exposed area
I longed to make mine.

　

What I want

If I wanted sex, I’d always look cute.
Primp my hair, makeup on my face.
Boots to the knee to keep up the pace.

If I wanted sex, no shoe would be flat.
Every skirt would be short,
Every shirt showing cleavage. No pants.

If I wanted sex, I would be demure, sweet
Smile on my face, roses on my cheek.

But I don’t want sex; I want to fuck.
Cause your pretty little sex just isn’t enough.
　

Charlie & David (pt. two)

2011-12-24T00:36:00.004-05:00

I don't think anyone realized I had never seen them before, but I knew as soon as they walked in together who they were. The pair, the infamous duo, gracing our Happy Hour once more.

Charlie wore a slightly wrinkled dress shirt, unbuttoned a few notches and without a tie, showing off his Asian-work-trip tan. David was sharp, all business, in a tailored suite with creases I almost feared would cut me.

When they arrived, the din of the bar lowered to a mutter. It was obvious what everyone was talking about.

I sat in my usual spot in a cushioned corner window seat, sipping my Amstel Light. As they stood in the entrance, surveying the crowd, a quandary occurred to me: Yes, they played together, but did that extend beyond fucking up someone else's shit? Did they fuck each other? And, if so, who was the top?

Just as a devilish grin crept across my face at this new thought, they both locked in on me in my little corner. I felt a surge of nervous anticipation, wondering if they'd take the bait. Wondering if my little scheme would actually have a shot at fruition.

I intentionally wore a low cut white buttoned shirt, a short skirt, white knee socks, and saddle shoes. Like Charlie, I'd missed a few buttons. Most everyone at Happy Hour said I looked sexy. I was like Dom catnip; I hoped I would get bit.

It was Charlie who first saw me. Once his stare was locked, David's gaze soon followed. I found this interesting, considering everyone seemed to believe David was the more dominant of the two. This small gesture, however, began my suspicions of an other-than-obvious dynamic at play.

It was also Charlie who first came over to ensnare their prey. When the people at my table saw the storm had set their sights on me, everyone thought it was time for another round. With the table quickly cleared, Charlie swaggered over and sat directly opposite me. He flashed his signature smile.

"You're new. Who are you?" I took a sip of my beer but looked straight past him.

"I believe the proper phrasing is What is your name?."

"My name's Charlie. Thank you for asking." He flashed the smile again, turning on the charm.

"Really? Charlie? Like Charlie Brown, the cartoon nitwit." The smile went away. I took another small sip of my beer, and grimaced at the game.

"No, like Chaplin, the master entertainer."

"Isn't it the same?"

"No, it is not the same." An edge had entered his voice. I finally turned away from the game and looked into his eyes. I also turned on the cute.

"Did I offend you? I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry." I dipped my head down and brought my arms together, plumping my cleavage while twisting my hands nervously. "You just said your name was Charlie and it was the first thing that came to my mind because I love the Peanuts." I lifted my gaze past him again. "Oh gosh, the game is so close. I'm an alum. Well, it was nice to meet you Charlie." I flashed him a smile, then willed my eyes back to the far away television screen.

As I did, David slinked into the chair next to mine, sitting just a little too close. Without them noticing, I gazed Charlie catching David's eye in some sort of quiet language. It was David's turn.

"This must be your first Happy Hour. I'm David." He reached out his hand for me to shake it, but I pretended to not see it, instead pounding my hand on the table because of a bad play. "Why are you more concerned with a sporting event than interacting with anyone?" He slipped his hand over mine and lightly squeezed it.

"Um, I guess I'm new? New-ish. It's just I forgot today was the big game and I had meant to DVR it at home but than I came here and saw it was on and now I think I just might go home. I really shouldn't miss this. I'll just come back next week." I swirled around, looking flustered, but really just releasing my hand from David's grip.

"You're going to rush all the way home? The game will be over by the time you get there."

I gathered my things, being sure to not make eye contact with either of them.

"Oh no, I live just a few blocks away. And they just went to commercial. I should go." I turned away from both of them, bent over, and presented my ass as I reached for a small purse on the floor. I was wearing a lacy thong. I pulled out some cash and arched my back as I rose. I placed the money on the table and grabbed my coat. The boys, when they again realized the situation, began protesting. I just talked over them.

"It was really nice meeting the two of you. Charlie and Dave, right? I'll see you next week."

I quickly rushed out the door.

No one had ever resisted them. Ever.

(to be continued, tomorrow)

Charlie & David

2011-12-23T09:53:00.000-05:00

Part One

The two of them were a terror. No, a force of fucking nature. Charlie, with his easy manner, wandering and inviting eyes, boyish smile, and his oh so slutty ways. David, with his brooding attitude, intense knowing stare, and the ability to bring any and everyone to their knees. The two of them, unleashed on any room, broke spirits, broke cherries, and broke furniture.

It didn't matter who you were. If Charlie and David set their sights on you, inevitably you would end up in the same position as everyone else: bent over, your mouth around David's cock, while Charlie pounded you from behind. The only variation seemed to be which hole you preferred. Charlie loved all of them.

David, when having his cock sucked, apparently seemed almost bored. Occasionally, he'd grab you by the hair, lift up your face, slap you a few times, just so you knew who was in charge and remembered whose dick you were sucking, and then shoved your face back down on his cock.

I wasn't new, but I was new-ish. Charlie had been away for some time on an extended company trip. David had also been busy with work, regrettably unable to come out to Happy Hour for the past few months.

I had been attending Happy Hour for about half a year. People took to my quiet easy nature, calling me a good listener when I didn't reveal any of my deep dark secrets, and nurtured me in the unspoken rules about the community. And everyone, everyone warned me about Charlie and David.

Well, warn is the wrong term. It was more like they bragged about their Charlie and David experience.

"Yeah, my third Happy Hour, in the women's bathroom. After about ten minutes, the banging on the door stopped when they realized I was with Charlie and David. They then just went to the men's room. Everyone understood."

"I didn't think I was into guys, but Charlie started massaging my back, my neck. I had had a stressful day at work, and the alcohol wasn't working. But Charlie's hands did. And before I understood what was about to happen, Charlie's tongue was down my throat, and I liked it. I really liked it. So now I call myself hetero-flexible."

"I'm a slut. They're both hot. So yeah, I did it. And fuck, it was fun."

But the thing that always bugged me was that I never heard anyone's second Charlie & David story. Everyone had their experience in the eye of the storm, but it seemed to me that no one ever got caught up again, which was quite odd because everyone loved it. I mean it often was the start of conversations.

"I got this neck cramp yesterday that reminded me of how it felt while I was working on David's cock."

"Do you think Charlie's going to teach an anal class this summer? He did this one thing that I still can't figure out how to replicate."

All these recountings, all this conversation, but it all seemed to be instances of hit-it and quit-it. And me, the adopted baby sister, quietly sitting and hearing it all.

So, when the stormed tried to sweep me up, I had other ideas... (to be continued, tomorrow)

To Be Hers

2011-12-21T23:23:00.000-05:00

Her lips brushed my lips. My neck.

Her tongue trailed down my sternum, catching my breath. The tip swirled around my belly button making me giggle. She smiled, then sunk her teeth into my flesh. I gasped, and endured the pain.

She dragged her teeth up and down my thighs, taking care to avoid my hot and wanting cunt.

She looked into my eyes. Caressed my cheek with her hand. Then ground her nails into my throat, ceasing my breathing. When she released her hold, I could feel the individual pockets each nail left behind.

Again her lips kissed my body. This time just above where I longed for her to traverse.

She toyed. Tempted. Teased. But never ever relented.

That is, not until I begged.

"Please."
First, just a whisper, almost a prayer for my wanting to be fulfilled.

"Oh, god, please."
Then, a simple request, asking for what she already knew I wanted.

"Anything. I will do anything. Please."
Bargaining, which only made her now giggle.

"Please. Please, god, please! Fuck, please. Please! I am begging you, please."
Finally, the desperation. The need. The utter release of anything close to pride or reservation.

To be so at her mercy. To be so beholden to her whim. That was when she, finally, granted me my need.

Her lips. Her full, soft, subtle, beautiful lips around my clit. Her fingers inside my pussy. My hands in her hair. Fucking her face. Riding her hard til I came. And then came again. The ferocity of her tongue. Her hunger to have all of me. And my need to be hers so totally.

Anniversary

2011-12-21T00:21:00.000-05:00

She wore it under her jacket. It was cinched tight. The strands laid above and below, as well as between her breasts. She choose soft poly nylon rope, though she would not feel the texture through her clothes.

She flung on a jacket and buttoned it up. No one would notice; no one would've cared, but she didn't feel like exampling it. She just wanted to be in rope.

The binding was like a constant hug. With each breath she felt the tight chest harness she'd placed around herself.

She wore it because she wanted to, because she needed to. She wore it to hold in her emotions, to comfort and quiet her thoughts, to feel free as she bound off this part of herself.

As she walked, as her body moved, she felt it. As she sat, stood, laughed, talked, she felt it. It was what her body desired, what she desired. It made her think of him.

It made her think of their weekend together on the beach. Of their cup of coffee on that cold January day. Of meeting, falling for, and saying goodbye to him.

It was January again, cold again, and she thought of him again. So she wore it.

She remembered the way he liked to tie it, remembered each bend, each knot. She copied his form because she could not copy the moments. The rope hugged her, loved and caressed her when he couldn't.

And as she played the young kinkster, the care free girl, the solo poly lover of life and fun, chatting with people who didn't know and would never know him, her thoughts drifted to that beach, to that weekend. To eyes meetings, lips brushing, and lives forever altered.

When she came home, she took off the jacket. She slipped into bed. And, though she knew she must remove it in the morning, she wore his harness all night to remember him.

Flawed

2011-12-19T23:49:00.000-05:00

A recent letter from a far away friend got me thinking.

Though I've spoken recently concerning what I love about myself and what makes me me, other than one or two choice entries, I have not extensively talked about my flaws.

As a mostly positive person, I tend to shy away from the aspects of myself I do not like. I've spoken about the undue pressure I put on myself, as well as my tendency to compare my life to others. I think, since I have talked about what I love about me, it's time to talk about some of the things I like less about myself. (I am not fool enough to think these are my only flaws, just the ones I can think of right now.)

