Dropped

Today was the best day. Today was the worst day.

Being in San Francisco, on the left coast, attending an event with a different energy than I'm used to, has been challenging. The last time I was this nervous for an event was my first one.

Today I felt like I was making strides. I attended two awesome classes.

The first was a three hour rope intensive with Lamalani, a former IMsL. Lani went over rope from a basic cuff to demonstrating an ebi. Though I knew a lot of what was taught, I also learned quite a bit. I helped the people around me. I introduced myself, learned names, and passed out Moo cards. And, at the end of the presentation, I got a hug. Awesome.

For the second class session, I attended yet another three hour intensive, this time on bootblacking. Q, a former IMsBB, gave a fun and interactive talk. I learned quite a lot, took copious amounts of notes, and felt thrilled to have been in the class. Once again, I talked to new people, learned names, passed out Moo cards, and felt much better about my IMsL experience.

I later attended the opening ceremony, as well as the roast of the current title holders. All-in-all, my day was going extremely well.

So well, in fact, I decided to self suspend.

And then I fell, flat on my back, in the middle of one of the dungeons.

Physically, I'm barely bruised. Mentally though...

I know exactly why it happened. I know how to never make it happen again. And, as Parker pointed out later, it was best that I was the person I dropped.

Of all the things that could go wrong, the thing that did go wrong was the one I didn't worry about. It was the one that, at the time, I thought, Well, it'll probably be alright. And, of course, it was my undoing.

What's worse, I was so happy when everything went to shit. My ties were just right. Experimenting with the ankle cuff again was excellent. I figured out some awesome body positions and was doing well switching between them. I even wore my boots while I tied (and nothing else). I was full of self confidence, full of power. I am not a Woo person, but it felt like I had found my center again.

And then I was on my back.

When I landed, I immediately started giggling and said "I'm good" to no one in particular. I laid on the ground for a bit, trying to cease my giggle fit. I then sat up, untied all my lines, and recoiled my rope.

In the process, I decided I needed to get right back on the saddle; I needed to prove to myself I had only made a simple mistake and I knew how to fix it. I re-secured my ring, correctly this time, and tried to figure out how best to test the weight barring.

However, it felt like all eyes were on me. It felt like every whispered conversation we about me. I could see the DM in a corner about fifteen away, watching me. My hands shook. I began doubting myself. I thought it was best to just pack up and leave.

Every conversation was, in fact, not about me. Most people took no notice of me. Yes, the DM watched me like a hawk, but for good reason. But, as I began packing up, the DM moved on.

Not knowing what to do, I wondered to a play space to possibly watch a scene, but nothing was happening that interested me.

Okay, that's a lie. I needed to not watch a scene. I needed to decompress.

I found a chair, sat, and pulled out my crocheting. As I worked, I again analyzed in my mind what I did wrong. I replayed my movements. I confirmed with myself it was a simple mistake.

As I crocheted, Jim walked by. Playfully, he kicked my boot, and asked what was going on. I told him I was self soothing, explaining I'd had a little mishap in a scene. From then on, each time he passed me, he gave a little head rub or a smile.

Later, Parker came over. I told Parker about my incident. We talked for quite a bit. I felt better.

And I do feel better. Like Parker said, at least it was me and not another bottom. But, even so, I feel like I'm back to where I was before: adrift, unsure, off center.

Some time, either tomorrow or Sunday, I have to try again. Self suspension is my happy place, my center, my home. I want and need that back.

Cigars

My Last Night: Cigars

As we adjourned to the back yard, I carried in tow my bootblacking kit, my cigar travel kit, one of my notebooks, some dark chocolate, and my water bottle. My haul was precarious, but I managed to balance my items in a tall tower and land the the structure gently on the ground.

Inside the house, PrincessA retrieved a blanket for me to lie on. I scurried back inside to grab it.

However, when I came back out, Scotty was in the midst of lighting his cigar. I, unfortunately, had forgotten to mention I would be providing cigar service that evening. As the other three settled in, we began.