Daddy issues/Insecurities

I suppose it is a cliche that I am a cis-gendered woman and have Daddy issues. But, to be fair, I did grow up in a situation that lent itself to this flaw.

I am the product of an affair, and never actually lived with my father. One of my half brothers did, a fact that rocked me to my core when I learned it. My mind took the leap that I was not good enough, not loved enough by my father to have earned this privilege. It didn't help that he was, and is, a man who lacks the ability to freely talked about his emotions and express his feelings.

Later I learned the living situation was due to certain issues in my brother's life. And, as an adult, I have grown closer to both my father and my brother. Yet still, it lingers. That feeling of not being good enough. Of not being loved enough. Of being less than.

This has migrated and morphed into a sense of insecurity around myself in general. When someone I like doesn't like me, I don't make the logical conclusion that we just didn't click. Instead I think that I'm not pretty enough, not funny enough, not submissive enough, not anything enough.

And I go into the blue donut of doom, and Green Eyes cackles at me, and no good happens from these moments.

Accepting my body

I've been larger than average for as long as I can remember. My mother is a very large woman and I grew up with her as my model. I ate my portion, thinking it was bad to leave any food on the plate, even if I was stuffing myself. My mother was very sedentary, often spending her weekends in front the television and doing little else. There was a time, as a child, where I craved physical play, but the neighborhood we moved to was less than ideal and my time outside was stopped.

Later on in life, while in college, I was so broke I spent only $10 a week on food. I often asked my friends if they were going to finish their meals. Food had become a commodity to me. I lost a lot of weight my junior year in college, so much so that people in my major noticed. But this was not a healthy way to do so, seeing as I was on the razor's edge of starving.

Now I know when things are going well in my life because I am not hungry, and I can, and do, eat when I want. Unfortunately, it is also when I gain weight.

That year in college found me at my lowest weight since the middle of high school. From then on, I've gained thirty pounds. Ideally, I'd want to find my way back to that body and that weight, just not in that way.

When I look in the mirror, sometimes I see my beauty. Other times, I feel angry, or sick, or worse pathetic. I know I've done this to myself and just want to scream.

I ate because it was comforting. I ate because it was pleasurable. I ate because I could.

Recently, with my new found need to be physical six days a week, I eat because I'm hungry. I eat because if I don't I get dizzy when I run. I eat because I need to.

Yet still, when I look in the mirror, I can't always be happy with what I see.

Burying my Domme

There is a side of me that I'm nervous, and almost afraid, to let out.

My Domme persona has not been nourished near enough for my satisfaction.

It is easy for me to drop into my sub space. It's what I know. DeepEnd put it best when he said it can be like a mental vacation. Other times, it is allowing my emotional pain to manifest itself in my body. Often times, I am their for others, to serve them in whatever way they need.

But, when I am a Domme, when the mean little brat gets to romp around, I get nervous.

She likes being mean. Like really really mean. She likes laughing at other people's pain. She loves toying with their bodies like they were her toys. She loves pushing them til they break. And though I know I shouldn't, I fear what that means about me, what that makes me.

So I bury her. She gets little food other than watching scenes, some fucking, and occasional fantasies.

And I know this is wrong. I know I shouldn't push this part of myself aside, that I should embrace her and feed her needs. But I have yet to find a way to allow myself to go there, to truly sink in deep and gallop around in my darkness.

And I don't know how get there either.

Thankful

2011-12-19T11:53:00.001-05:00

This past Thanksgiving was the first time the actual dinner was hosted at my home. My previous years were spent with extended family at their houses. Over the course of my life, my final destination for each Thanksgiving has changed with the passing of older relatives and the development of my own adult life.

We had a bunch of people over our house; I think about twenty-five. Three of my relatives were in attendance, including the first time my parents had seen each other in years. SkinnyBitch had three relatives as well, while DeepEnd had five. We hosted about ten of our kinky friends and a few of their children. It was a very full house.

Our day started early, with DeepEnd & SkinnyBitch rising at 4:45am to put the turkey into the oven. This bird was, I shit you not, the size of a small child. SkinnyBitch had ordered a thirty pound bird, but the farm did not have any in that size. Instead DeepEnd picked up at 38.5lb beast of a turkey.

I happened to wake up at 4:48am, coughing because my throat was dry. I crept downstairs to fill my water bottle and found them prepping the turkey, marveled at it's enormity, and took a picture for posterity.

Note the Morton's salt canister for size reference.

With the bird in the oven, SkinnyBitch & DeepEnd returned to their spots on the couch in the Family Room while I went back to bed. About thirty minutes later, though, we were woken up by the sound of the smoke alarm. Quickly rushing into action, all three of us hoping to not disturb the rest of the house, we set up a fan by the alarm, opened the garage door, and lowered the temperature on the oven. This would not be our only occurrence of smoke issues that day.

Up for good this time at 10am, I made a quick supplies run to the grocery store before heading to my hometown to pickup my mother. I arrived back at the house around 1pm. My mother fell into conversation with SkinnyBitch's mother, thank goodness, and the turkey soon came out of the oven.

Golden brown and delicious.

I helped out SkinnyBitch as much as I could around the kitchen, though with more food arriving with our guests the majority of the cooking was complete.

Our kinky friends slowly filtered in, along with the relatives who had not slept over Wednesday night.

The next big moment was the carving of the turkey.

I made that platter; it seemed appropriate.

This task fell to DeepEnd, who first setup a station in the Dining Room, and then began his work.

The first cut.

I especially liked this part of the day as I had no shame in my love of the turkey skin and DeepEnd had no qualms about giving me almost every juicy inch of it. (Oh yeah, that's what she said.) I shared the bounty of the deliciousness with MollyRen, my mother, and SkinnyBitch's Mom.

The carcass.

As dinner time approached, and more food as well as another table arrived, the roommates and I setup the buffet style meal in the kitchen.

The kids got their food first, and with the option of either sitting with the adults or taking their food downstairs to the basement, grown-ups it seemed were less appealing than a cache of Nerf guns.

After the kids, the rest of us dug in. With so much food, my first plate was only the veggies; my second round was the meat. My mother had brought a ham, we had tons of turkey, and the stuffing and dressing were to die for. SkinnyBitch is an excellent cook.

Though of course this was not on purpose, the dinner found us all separated by vanilla and kinky. For seating, we had arranged our Dining Room table in such a way to maximize the flow of foot traffic. SkinnyBitch and I made a Target run on Wednesday and picked up two folding tables and eight chairs. Our kinky friends had all been warned to bring their own seats, just in case. The family members stayed at the smaller Dining Room table while our kinky friends sat at the Target tables.

As the meal progressed, we soon moved on to desserts. Our kinky friends were asked to bring either a dessert or wine. We received two pies, a baking dish full of brownies, and seven bottles of wine. We finished four bottles of wine, half of each pie (apple & cherry), but all of the Godiva chocolate brownies.

After the meal, SkinnyBitch had already made it known she wanted a fire in the Family Room and to sip hot cocoa. DeepEnd attempted to set a fire, but instead found yet another instance of the smoke alarm going off. We opened windows and nixed the fire for that evening.

Slowly, the get together dissapated. Room assignments were already made for the evening, putting me on the couch with SkinnyBitch and DeepEnd.

My mother enjoyed my bed and bedroom after I extensively covered up some items on my walls (Boudoir Nation wallpaper, flagging codes, Rope Camp & Midori's Rope Dojo flyers), items on my dressers (cigar boxes, bootblacking kit, fox tail, erotic magic book), and the contents of my lamp table (burnt clothing, event name tags, empty cigar tube). I secured her promise that she would not snoop and then released my personal space to her for the night. So far, she has asked no questions, therefore I trust her at her word.

With everyone cleared out who was not going to sleep over, I nestled into the soft couch cushions, played some Jack Johnson on my iPhone, and drifted off to sleep.

Warmth

2011-12-18T04:21:00.000-05:00

She was sweaty. From their combined body heat. From the tons of sex they'd had earlier. But not from the temperature, which was unpleasantly cool, but just shy of cold.

And as she tried to snooze, she felt a chill down her back, right where the covers parted between them.

Before, they had been snuggled together, naked and panting. Her head cradled in his arm. His hand softly gripping her breast. Her ass nestled against his half-hard cock. His breath tickling the back of her neck. The prickly feeling brought back fresh memories of his lips there. His tongue there. His teeth there.

But now they were turned in opposite directions, each curled up on their side of the bed, and a cool draft filling the new hole in the middle. The annoying chill had woken her.

Her wet body added to the wind's effect, making her shiver where earlier she'd pulsed with warmth, both on her skin and in her core. She silently cursed their bodies' unconscious separation, and turned to face his back.

Maybe if she nuzzled against him, in a funny mirror of their earlier spoon, the cold would go away. She scooted her body over. Brought her hips to his ass. Her arm above his head. Her other arm over his hip.

Instinctively, he grabbed her hand in his and brought it up to his heart, pulling her in closer. Her face rested on his back, her cheek against solid muscle.

Again she remembered. Her face brushing against his thigh just before she started sucking his cock. His slaps across her cheek. The way he delicately kissed her face, her forehead, her lips as they began that evening's play.

She let out a deep breath, and began relaxing back to sleep.

Bomb-iversary

2011-12-17T02:41:00.000-05:00

My FetFest started Thursday evening.

It was the first time I'd driven to New York. GoogleMaps said it would take me about five hours, so I sped. With my newly acquired Easy Pass, the first few states breezed by. And then I hit the New Jersey Turnpike...

After that particular torture, I took a tunnel and found myself in the Big Apple, slowed down by rush hour traffic, but in the city at 5:30pm, an hour and a half ahead of schedule.

I headed to the address where Murphy instructed me to meet him. I texted him of my early arrival, and circled the surrounding blocks a few times before finding a spot. With my things for FetFest packed in my trunk, the only item visible from the outside of my car was Winnie, my stuffed penguin who sat by the back windshield.

Out of the car, and happy to be moving my legs around, I half skipped my way to the house. I texted him I was outside. I waited.

After a time, I called. "I'm outside."

"I know. You look sexy."

"What? You can't see me."

"Still, I know you look sexy."

He opened the front door and greeted me with a hug. He introduced me to his friend SwordSaint. All three of us departed.

As we walked, my smile hurt my mouth; I was so happy to be in the city and with Big Bro again. We stopped for impromptu ice cream and the boys explained their rules of padiddle to me. We hopped on the Subway and made our way to the sight of the Bomb.

I asked about NYC geography, and was soon confused.

We scoped out the starting spot, making sure it would work. Satisfied that all was good, we headed to the diner. We ordered, we ate, and the people started streaming in.

I kept count as unfamiliar faces joined our ever growing group. The final headcount...40. Just about everyone who had ever participated in a Bomb attended this anniversary gathering. I had the sweet distinction of having this be my first rope bomb.

NYR Cabin was well represented, with Big Bro, myself, CabinMeat, CabinThug, and CabEx all in tow, and CabinElder due to arrive later.

Satisfied all possible participants were in attendance, we headed out. Murphy had us all shout out our names. He gave his bomb speech, and his CabinThug warning. (If you walked too slowly, CabinThug brought his whip.) We were off.

Once again, I was bouncy happy. As we walked, I chatted with Big Bro, congratulating him on the massive turnout.

At the first stop, Murphy gave everyone twenty minutes. We spread out like a web, with no one straying far out of sight. I, in error, left my rope bag in my car, thinking I would bottom that evening. Instead, there was a glut of willing rope bottoms, so I strolled around taking pictures with my iPhone. SwordSaint had Murphy's camera and captured images as well.

At our second site, we encountered a small hiccup with the authority. We moved on.

At the third sight, we were fifteen minutes into our twenty minutes allocated before the authority circled back. They explained, with a crowd of our size, we needed a permit. With apologies, their point was noted for next year. We moved on, much farther away this time.

It was closing in on midnight. Ten minutes for this third stop. With no rope of my own, and no one to tie me, my eagerness had waned. I wanted, needed something to jolt me back.

Enter Hermes, who said he need assistance as I jogged behind him and his two demo bottoms. I explained I knew basic harnesses and offered my help. He asked for a chest harness. "Arms tied or free?" He asked for a hip harness. "With or without a crotch rope?" As he worked on one, I worked on the other. We had them up, photos taken, and down within the alotted time. My heart sang again.

With the group reformed, and some fallen off by the late night, we stopped for refreshments. I bought two bottles of Gatorade, chugged one, and sipped the second slowly. Our night was far from done. We moved on.

While chatting, I mentioned how I lacked rope and wanted desparately to tie. A guy offered both himself and his rope for my assistance. At our next stop, I felt a rush as I tied a carada on him.

At our fourth, and final, stop, I wanted to feel rope on my body. After tying the man again, this time in a predicament with CabinMeat, I decided to self suspend. With just a hip harness, the guy helped me up onto my hard point: the metal railing of a walkway.

With the ropes secured, I sat into the harness and leaned my body back, extending my arms above my head, my body arching towards the ground. SwordSaint captured the moment.

With 3am approaching, and exhaustion creeping in on everyone, the Bomb-iversay disapated like a sweet mist.

Murphy, SwordSaint, and I crashed back at the house where I'd initially met them. Murphy took the couch while SwordSaint and I snuggled on a mattress on the floor. I was tired, sleepy, and ready to pass out. SwordSaint comforted me and kept me warm as I drifted into a deep, but brief, sleep.

Happy Hour

2011-12-16T01:27:00.001-05:00

Tonight I was suppose to be working til 11:30pm.

Instead, I found myself at Happy Hour, arriving around 7:30pm. Immediately, PrudeNate came up to greet me. It had been a while since we last saw each other. We hugged, and he engaged me in conversation as I stripped off the trappings of my job: black zip up hoodie, black polo work shirt, and my hair tie. I flipped my head down, shook my hair about, and flung my head back up. I was off, and happy for it.

I continued my greetings around the room, hugging FancyDancer, PenBeatSword, Devi, and Amethyst. I was back home, which I had missed so very much.

I settled in, ordered dinner, retrieved a drink, and chatted.

As I relaxed into being with my friends for the first time in a month, The Doctor eased into the room with a wayward soul in tow. The Gent had settled in by the bar, not understanding the kinky happy hour was in the room through the bay doors. With the Doctor's assistance, the Gent found his intended destination.

I, noticing he seemed new and was a rather attractive black man, stood and waved him over. I introduced myself, along with the rest of the group, and we invited him to sit and chat. We were our normal friendly selves, though I occasionally snuck a whispered comment to Big Sis. Like I said, he was quite attractive.

The subject of my scene name came up. He seemed very interested in my writing. My friends praised my talent. He wanted to hear my poetry. Pulling out my iPhone, I looked up my blog and found Written Raw. Devi departed to get another drink from the bar; Amethyst accompanied her. I adjusted over to sit next to the Gent.

Though I was nervous, I managed to read my work aloud into his ear. Our legs touched as I willed myself to concentrate on my words, hoping beyond measure that my tempo would not falter, that I would be able to convey all my emotions in that moment to him.

I warned him this particular poem was not sexy, having already mentioned that I write erotica. When I concluded my reading, he disagreed with my assessment.

We then eased into a conversation about kink in general and my predilections in particular. He stated each question asking that I treat him as if he knew nothing. This was thought provoking and intriguing and challenging. I appreciated the mental exercise.

He could not stay long, though. Before he left, I gave him a hug goodbye.

With my distraction departed, I slipped back into my normal Happy Hour self, breezily socializing with folks, drinking, and having a blissful merry time.

As I stood in the doorway from the bar to our room, Pen passed by. I greeted him again, mentioning we had not seen each other since Halloween. He acknowledged the long hiatus, but slyly pulled out his knife. He asked if I would like another taste. You can guess what my answer was.

Though I've attended Happy Hour off and on for the past year and a half, I had yet to experience the closet...until tonight.

We slipped in and he flipped open his blade. The dulled edge danced against my throat, across the back of my neck, my cleavage. I ground my hips back into his crotch. I breathed heavily. I loved the feel of his blade.

He wanted more time, more fun, more play (just like before). He pulled my hair, he squeezed my hips, and we kissed. Our styles were the same, and I found myself not wanting to stop feeling his lips against mine.

There was mention of Winter Fire, and possibly playing before that. He wanted to do so much more with me. He dangled the carrot of tying Dig up. I was more than happy to nip at the request.

Exiting the closet, Big Sis schooled me in the one rule of the closet: secure a look-out. I then returned her favor soon after my exit; she enjoyed a midnight kiss while I chatted with FlostonParadise and SkinnyBitch.

My evening wound down as SkinnyBitch and I grew tired around 11:30pm. After a brief stop at McDonalds for salt and carbs, we were on our way home. I had a new boy to write about, my time in the closet to chronicle, and much sleep to be had.

And to think, I was suppose to work tonight.

Music Saves Me

2011-12-15T02:02:00.000-05:00

When you walk by every night/Talking sweet and looking fine/I get kinda hectic inside/Baby I'm so into you/Darling if you only knew/All the things that go through my mind
Mariah Carey - Fantasy

I wanna dance with somebody/I wanna feel the heat with somebody/Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody/With somebody who loves me
Whitney Houston - I Wanna Dance With Somebody

What a difference...

So I wrote, I think, two years ago about a rather unpleasant experience. I was driving my then SO, now Ex, to work as he slept in the passenger seat. Along the ride, the song "Let's Get Married" by Jagged Edge came on. I loved this song, and would normally sing along, but instead I found myself teary eyed. So much so, in fact, I had to switch stations.

I soon realized this was because I was in a relationship with someone who, indeed, did not want to get married, a fact that knawed at me, but I didn't realize how much until that particular tune came on.

Fast forward to tonight, when the DJ played that song. Instead of being upset, on the verge of tears, I smiled. I sang along. I was, dare I say it, hopeful. No, I'm not in a long term relationship currently, but I have faith it will happen. I believe I will find my LTP(s) and I will have my wedding(s) someday.

This is so much more than I can say for back then, when the most I received was a shared life but no formal commitment, pulling teeth when it came to the question of children, and the constant worry I was being over emotional.

As the DJ continued his set list, I found myself singing along to more and more songs. Michael Jackson was heavily favored, including PYT (a personal favorite), Billie Jean, and Beat It. The Whitney and Mariah songs quoted above were also featured, two more I just had to sing along with.

When I'm happy, when I'm sad. When I'm lonely, or just need something...else, I turn to music. The name of my first iPod was MusicSavesMe. This is the hashtag I use on Twitter when I feature a song I've downloaded.

That simple statement is a truth in my life. I've linked so many special moments, sad moments, life changing and mundane occurences to music. It is like my heart beat, like the tempo of my breaths. Without it, I'm left emotionally raw and in need.

Music has this special way of piercing the veil around my heart, sinking in its teeth, and swallowing me whole. And I am so grateful for it.

A Moment At Work

2011-12-15T01:55:00.000-05:00

He asked me what I thought of the bar. I said it looked mildly obscene. He huffed a sort of laugh. He knew my humor; this was nothing new.

We slowly, gracefully, made our way to the back left corner of the room, delicately cutting in between guests. We stood, quietly watching everyone mingle.

We started chatting about nothing important. Seeing him with his hands behind his back, I put mine there as well.

I found my wrists gripping my forearms, my limbs in a familiar position. I smiled to myself.

I remembered a few of the times when my arms were like that, but bound in rope, unable to move forward.

I remembered walking around in my underwear with cigars tucked into my chest harness. I remembered going to Ava's class and her tips on maneuvering your arms to keep them from cramping. Demo bottoming for Dov, with the ache and the rush. Murphy flying me sideways.

I brushed the delicate skin of my inner arm with my thumb. A soft flow of warmth pulsed through my body. I grinned a little wider.

I delighted in how no one knew the naughty thoughts going through my mind. No one suspected the life I lived, the adventures I'd experienced, the stories I had to tell. I'm sure, to them, I looked like just another business casual party-goer.

He talked about something. I kept up my end of the conversation, knowing full well neither one us actually cared what was said. He departed soon after, leaving me with the space to care for.

The guests mingled, and ate, and danced. I just smiled, and caressed my skin, and held my arms behind my back.