PrincessA handed me all three of her cigars. One by one, I prepped each for its smoker, removing the cellophane, the band, wetting the end, and cutting the tip. Because of the chill in the air, my lighter was not yet warm enough for use. Scotty allowed me to borrow his rather impressive torch, a large silver lighter about half the size of my hand with four powerful flames.

With everyone puffing away, the group indulged me in my Teacher's Pet fetish. I opened my notebook, found my notes from Edge's cigar play class last June at Fusion, and began.

As I spoke about the many uses of ash, smoke, and the heat of the cherry, PrincessA, Hautewerk, and Belarian listened intently. I knew, though, that Scotty was well versed in this area already. In fact, as I spoke, he gave his own tidbits.

When I finished, Scotty explained he was developing his own cigar play presentation. He went on to explain a few different activities that I did not know about. For what Scotty called smoke shots, he blew a cloud into his whiskey glass and covered the rim. Scotty explained this would alter the flavor of the liquor. He then handed the glass to me to taste. The rest of the group tried this as well.

Scotty spoke about purging the gas built up in the cigar by blowing out. This he used as an opportunity for sensation play. With one's forefinger and thumb creating the space to play in, as well as acting as a safeguard against too much heat, Scotty demonstrated the technique on Belarian, using the back of his neck.

PrincessA then requested to do the same to me. Holding my hair out of the way, and checking to make sure my tie would not be an issue, PrincessA blew the warmth onto the back of my neck. Later on in the evening, she again used this sensation play on my small amount of exposed cleavage.

As I spoke about the many different ways to use ash, smoke, and heat, PrincessA asked to try the various techniques on me.

One of my favorite parts of cigar play is eating ash out of people's hands. PrincessA was the first to ask. After her, I ate ash out of Belarian's hand, too. When I asked Scotty for permission, he at first politely declined. He later granted me the privilege once he finished his section of the cigar teach.

A rather delightful part of cigar play for me is when people blow smoke into my hair. Though I cannot see the effect myself, I explained how others have said it looks like my head is on fire.

PrincessA asked if she could blow smoke into my hair. I, of course, gave my consent. As she did, the group marveled at the effect. Scotty joined in, adding even more to the cloud. Later, all four participated, to my great glee.

As part of the cigars experience, both Scotty and I had brought dark chocolate. I broke open one of his bars and passed pieces out. PrincessA rather liked holding a piece of chocolate with her teeth and having someone break off a chunk. She did this with both Hautewerk and myself. She also enjoyed it when I popped pieces of chocolate into her mouth.

As our get together wore on, everyone became more relaxed, more brave.

Scotty asked me to come close to him. With a cloud in his mouth, Scotty blew all over my shirt, the smoke sticking to the fabric and then rising towards my face. He blew smoke into his leather jacket and pulled my head into the cloud.

PrincessA asked me if she could smear chocolate on my body, blow smoke on it, and then lick it off. I asked her what body part she wanted to use. PrincessA then bemoaned the fact that their backyard was exposed.

She suggested either my neck or my thigh. I, being brave, asked Scotty if I could sit on his lap. With his permission, I rested on Scotty's legs as PrincessA began smearing her chocolate. Meanwhile Scotty gripped my hair, pushing it away from my neck, using his smoke as sensation play while PrincessA prepped her treat. As she licked chocolate off of my thigh, I leaned my body into Scotty's chest. I felt rather spoiled at that moment.

For almost the entirety of our time outside, I worked hard on not being distracted. Scotty wore a pair of lovely mid-calf black boots. Each time he relaxed, stretching his leg out, his boot sat just inches from me.

Once Scotty presented his boot to me with some ash flecks on it, which he pointed out. I politely asked if I might clean his boots. He said yes. On my hands and knees, I kissed away the ash. Later I noticed some inadvertent ash again. Once more he allowed me to kiss his boots.

With my bootblack kit right beside me, I wanted to love his leather. However, it was getting rather chilly and the Sun was going down. We retired back inside the house, the night nowhere near ending.