Love On Top

2011-12-13T13:27:00.000-05:00

"But I know it's gonna take a little work/Nothing's perfect/But it's worth it/After fighting through my tears/And finally you put me first/Baby, it's you/You the one I love/You're the one I need/You're the only one I see/Come one baby it's you/You're the one that gives your all/You're the one I can always call/When I need you, you make everything stop/Finally you put my love on top"

Recently, when I was driving home, I was enjoying the radio and found myself listening to one of Beyonce's recent singles. Though my mother loves and adores the woman, I find Beyonce's music to be just okay.

However, for some reason, as I listened to Love On Top, it spoke to me. With each new lyric, I identified with another piece of what she was saying, but in a completely different way. As Beyonce went on and on about her now husband, Jay-Z, I kept finding the love she had for him reflected in myself.

Looking back on the year I've had (which I will delve into more in a future post), things have been pretty fucking fantastic. No, not perfect, but damn good. I did not escape this year without tears, but my win column far exceeds my losses.

Talking to my friends, it seems the strands of my view of myself and the way others view me are weaving together.

I was chatting with my friend N3rddom after a She Wants Revenge concert, speaking about how I was unpartnered poly. Randomly, he stated he was sure I would have partners in the future. I just sort of looked at him and said, "Really?" He seemed confused that I didn't realize this was going to happen. He started listing some awesome aspects of myself that of course I knew about but in that moment had not thought of. And the realization came to me. Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm fucking awesome.

I was chatting with my friend SkinnyBitch and she flippantly said I lived the life of a queen. "Yeah, sure." But then, in a less kidding and more real tone, she spoke about how I live my life the way I want, interact with whomever I want, when I want. I have a ton of freedom and use it to foster awesome friendships. Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm fucking awesome.

So, loosely quoting from the song...

I know it will take some work, because I am by no means perfect, but I'm worth that effort. Yes, there will be tears, as anyone who knows me knows I cry, a lot, but it's time I put myself first.

I love me. I need me to be me, no matter what. That person looking back at me in the morning in the mirror, brushing her teeth and smiling, is not all I want, but, for now, is all I need.

When I wake up each morning, I will love the person I see, because I give my all. I'm the one all my good friends call because I'm am there for them, but I must now also be there for myself.

I cannot make all my pain stop, but I can put me, and loving myself, on top.

ASA: The Words

2011-12-12T11:26:00.000-05:00

The ruler was made out of cedar, lacquered, with a metal straight edge. The numbers were a deep black, with inches as their only measurement. When it struck my hands, there was a snap in the air, not just from the sound but from the tidal shift in my world.

Mr. Ebon's class on Monday was just as brutal as ever. A pop quiz on the weekend's reading greeting his beleaguered students. I breezed through the questions and sat patiently as the rest trudged through it. As I waited, hands crossed on the desk, staring straight at the chalk board, though I never saw even a whisper of a glance from his direction, it felt like his eyes were always on me, always watching, always noting even my slightest twitch. It was unnerving, and exhilarating.

We passed all our quizzes, after the fifteen minute limit, to Hilda. Her desk was the most to the left, the closest to Mr. Ebon's. She left the pile on the desk next to hers and never dared look at them again. Once, when she happened to lean over to straighten the messy pile she'd originally left them in, Mr. Ebon burned her with a searing stare. His voice, though its same volume, took on a chilled quality. "Ms. Caron, don't." She never did, again.

Class over, the period bell rang, and our night's assignment given, everyone filtered out. As we all gathered our things to go, I had hoped maybe he would acknowledge me in some way. Maybe he would ask me to stay after, if only for a moment. Maybe he would give me a subtle cue, a knowing glance, something. I left his classroom, nary a whisper from his lips.

At 5:15pm, around the same time as my stroll on Friday, I made my way up to the History wing. Just like before, his was the only classroom who's door was closed. I stood outside, taking deep breaths, trying to quiet my nerves. Why was I nervous? Why did my heart flutter, my chest feel light as air?

"Come in, Ms. Ivory." I hadn't knocked, and yet he knew I was there. A second later, I realized half of the door was clouded glass. Who else would be at his door at so late an hour? I bit my lip from the slight embarrassment, and walked in.

I stood, just inside the door, my back against the wall. Though I'd done this before, though I'd been in this very room just a few hours before, it all seemed different. Holding my hands behind my back, I lightly brushed the wall for balance.

"You may sit as you did before."

Hesitantly, after screaming at my legs to move, I took my spot like last time, cross legged on the top of the desk. I pulled out my knitting and started a new row. I wanted to look up, but wanted just as much to breathe. After a few rows, and my breath nearing normal, I dared to tilt my head.

He sat, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. I had no idea what was going on in his head. Had no idea what he thought of me. Had no idea the next word to emanate from his lips. But I yearn for him to speak, to say something, to do something besides concentrate on me. He sat there for what seemed like forever.

"Do you know what domination is?" It seemed like an obvious question.

"To have control over someone or something."

"Do you know what a Dominate is?" Though I could not see it myself, I'm sure my face looked puzzled.

"Um, someone who has control over someone or something?"

"Yes. And do you know what submission is?"

"Giving up control or allowing oneself to be controlled."

"Good." He let a breath out, uncrossed his arms, and rested his hands on his desk. "Ms. Ivory, do you know what a submissive is?"

"Uh, one who gives up control, who allows oneself to be controlled."

"Yes." He leaned forward, looking very intently at me. "Ms. Ivory, are you a submissive?"

The question made no sense, and yet made perfect sense. I was at a loss for words.

I tried multiple times to find something, anything, to say. Finally, leaning back in his chair, he spoke again.

"Ms. Ivory, what happened on Friday was inappropriate. I am your teacher and you are my student. That conflict alone is... difficult. But I see in you what I felt in myself at your age: longing and a desperation to understand this part of you that, I suspect until a few minutes ago, lacked a name.

"You are a submissive. You do not fully realize what that all entails, but I see it. I saw it as soon as you walked into my classroom that first day. You are brilliant, and will do great things with your life, but you will not feel fulfilled unless you acknowledge this side of yourself and find an outlet for your desires."

Desires. What a perfect word for the swirling emotions in my head. Because, in that moment, all I wanted was to please him. To be at his beck and call. To do whatever it took to be his. I desired Mr. Ebon, had for almost as long as I'd known him, and now I possessed the words.

"Submissive." I let it roll on my tongue like a piece of hard candy. "Mr. Ebon, are you a Dominate?"

"Yes, Ms. Ivory. I am a Dom."

"Then, you can teach me to be a...Sub."

"Ms. Ivory..."

"You can teach me to be a Sub! You're my teacher. Teach me."

"Ms. Ivory, it's not that simple."

"Yes, it is! You're a Dom and I'm a Sub. You're my teacher, I need to learn, so teach me."

"Ms. Ivory, I'm your History teacher, not your..."

"Oh please, I'm acing your class just fine and probably could do it without your instruction."

My hand hit my mouth before I finished my next breath. His eyes grew wide, and his lips pursed. I couldn't see it, but I'm sure he started grinding his teeth. A moment later, he relaxed his face.

"Stand up." His voice was cold, calculating, chillier than even when he'd reprimanded Hilda. I put my knitting to the side, which I'd been holding the entire time, and slowly slid off the desk. He stood as well, once again towering over me.

"Turn around." I gulped hard and turned to the back of the classroom. My heart thumped in my chest.

"Bend over the desk, hands and arms flat." I carefully leaned into the position. The warmth of my breath bounced off the wood of the desk. I heard the drawer with the ruler open and close.

He stood beside me, his leg brushing up against mine.

"Five strokes this time for making the same mistake, twice in a row." He lifted my skirt. I, like most of the girls, wore boxer shorts over my panties. Using the ruler, he hooked the elastic waist band to help pull the shorts down. He let my panties stay on.

He placed his hand on the small of my back.

"You will count each stroke and follow the number with a Sir at the end. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head back. His mouth was on my ear.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir." He shoved my head back down.

Smack! "One Sir." It stung like a hundred bees stings.

Smack! "Two Sir." The sound was louder than on Friday, cracking through the entire room.

Smack! "Three Sir." I could tell he swung harder than before.

Smack! "Four Sir." My ass began to ache, but so did something else...

Smack! "Five Sir." I breathed hard, heavy. I knew I would go home and think of this tonight while in bed.

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"You may stand and pull up your shorts." I fixed my clothes, but remained looking towards the back of the room. "For now, Mondays and Fridays. You will come to this classroom and I will teach you. But, if anyone finds out about this, and I think you know this, I will loose my job. Are you worthy of me taking such a risk, Ms. Ivory?"

"Yes Sir." I tried to convey all of my gratitude, all of my wanting and yearning for both his lessons and him into those two words.

"Very well. Gather your things and go. I will see you again on Friday."

Like before, I hurriedly grabbed my bag and knitting. Like before, I quietly slipped out of the room. But, not like before, I dared a glance at his direction as I left. He sat, staring at me, the whisper of a grin on his lips.

Consent

2011-12-11T03:47:00.001-05:00

I mentioned recently listening to one of my FetFest audio recordings. This reminded me; I have not written anything on my blog about this inaugural event yet. So, in the coming month, I will recount some of the highlights of my time that weekend.

However, for this entry, I want to get something out of the way. There was one incident that was not fun or sexy. It was, well, just wrong.

I was getting ready for the slave auction held Saturday night. As per usual for any event I've attended, I was in a hurry. I showered, changed, and was in the process of leaving out.

Though I spent the majority of my time in Rope Village, my bed was in TNG Village. The cabin was empty, save for myself.

As I got ready, a guy walked in. I could tell he was drunk, but thought nothing of it. It was an event, and I felt anyone could choose to spend their time as they wished. As I prepared to go, he asked what I was getting ready for. I casually said I was going to the slave auction to be sold.

"Really? Well then let me get a look at the goods." He reached over, put his hand down my shirt, and groped my breast. I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand out, while saying, "No. I did not give you consent." I was stern and forceful, but I didn't yell. He could tell I was upset; he immediately began apologizing. I told him to just go, just leave. He walked out of the cabin.

I walked into the bathroom and took one last look at myself. I didn't know whether to scream or to cry, so I didn't do either. I grabbed my Hello Kitty bag and walked out of the cabin towards the Pavilion.

I can't really remember what the guy looked like. I never knew his name. When I recounted the story to one friend, he told me I should have slapped the guy. Another asked me if I reported him. It was as if they were both speaking another language.

One, I don't hit in anger or malice. I don't let violence enter me in that manner, ever.

Two, report him? I didn't know his name and he just was a stupid drunk. He stopped when I told him to and apologized. Yes, I felt violated and shitty, but in the moment I just wanted him gone. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted to feel better. Report him? Fuck him!

So, yeah. That happened. It was shitty.

But, thankfully, I soon felt better. I found people to talk to and cuddle with. Save for an awkward moment with an awkward man, I had a good time at the auction. And my night got better from there.

It was, and is, so shocking for me because it happened at an event. I always felt safe at events, sheltered and loved at events. I was with my people, my family, loving and caring and nurturing. I always felt looked after and cared for. And then I got accosted by an asshole.

So I guess, in a long round about way, this is just another person saying consent counts. Consent counts.

CONSENT. COUNTS.

Woo-ing Myself

2011-12-10T00:05:00.000-05:00

I read a recent post by my friend Gray Miller on his blog lovelifepractice.com. This particular entry focused on learning to love oneself. He concluded his entry with a simple question:

What do you love about yourself?

This got me thinking. So, I answered it.

- My eyes. They say more than I can ever put into words. The dark brown luster speaks to me whenever I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or passing window. The hint of what lies beneath the mask I wear for the world is at times engaging, playful, lustful, and intense. I can have whole conversations with you using just my eyes.

- My breasts are awesome. They're full and squeezable. The perfect amount to fill your hands, to rest your head on, or to nuzzle up to. In the right bra, or with the proper arm positioning, my cleavage is quite distracting.

My nipples are pierced, a tempting delight to all who venture a lick. I love the way they look when they're erect, presenting the jewelry and asking, begging, to be pinched and sucked.

- My ass. It's just...hot. My ass is so sexy. There is a reason why I wrote poetry about it. It's big and round and sits up just right, begging to be spanked, slapped, caressed, fucked.

Once, randomly, a guy tried to balance a beer bottle on my ass. Granted, this was not a wanted advance, but I understand how one can be mesmerized by the wonder that is my rump. In fact, I have many a fond memory involving other people enjoying the wonder that is my ass.

- My hair. It's curly and wild and often begs to be loose and free. When I was young, I wore it in two braids at my sides. I loved flinging my head back and forth, wiping my braids from side to side, daring anyone to come near. The hard plastic ties at the ends were like weapons, ready to lash out at anyone who ventured too close. I loved the thump they made against my skin as the braids wrapped around my neck and hit my back.

When I grew older, and still wore it long, I'd flat iron it. My locks would brushed the top of my ass, and flow on the wind. Now, when I masturbate, with my hair out, I often walk into the bathroom afterwards and admire my "freshly fucked" locks, which look better than hours of primping could ever accomplish.

My hair makes me feel beautiful, feel sexy, feel special.

- On occasion, I have a way with words. I've been writing since forever. There are still stories I wrote years ago that when I read them my blood runs hot with lust and I am thrown right back into its sensuous world. I paint pictures, spin tales, and chronicle my truths with words. Without them, without my words, I don't know who I'd be.

- I often say this, and it is very true: I cultivate my childlike whimsy everyday. I look at the world as I did when I was young: with wonder and amazement. I appreciate little things, which to me seem huge.

Today, at the venue in which I'm currently working, there was an assortment of artistic photographs. I was enamored by each shot, diving in, and letting myself get lost in the stories. There were interesting modern art sculptures that I could draw similarities to that were at once thought provoking and hilarious (a fat owl, the head of a rooster, the negative space of a key hole). I keep things light, care free, reminding myself to smile and breathe in each moment, appreciating just being alive.

- I am one of the best friends you will ever have. I go above and beyond to be there for the people I love. I trek hundred of miles, perform any number of small and large tasks, and try all I can to be the best friend possible. I give and give and give, and then give more. I am a fierce protector, soothing comforter, and steadfast confidant. I sacrifice myself for the happiness of those I care for. Above all else, this is what I love about myself the most.

So, what do you love about yourself?

Being Present

2011-12-09T01:19:00.000-05:00

A close friend of mine recently paid me the oddest compliment. Well, it seemed odd to me.

I recounted the highlights of my recent excursion to New Jersey and the awesome event that was Tied Down. I told her about the classes and my scene with Gray. I then explained how I didn't allow any of the feelings I had spoil my time at the event. I waited until after to let it all out. She admired how I could be fully present for it all when an ocean of whirling emotions laid just around the bend.

It never occurred to me that this was some skill or gift. It is just something I do, something I thought everyone did. She explained it was what she tried to do.

When I'm in a scene, or focused on someone, I'm there and only there. I push the rest out, to the side, for another day. I lock off that corner of my thoughts, that place in my heart, promising to visit it later.

In truth, I have to visit it later. The emotions are not present in the moment; I make sure to tuck them far below. But they start building again from the moment my interaction ends, and, if not acknowledged and processed, find their way out in quite inconvenient ways (shortened temper, easily annoyed, crying fits over nothing).

I don't know why I'm able to do this. DeepEnd compared my skill to one who's dealing with the passing of an ailing loved one. The way you cherish the time you have because soon there will be no more moments.

I don't like the analogy, but there is truth to it. Those are the very thoughts that float through my mind in the middle of it all. I have to be here. I have to be present. Because, soon, this moment will pass and I will have lost my time if I don't seize it fully, now.

I have dealt with the passing of a close loved one, but I don't think that is why I am able to do this. I was a wreck for most of that, when I wasn't searing with anger at my family. Instead, I think my being present is more a matter of training and patience.

Patience was ground into me through my youth. I lived in a single parent household and often had to wait for my mother to get off work before we could go home. Each day, for hours, I found things to fill my time: homework, my Walkman, writing. But, inevitably, it would boil down to me sitting by the school door, waiting for her car to approach. Just sitting and waiting.

I learned discipline to keep myself from raging in anger or despairing in helplessness. I learned patience, knowing relief and release was close at hand. I learned to temper my wants, trained myself to be there without flashing my insides out. I learned to just be, in a sort of cross between acceptance and mediation.

Because it didn't matter if I raged, or cried, or hated. She could get there no faster and I couldn't make time do my biding. Therefore, why be a big ball of madness or a seeping selfish child?

The same holds true for scenes. I can't change my world in that moment, can't change what will happen the next day or even later that evening. But I can appreciate what I do have in those breaths. Why not just be and leave those emotions elsewhere?

So, now, I can just be. I can just enjoy. I can just submit to how my life is in that moment, push my rushing emotions aside, and delight in each second for what it is: special and fleeting.

Dancer

2011-12-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

Most of the girls hated the job. The grabby hands. The disgusting looks on their faces. The wayward palm right there, unable to even pretend to have any sense of decorum.

Lux didn't care. In fact, she kind of liked that it was all out in the open, all nasty and raunchy. They were pole dancers; what did these girls expect?

Some of the girls called themselves erotic entertainers, but Lux liked calling herself a pole dancer. She even liked the double entendre when, on occasion, she did ride the pole in a man's lap.

To the other girls, it was about making quick money. A few were in college. A large number were single Moms with babies to feed. Lux was neither. This was her chosen occupation, for the moment. Yes, she liked the money, considering she earned the most of all the girls. And she loved to dance. But it was the power she truly craved.

Maybe that's why the other girls didn't get her. She didn't hate coming to work, didn't loathe her turn on the main-stage pole, and was no more happy walking out than in.

When Lux was on stage, more than any other woman in the club's menagerie, she commanded all the attention of everyone in the room. When she danced, Lux aimed to seduce everyone in attendance, from the cheapskate in the corner to the high roller walking towards a private room. The lucky few who got front row seats to her dances were rewarded with locked stares, licked lips, swiveled hips that timed out their heartbeats, and throbbing erections that never went down til morning.

As Lux slowly crawled across the stage, accentuating her ass in a serpentine enticement to her prey, she knew just how to pull them in, to open their wallets, and to walk home with rent paid in under two hours.

The touched, the blessed, were those who could wrangle her for a private dance. Lux was not cheap; to her, extracting as much money from her prey was liked sucking the venom from a snake, weakening him til he no longer had a weapon against her, and she broke him. Each song was $100, minimum. Her prey either balked or were shocked at such a low price.

Alone, just you and her in a room, she never let you think of anywhere else. From the moment the door clicked shut to the sadness of her exit, her prey's eyes never left her body. What had just been out of their hand's reach now lay against them, grinding, caressing, rolling her body up and down theirs. Her eyes, which had shimmered in the club's lighting, now smoldered, burning through them.

And just when they couldn't take it anymore, just when they couldn't control the urge to touch her, to ravage her, to grasp her and never ever let her go, the song would end. She'd stand up, turn, pop her hips as she walked out, saluting them with her ass, and was gone.

Oral History

2011-12-07T01:24:00.002-05:00

I'm a bit quirky. At least that's what I call it.

When I go to events, I always, always, carry a few things: my cell phone, my Hello Kitty bag, a pen, and, most important of all, my notebooks. I go to many classes. When I attend a presentation, I sit front row center and take notes (Teacher's Pet here). Periodically during the day, I take a moment to jot down bullet points on the happenings thus far.

I do this because I want to remember everything. Everything. I know I can't, but I try.

Even from my first event, I knew I needed to write about what I was going through. It was too intense, too life altering, too amazing not to chronicle. I love the story of my kinky life so much, I carry all my old notebooks with me to each new event. I currently have two small notebooks and one rather large one which holds my current pages to fill.

Ask me about any event, and I'll try to recall the details you need. When in doubt, though, I refer to my notebooks.

However, my notebooks are not the end, but the means to an end.

I use my notes from my events for my pièce de résistance, my voice memos.

I have an iPhone and one of the lovely applications is basically a dictaphone. When I come back from each event, I sit alone in my room, pull out my notebook, and I talk. I tell myself the story of my adventure, from the little moments to the awesome experiences. I relive my ecstasy, remembering all I can, and am once again joyous because of all I went through.

In the days following each event, when I'm a bit down, or just want to feel there again, I play my voice memos. I've lulled myself to sleep with my recountings, drifted away on my stories, been comforted by these experiences.

Today, I needed to listen to one of my memos. This afternoon, when I had the house to myself, I masturbated. And then I cried. And it wasn't the good kind of cry. It was tears of loneliness, of wanting, of pain.

New Year's Eve in coming up, and as a single girl there will be that magical moment when everyone else has someone to kiss. And I'll be there, happy I'm with my friends, but a little sad. Everyone says you can't look for love cause then you'll never find it. You have to just wait. And I am a very patient person. But sometimes...

And so I listened to my first day of FetFest. And I remembered writing my message in the shimenawa. And giving away the plaques to the boys. And my takedown rehearsal. And my sideways suspension with Big Bro. And the NCSF Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate fundraiser. And putting Gray to bed. And I felt better.

I have my story, told in my voice, for me to hear. It is possibly the most personal intimate...thing I have. No one listens to it but me. I see it as my oral history, a kinky history of major moments in my life.

So when you see me up at whatever o'clock in the morning, long past when most people have gone to bed, scribbling as fast as I can into a notebook, now you know what I'm doing and why I do it.

Perspective

2011-12-05T20:50:00.000-05:00

My mother's best friend's father died the day before Thanksgiving. Today was his funeral.

I didn't know this man. I had maybe met him once when I was a child, too young to remember the encounter, but I found myself at his signing off all the same.

I was there for the family, with whom I am an honorary member. I grew up with the cousins, call my mother's best friend, along with her brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles. I see them at holidays. They came to my college graduation. In most ways I am closer to them than my own blood relations.

Though I did not know him, I saw this man's influence in the crowd of faces who sat, quietly crying, remembering their father, grandfather, or great grandfather. He lived to the bright young age of 93. We should all be so lucky.

As the family processed in, I found myself slipping my hand into my mother's palm. Being witness to the ceremony of saying goodbye to a loved one makes you appreciate even more those you still have.

This was a black funeral, which meant a few things were going to happen.

1- Singing. There were plenty of gospel songs, including His Eye Is On The Sparrow, which is basically a cliche occurrence at black funerals.

2- At least one, if not two, preachers/pastors/reverends were going to speak. There were lots of mentions of God, Christ, Jesus, the Savior, the Redeemer, etc.

3- Are you saved? Everyone needs to be saved. Do you have a church home? The only way to get to heaven is through Christ... You get the drift. As one who questions her beliefs on spirituality and religion on an almost daily basis, I sat patiently waiting.

Thankfully, the Pastor who gave the Eulogy, before he spun into his speech on number three, elicited a few chuckles from the attendees. He explained his job was to lift us up, and he seemed to do that quite well, as well as move the proceedings along at a relatively brisk pace.

As experiences go, it could've been worse.

I hadn't been to a funeral since the death of Ella, my cousin who was more like my third parent, a few years ago. They read the same poem that I had to read after I finished her obituary: I'm Free. Seeing those words in the program made me tear up a bit.

Funerals are for the living, remembering the dead and saying goodbye. As one who had no particular attachment to this man, but a deep love for his family, I hoped the day gave them some peace.

As She Slipped

2011-12-05T02:23:00.000-05:00

As she slipped
into the sweet embrace of sleep,
her mind wandered on the thought of his hands.

She imagined them
gliding up her legs,
and gently pulling down her panties.

She felt them
softly part her thighs.

She visioned them
brushing her sensitive skin,
carefully scratching and caressing the delicate flesh.

Her mind floated
to the thought of his lips.

Light kisses on her thighs,
creeping a circuitous trail
towards their warm end
on her clit.

She mused on the thought of his tongue,
spelling out love poetry,
as she writhed to its slightest movement.

Her hands in his hair,
pulling his face in close.

Her moans of pleasure
as the warmth grew in her abdomen.

The sweet scent of her pussy juices
dripping from his mouth.

And that blessed surrender,
the agonizing ecstasy,
of fucking his face til she came.

Sweet & Gritty

2011-12-04T03:06:00.001-05:00

Have you ever mixed cigar ash with pixie sticks? I have, to wonderful results.

Last night fortune smiled on me. Work finished incredibly early, as in 10:30pm, and I was able to make my way to Baltimore, where the Playhouse was hosting the Dirty Things party. I'd packed a toy bag, just in case I could actually make it, and found myself arriving for the get together, fully dressed in my work clothes, at 11:30pm.

When I arrived, I was greeted by the naked body of KnaveKarina. It seemed a bad bad man was teasing her so, not allowing her to close her legs when she came ever so close to a happy outcome. I hugged her, happy to see her once again, the first time since FetFest.

Making my way into the main play area, I was greeted this time by my Big Bro, who had made his way down from New York to stop by for the fun. Murphy sat with twixmebaby on the floor to his left. Slut sat in front of him, tied in an Ebby, as Bro abused her back. I was happy to be among my family and to have an actual Friday night (mostly) off. I disrobed down to my underwear and joined them on the floor.

After Murphy untied Slut, we all lounged about, happy to be in each others company. But, I had a nagging question. My main motivation for traveling to Charm City was Slut's request to tie me up. After her scene with her Sir, I wondered if she still wanted to play with me in that manner.

Indeed, she did.

I fully disrobed, tucked my clothes into my toy bag, and removed my smaller rope bag, just in case other fun was to be had that night. I then sat in front of her, awaiting instruction.

She bade me turn around. Her lips close to my ear, she simply asked, "Hard or soft?"

"Hard." Was there ever any doubt?

Slut began with hair bondage on my curls, which had been out and flowing all day. Cinching tight, Slut ran her cherry red cotton rope down my back and around my left wrist. After she had taken a moment to tie a cuff, she kept my mind on her as her teeth sunk into my arm. I yelped, surprised at the sudden pain. She also kissed and sucked on my neck. My mind remained there, on that floor, with her.

Slut next secured my right wrist, and brought the rope between my legs and around my right thigh. Slut had ordered me on my knees, to secure the rope around my leg, but now she began to push my back. I thought she wanted me to move forward, so I edged my way along.

"You're going down." Instead, she had wanted me on the floor. I leaned my body forward, not realizing until it was too late, that I no longer hand my arms or hands to brace my fall. I landed hard on the floor, my face taking the brunt of my weight. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you may have seen the fun outcome of my face meeting the floor.

No matter. I was not about to stop the scene.

Happy with her tie, Slut had me back in a crossed-leg position. She kissed my face, right at my rug burn, and then began her assaults. She punched my chest, slapped my thighs, and wove her rope around my nipple piercings. She then used these two new perky easy buttons to torture me further, twisting and pinching as she liked.

"Give me any color of the rainbow." She kissed and pinched, pleasure and pain nothing new for me.

"Red." I started to cry a little.

"Is that a red out?"

"No, it's a red, as in my favorite color."

"Good." She continued with her assaults.

I began to wail, but not loudly just yet.

"I want to be the reason you cry. I want to hear you scream." She continued to bite, punch, and slap me. Soon, the tears came. She licked the droplets from my face.

In a possible inadvertent move, she flicked at my left nipple, sending a surge of pain through me. I truly screamed, the excruciation overpowering any other sensation. I began to ball.

"If you want me to stop, you had better stop screaming." But I couldn't as she slapped the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. I cried and wailed, and she loved ever moment of it.

Releasing my left and right nipple ropes, Slut began kissing me, her soft lips a salve to my pain. She slowly untied my binds with my head resting in her chest, the soft flesh of her breasts against my face.

My cries soon quieted. My breathing slowed. I came back from my sub space.

We cuddled, and Slut gave me Gatorade. I was floaty and happy. I was already quite pleased I'd made my way to Baltimore.

As I wondered what more fun I would get into, Lochai walked up to us. I greeted him with a hug on my knees. Delighted to see me, the subject of cigar play came up. I just so happened to have packed my cigar box and was more than happy to join Lochai downstairs for a smoke.

On the first floor, in a warm smoke scented room, Lochai sat on a couch while I rested on the floor. He had his own stash of cigars, but I showed him the ones I had to offer. Instead of smoking one of his, he gifted me a cigar and smoked one of mine. I unwrapped the cellophane, wet the end, cut it, and held my lighter as he puffed away.

Voodoo Princess, Lochai's slave, sat right behind me, also naked on the floor, quietly watching. Right after Lochai began his cigar, DarianIlRe and his female companion walked in. They wished to partake in their cigarettes. As they pulled out their smokes, I offered my lighter for them.

Everyone chatted, the conversation meandering through polyamory, kink, porn, and hair.

Lochai, taking full advantage of his cigar, leaned in close to me. He slowly breathed out his smoke into my face. I inhaled a little, but mostly enjoyed the feel of his breath on my skin and the nearness of him. The second time Lochai came in close, as he finished his wisps of smoke, he sneaked a quick kiss. "Come on, I had to." If I could've, I would've blushed.

As the ash on his cigar grew, I knew I would soon have a treat. Lochai, ready to dispose of some ash, had me lean my head back and stick out my tongue. He flicked the ash onto my tongue and I gobbled it up.

A female guest slipped into the room and sat beside Lochai. She did not understand why I enjoyed ash so. I explained I actually liked the taste, a sort of gritty and salt & pepper flavor.

Lochai spoke about how not everyone liked the taste, musing on how Emily did not enjoy that particular act. Even worse, there was something else she also didn't enjoy. "You know what to do."

Emily scurried over to the foot of Darian's female companion. Reluctantly, she placed her tongue on the woman's toe. Apparently, Emily hated feet. Lochai reveled in watching her squirm.

Her tortured ceased, Lochai once again had ash to give. This time, he broke it off in my hand and instructed me to spread it across VooDooPrincess' chest. I then happily licked off the ash, performing my service with glee. VoodooPrincess seemed to also enjoy it, encouraging me to make sure I got every single fleck across her breasts, stomach, and especially her nipples.

Soon Darian and his companion needed to depart. But, before he left, Darian gifted me three pixie sticks and instructed me to give away two of them. The third was all for me.

So when I say I have enjoyed pixie sticks and cigar ash, you can understand why I say it was a lovely outcome. A pile of pixie dust and a lump of ash in my hand, I crush the mixture together and sprinkled it onto VoodooPrincess' chest. I then happily licked it off of her, this time exploring her belly button as some of the mixture had made its way there.

Lochai, ever happy to aid in my service duties, kept providing me with ash. Once, I drew my initial on VoodooPrincess' body with my tongue and saw them emerge when I sprinkled the sweet and salty dust. I also created a smiley face on her stomach in the sweet gritty mixture.

Eventually, though, VoodooPrincess had to depart. Her birthday was in a few days and she had been offered a scene as a gift. She scurried upstairs, but not before gifting me with a kiss, both with our lips and our noses.

However, she came back almost immediately. The person with whom she was to have the scene needed ten minutes. So, with a pixie stick to give, VoodooPrincess spread the sweet dust on my body, and licked and sucked it all off. Taking more than her allotted time, she did have to eventually go, but we enjoyed the sweet repreive she was given.

As VoodooPrincess left, SirRonC came in. He sat across from Lochai and they talked shop about cigars. As they chatted, Lochai presented his left foot, on which he wore an ankle high boot. I politely asked if I could kiss his leather. He gave his permission.

I laid out on the floor, my face on his leather, and began kissing all over his boot. Once I'd loved on his one boot for quite some time, I sat up and he presented the other. I kissed and caressed his leather again.

As I laid, splayed on the floor, my face full of leather, I realized Ron and Lochai were talking about cigars but Ron did not have one. I offered some of my tobacco so he too could joy in the fun. He accepted my Acid Blondie, a short but satisfying smoke. With Ron, too, I unwrapped his cellophane, wet and cut his end, and held my lighter as he puffed away.

With his first ash, Ron flicked the lump into my hand. Lochai explained how I liked to eat ash. Ron said I could, by all means, eat the ash he'd given me. I said I would love to eat his ash, but asked if I could eat it out of his hand.

He presented his rather large palm to me. I poured the lump into his hand and, with one quick swipe, licked the remnants from my own hand. Before I began, Lochai explained to Ron that he should enjoy the experience much like when someone worships his boots.

Up on my knees, hands on my thighs, I gazed up at Ron, right into his eyes, and gave him a smile. I then ate my treat, softly licking and sucking his palm, happy to perform this service for him. He often said, "Oh, that's nice," as I caressed his hand with my lips.

Darian and his companion soon returned to our smokers' circle. As Lochai mentioned some of the things Ron could do to or with me, Darian asked if I'd ever had ash in my ass. I said I had had it all over my body, including my pussy, but not in my ass. Darian suggested I act as his foot stole and, when Ron had enough ash, he could use my ass as his ashtray. How could a girl say no to that?

As I relaxed on the floor, with both Darian and Ron's feet on my back, the group continued to converse. For a moment, I smiled, realizing how lucky I was that I was there. By all rights, I could've been at work, waiting for a party to end. I could've been home, sleeping, resting for work the next day (which is where I am right now, writing this). I could've been anywhere but there. I was happy life gave me this night of submission and service.

I never did get ash in my ass. People soon began filtering out. First Darian and his companion departed. As they left, Darian bent down and said how he missed seeing me. My life has been busy with work, and my social butterfly has felt quite stifled. I spoke about making an appointment for him to do my hair, and how I hoped to be out to a TNG Baltimore Happy Hour soon. He gave me a quick kiss before leaving.

Lochai left right after. It was getting late, and he needed to help clean up before kicking everyone out.

Ron and I were left for him to finish his cigar. He had one more lump of ash for me. Breaking it off into my hand, I asked if I could once again eat it out of his hand. He consented. I again took pleasure in caressing his palm, in licking and sucking every fleck of ash up. Once I finished, he leaned over, hugged me, and thanked me for providing my service. I was happy to have served that night.

Making sure all my cigar accessories were tucked away, I scurried back upstairs. I was greeted by Slut, who was fully clothed. Apparently it was after 2am, the official end time for the event. Looking at my face, she said I would definitely need cream to help it heal. I had not yet seen the damage from my tumble, but she said she would buy me a bottle of salve from a drug store on the way home. I redressed into my work clothes, which seemed awfully funny to me.

Then the hugs began. I embraced Murphy, as well as Lochai, before heading out with Slut and a wayward attendee in tow. After a quick stop at CVS, and Slut bandaging to my face, I dropped off both my passengers and finally climbed into bed around 4:15am.

Someone Interesting

2011-12-03T04:40:00.001-05:00

Someone interesting walked by.

I could tell they were interesting not by their gait; it was average enough. And it wasn't what they carried; a briefcase was pretty normal in the middle of downtown. Their clothes were business and their air was hurried, all average. But it was something in his eyes, a cold steely resolve, that shook me, that made me wonder who that stare was meant for. Somewhere, in the far recesses of mind my, I wanted those eyes on me.

I imagined his leather gloved hands caressing cold against my hot skin. His teeth scraping against my flesh, tracing lines down my back. His tongue tickling my nipples. His lips on my neck.

I imagined his briefcase full of implements to use on my body. His shot gloves to pound into my frame, rocking me with each blow. A silk kerchief, soft against my body, but merciless when wound around my neck, forbidding my air. Plastic chopsticks, decorative, pretty. He'd wind them in my hair before releasing my locks so he could mark my skin with their stingy blows. And, both his favorite and mine, his knives, a twin set, with intricate patterns inlaid in the metal, foreshadowing the art he'd draw over my body.

I imagined the places he'd steal me away to, secretive hideaways only he knew about. His favorite would be the abandoned club in a seedy neighborhood, where no one dared to venture unless they had more than one gun. Dirty floors, once stained with booze, now christened with dust and age. The back room that used to be the owner's office, with a few old papers strewn here and there, and a broken chair left behind because who gave a fuck in the end.

He'd cuff me to that chair, and stand and wait. Wait for me to react. Wait for me to do something, say something. He loved my reactions when he stole me away, randomly, never when I yearned to feel his hands.

And I'd wait, wait til I could take it no longer. Wait til I had to say something, do something, because I wanted his hands on me, whether in kindness or in spite. I wanted his breath on my skin, his scent about me, his...his... I just wanted him, needed him, now.

And he'd smile when I finally broke. Smile because he knew he'd already won. Smile because that was the start of the real fun: the screams, the pain, the panting, and the eventual fucking.

God, the fucking. Dirty, rough, closer to animal savagery than love making. Often, he ripped off my clothes, threw me about, and thrust with the same passion as his previous punches. I always, always screamed. And I always, always came. Multiple times. He'd pull my hair, scratch my back, wrench my breasts, and choke me, his lips next to my ear. I'd hear him breathing heavy as I patiently waited for him to return my air.

We'd be dusty, sweaty, scraped up messes after. He'd always pack a change of clothes so I could go back to work. Or continue my errands. Or go visit my friends.

And I'd go back to waiting til the next time he'd grab me. The next time I'd be caught in his stare. The next time we'd be sweaty, on the floor, panting from exhaustion.

Tipsy

2011-12-01T22:47:00.000-05:00

The last fumes of alcohol wearing off, and the more potent intoxication of sleepiness setting in, I thought I'd take a moment to think about what I'm thankful for. Since Turkey Day is a week gone from us, I think I will save the official Thankful blog for an evening where I am not so sleepy drunk.

For this post, I'm going to muse about what I am thankful for today/tonight.

I rather enjoyed NYRCampSlut sitting in my lap tonight. She hugged me, spilled her drink on me, and gyrated in a rather fun fashion. It was awesome to see her in what had been two weeks since Tied Down. It was especially nice that our time together was spent in such close proximity.

I appreciated talking about IMsL with ManKraken! and ElectricCupcake. Running down my current list of events, I have eight that I plan to attend, though that list may still expand (holy shit).

IMsL, of all the events I will be present for, is the most elusive in my mind's eye. I have no feel for how it will be. I have never ventured to San Francisco. And, worst of all, I know it will be a burden financially. Still, I am looking forward to the adventure, and talking with the two of them about their past experiences helped energize me further for what is to come next year.

I love my kinky Happy Hour. It had been about a month, or more, since I'd last shown my face. I missed seeing familiar folks, missed the hugs, missed the love and affection freely and easily given and shown. I missed the loud conversations, very generous pours from the bartenders, and the fairly decent food. I was very happy to be back, and even plan to go next week as well.

Work didn't suck. Yeah.

I am reading this book that is so full of rape, it is ridiculous. And yet, I love it. Am I right in the head? Mostly. It is the Dark Jewels series, and, as ManKraken! and I discussed at DOHH, it seems as if there are two pages of writing to get you to the next rape. But, somehow, the author still makes it hot and interesting, to the point where I was trying to read while slowly creeping through rush hour traffic today. I'm only about 175 pages into a three book series, but I am greatly looking forward to what is to come next.

So, yeah, my life doesn't suck. Today was a rather good day.

And I even got to write tonight. What more could a girl ask for? (Well, there is sex. And that book did make me incredibly horny before Happy Hour. But, no matter. When I do not satisfy my carnal urges, I often transfer the energy elsewhere. Today, I was bubbly at Happy Hour, and got myself to write before passing out in my bed. I call that a win, ecstasy or not.)

Pressure

2011-11-30T13:56:00.000-05:00

I know I put undue pressure on myself almost all the time.

When it comes to work, there are times when I dread walking out of my front door. Recently I've been put in a semi-leadership position, asked to take on more responsibilities. Granted, this also means extra pay, but with the added money came added pressure for the gigs to go well.

Starting off, it was not so bad, as they gave me solo assignments. Recently, though, I've been put in charge of people, the same folks who previously worked with me as same level colleagues. I dealt with my anxiety by changing my view of my work. Instead of seeing each new gig as a threat, I took them on as challenges, and many who know me well enough know I like to rise to challenges.

In my personal life, I often heap mounds of pressure on situations. This was especially true when I first became highly active and social in the kink community. When I was just with the Ex or going to Bound Friday nights, it didn't matter. I had little expectations. My Ex was anti-social, so any interaction with him and kink outside of the bedroom was a treat. Coming out of college and exploring the very fringes of this new world, everything was amazing.

But, going out on my own, having been in a kinky relationship for so long, with little other gauge as to how things were, I shoveled tons of pressure on myself when I went to my first Happy Hour. I thought I had to make the best impression, I had to be the best me, or these people wouldn't like me and there went my chance to learn and grow in kink. It wasn't until I got there, started talking to people, and finally let myself let go that I realized adding pressure to the situation only harmed me.

So, a few paragraphs of rambling aside, I'm writing this because even now, I still add pressure to situations that I need to relax into. I still have to remind myself to breath, let go, and give into the will of life. I still have to stop myself from adding undue pressure on almost everything. However, with much practice, my venting time has shortened, my recovery quickened, and my stress has diminished, in general, a bit.

I'm a work in progress.

Pondering

2011-11-30T13:51:00.000-05:00

I've spoken about how I want to live my life before. Guess what...I'm doing it again.

I'm a switch, and have always had conflicting emotions regarding partners and lovers, play vs affection vs love. It's not easy for me to resolve even the most basic facts about myself.

The kind of domination I seek to inflict on others is silly. It's petulant. It's annoying. I like punching people, poking them in their side til they yell, pushing people til they break not from physical pain but psychological torment. When I'm in that space, I'm petulant, a right little brat given the keys to the kingdom of your body and, more importantly, your mind.

Yet I burn to be dominated, to be controlled, to be owned. I would never, ever, act or even think about my Dom-ly side when I am at someone's knee or under someone's hand. That side of me no longer exists when I am taking your pain, enduring your trial, acting as the vessel for your inflictions.

I want to be owned. I want to be collared. I want to feel like I belong to someone. Yet I know I cannot be in any relationship that stifles my freedom, that stops me from being who I am. I want to fuck and be fucked. I want to love and be loved. I want a cage without a lock, as it were. Is this even possible?

I guess since I want it, and will not accept anything but it, that answers my question.

I'm feeling my way through this life, like I'm stuck in the dark, touching the walls to find my path, which is a scary scary place, especially for me. I think, thus far, things are going okay. I don't believe I've broken too many hearts. I haven't had my heart ravaged, yet. And I can count quite a few people as good friends.

There is always a nagging in me, though, as I've spent much of my life solo, not by choice as much as circumstance. And by circumstance, I mean my haphazardly scheduled job, my insecurity issues, and my ever present fear of asking for what I want. Not to mention, the two "relationships" I have had were not worth the price of admission. In fact, I imagine they have tainted my outlook on my future prospects, a truth I work against everyday.

Yet still, I'm here. I haven't given up. I'm stumbling threw as best as I can, asking for help and advice when I need it, reading a lot, listening even more, and learning as much as I can. Most important, I never stop growing or changing. I think that is a pillar of my poly, along with communication and openness.

Change is important. One needs to be able to adapt, to bend, to compromise. I will never go so far as to give up who I am and what I want (never again, at least; that was a hard lesson to learn). But I am willing to give halfway. I am willing to listen, trust, and learn. I am willing.

Now, just to find other willing ones...

After School Activities

2011-11-29T17:11:00.000-05:00

Mr. Ebon looked like he stepped out of one of those recruiting commercials that played during the breaks of football games: buzzed cut hair, sleek trim muscles, a solid gait you could set a metronome to. The only difference was his uniform consisted of a starched tie, crisp folds in his collared dress shirt, and pressed black dress pants. He did, however, sport polished black boots that shimmered with each step. He was a former Marine and still carried the air about him.
To say I had a crush on this man was to discredit the length and breath of my affections.

Everyone feared Mr. Ebon's History classes, especially AP US. He was strict, unyielding, and calculating. He knew what to quiz you on for understanding, not just memorization. His required reading went well beyond just chapters in a textbook. Instead of churning out fact crammed teenagers, he sought to create fierce thinkers, sharp minds, leaders. Most people prayed for a C; I was bound and determined to be his first A+.

On the first day of my senior year, I walked into class early and sat front row center. As if I were not in the room, he continued his work, jotting down notes and occasionally glancing at his computer. He never looked at me. The classroom filled, all ten of his brave pupils in their seats. The period bell rang, he stood, stepped to the front of the class, and spoke.

"Ten. Good, I like even numbers.

"My name is Mr. Ebon and this is AP US History. If you're here, that means you've heard the rumors about how difficult this class is and decided to take it anyway. For that, I will give a small sliver of respect. The rest you will have to earn through effort, hard work, and excellence.

"I've taught this class four times previously. In each instance, students have cried, begged, threatened me, thrown something, or gotten up and walked out, never to be heard from again. Which one will you be?"

The smart ones didn't cower at his warning. I sat, straight backed, meeting his gaze, ready to live up to his challenge.

Twenty page term papers, 200 page books on military battles, founding fathers, and other important American leaders were fruits I bit into to each evening. Staying late, with no car and parents who's job didn't end til 6, I had more than enough time to immerse myself in his teachings.

On a crisp fall Friday evening, having finished the night's homework, but still at least an hour before my ride would show, I decided to take a stroll throughout my ancient school.

Whetherly Academy was a co-educational private school. Students wore uniforms, parents paid tuition, and everyone carried an air of the elite they knew themselves to be. I, however, was a scholarship student. My squared shoulders and small knowing grin came from my core truth: I was smarter than any of them and would someday have what they had, but I would have earned it.

As I quietly roamed the halls, almost tip-toeing to avoid the creaking of the hardwood floors, I somehow made my way to the History wing.

Buildings have a life all their own when no one is around. The lights were off, allowing what little sunshine left to cast an eerie glaze across the floor. Classroom doors stood open, inviting, but nothing to offer inside. Desks with chairs in all manner of pushed in or pulled out whispered the lessons already taught for the day. But there was one door closed, so I decided to open it.

Peaking my head inside, there he sat, just like the first day of classes, working. Slowly retracting my head, a loud creak from the floorboards informed him of my presence.

"Good evening Ms. Ivory. Is there something I can do for you?" Mr. Ebon had not even looked up from his desk, yet he knew it was me. Or had he glanced my face when I did not notice?

"No, sir. Just killing time til my ride arrives."

"And the twenty-five pages on Gettysburg I asked you to read?"

"Completed, along with some cursory notes before your lecture tomorrow." This gave him pause; his hand stopping and his eyes finally met mine.

"I see. Well, if you have nothing better to do, why don't you have a seat? I, too, have nothing but time to kill, what with the pathetic group of children known as my Freshman World History class who cannot write a five page summary well for all the sand in Sri Lanka."

He beckoned me to the desk in front of his. After school, alone, with a man I adored, no one around to judge me except him, I decided to relax, a bit. I hopped up on the desk, sat with my legs crossed, and pulled out from my bag my latest knit project, a black and orange scarf for Halloween. I made sure to not look at him til I began a new stitch. When I did glance up, I think there was the slightest of smiles on his face.

"You knit?"

"Helps pass the time. And since I never leave before seven each night, I have time."

"Seven?"

"My parents own a General Store; they don't close til six. And it would take three buses for me to get home. So, I wait. Gives me time to finish homework and work on other things."

"Other things?"

"I write a little. I knit a little. Occasionally I'll pull out my sketchbook and roam the halls for inspiration. Things to pass the time."

"Friends?"

"I'm on scholarship, Sir. How many rich kids you know want to be friends with some poor girl? Well, to them I'm poor. My family lives comfortably enough. We just don't ride around in Benzes and sip cherry after dinner. Oh my, I've been blathering on and you have papers to grade."

"Stop. I invited you to sit. Chatting is a part of sitting."

"Ok. Sir, if you don't mind me asking, why did you become a teacher? I know you're ex-military. Why the change?"

"I took a piece of shrapnel during a munitions exercise. It made me unfit for duty in the field. They offered me a desk position, but if I couldn't lead my men, I didn't want to stay."

"And teaching?"

"G.I. bill. I wanted to get a degree in something. Why not study what I thought would be my life, military history. I never thought things would play out as they have, but teaching is well enough. How about you? What do you wish to do with your years?"

"Oh, I don't know. I haven't even thought about a major yet."

"Your college applications are in?"

"Soon. By December. I was giving myself a break because of my birthday."

"Your birthday?"

"Yes, today Sir. October tenth, ten ten. Easy for people to remember, though I have no one is this school to tell."

"Well, happy birthday Ms. Ivory. As of today you're now allowed to vote, be drafted, and drink a beer in some states."

"Yeah, I'm legally an adult."

"Excited?"

"No, sad."

"Excuse me?"

"It's just... I don't see myself as an adult. I'm a student, a smart learned plucky student who knows all the answers and does what she is told, when she is told, whatever she is told, however it is to be done. I take comfort in knowing exactly what to do because you have told me to do it. I feel safe in this room, completely centered and true in this room. In this room... I am the shit." My hand quickly covered my mouth as my cheeks turned red. "I am so sorry. That was inappropriate. I'll go." I quickly hopped off the desk, grabbed my bag, and turned to leave.

"Ms. Ivory." The sternness in his voice stopped me.

"Turn around." I slowly pivoted on the balls of my feet. He stood, his height towering over me.

"Come here." I put down my things and walked slowly to face him by the side of his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a ruler I had not seen before, wooden and old. "Hold your hands at your sides, out and up, side-by-side, palms to the ceiling."

I stood there in supplication to his whim. Swiftly, he lifted and came down with the ruler across the insides of my hands. It stung, but I only flinched slightly.

"Now, gather your things and go." I turned and quickly grabbed my backpack and knitting.

"And Ms. Ivory." I stopped dead in my tracks. "Please come by and chat with me again Monday evening."

"Yes, Sir." With hast I exited his classroom, silently closing his door and making my way down to the lobby to wait for my ride.

The weekend seemed to crawl by.

that's messed up

Cigars, Social

Object

Tickling

We're Not Done

She Is Lost

Avoidance

Religion and Reproduction

Mr. Wrong

Floating

Falling Down

Vacation

Panic

A While

Popular

Playing the Game

Distraction

Ropey Fun Time

Freaked

Good Night

The Boy and The Man

Story Told

Freedom

Bare It All

Be Honest

More Important

6.25hrs

Interesting

Bio

No Matter

Blind Spots

My NeverEnding Bag

Training

Friday

Don't Pretend

Random Facts

Mr. Pitiful

She Saw, He Saw

First Day Back

Nag

[image]

Intoxicating

Hold On

Columbus

Sideways

Recharging

Care

Charlie & David (pt. four)

The First

Moments

My Sweet Banana

Comfort

Three Words

Charlie & David (pt. three)

The Morning After

The Hand

Not Part Three

Charlie & David (pt. two)

Charlie & David

To Be Hers

Anniversary

Flawed

Thankful

Warmth

Bomb-iversary

Happy Hour

Music Saves Me

A Moment At Work

Love On Top

ASA: The Words

Consent

Woo-ing Myself

Being Present

Dancer

Oral History

Perspective

As She Slipped

Sweet & Gritty

Someone Interesting

Tipsy