Preparation

My Last Night: Preparation
During my first night in Minnesota, with PrincessA's permission, I sent out a general invite for folks to come to her home Wednesday evening, arriving around 5pm-ish, to enjoy some cigars in The Naked House's backyard. It would be a small party, making the most of my last hours in Minnesota.

One of PrincessA's roommates, Hautewerk, as well as another house guest, Belarian, being already in the house and up for some fun, decided to join us. Three people replied to my invitation; we awaited to see who would attend.

Before the festivities were to begin, PrincessA and I took a quick jaunt to a local tobacco shop.

Walking towards the establishment, my nostrils were at once filled with the sweet aroma of cigar smoke. I smiled ear-to-ear before I even walked in the door.

Once inside, I was amazed at their selection: a large humidor with a wide variety of sticks; multiple gorgeous humidors ready to be purchased; smaller travel pelican-case style cigar holders; many different lighters, punches, and combinations of the two. PrincessA and I only scratched the surface of the wonder of this shop.

Stepping into the humidor, PrincessA was unsure what she should purchase. Needing to buy three cigars (one for herself, one for Hautewerk, and one for Belarian), she leaned on me for suggestions. I steered PrincessA to milder options: an Acid Blondie, a Java Latte, and a Casa de Garcia. All three were good for a first smoke and not too expensive.

For myself, I wanted to have a few cigars in case anyone wanted another smoke, and for when I was in California. I purchased an Acid Blondie and an Acid Earthen.

I was also in the hunt for both a travel humidor and a punch. At first I went for a pelican-style case, but then I saw some lovely leather options. I choose a black leather case with a cedar inner holder. All the punches available were either not my style or pushed me over my budget, $50 total.  I saved that purchase for another day.

After our tobacco and accessories purchases, PrincessA and I swung by an alcohol shop to pick up some whiskey.  She wanted a smooth drink, so, as per the suggestion of the clerk, PrincessA procured a bottle of Jesse James whiskey.

All preparations set, we headed back to the house.

Our first arrival was Scotty. He was a tall man, broad, with a big smile, a leather jacket, AND leather boots. PrincessA and I greeted him at the door. I introduced myself and thanked him for coming to our little shindig.

Settling in, the group got to chatting. Around 5:45pm, PrincessA and I decided it was time to dress up.

"Should I wear my boots?" Why did I even bother asking?

PrincessA wore her boots, as well, zipped up over her jeans, with a black and silver tank top. She grabbed a jacket for outside to guard against the possible cold.

I knew my chosen outfit: little black skirt, gray tank top, white button up collar shirt, black tie. I opted to put my boots on downstairs while enjoying yet more conversation.

Properly adorned, we all headed outside.

Holding Hands

As any of you who follow my Twitter feed know, I spent the majority of my yesterday with PrincessA at the Mall of America. Though we would not classify ourselves as "shoppers", we spent about five hours in the mall and came away with nice hauls. My highlights include a new pair of heels, a pair of purple flats (yes, purple), a secondhand kimono and obi, and a pair of Invader Zim booty shorts (I rule!). PrincessA found shoes for a dress and headbands for work. It was a fun day.

But what stood out for me the most was a simple gesture. As we walked, PrincessA held my hand. Casually, she slipped her left hand into my right as we continued our trek through the endless array of stores, shops, and food stops.

When we stopped for ice cream, she checked-in with me, asking if it was okay that she had given the affection. I assured her it was perfectly fine; we were friends, so yes, she could, by all means, hold my hand.

As we walked, I wondered what the people around us thought. What conclusions did they make up in their minds about PrincessA and I from the simple act of holding hands?

And, since I was wondering about everyone else, I turned the lens back on myself. How did I feel about my friendship with PrincessA, about holding her hand?

It was, in fact, refreshing to dwell on this thought exercise. PrincessA and I are friends. Period. No big F. No underlying hope or dream. Just friends. And you know what, I really like that. With her, there is no pressure, no expectation. I can just be and that's perfectly okay.

Maybe that is why I was nervous but not panicked at the idea of visiting her. I knew that, no matter what, PrincessA had no expectations, no hidden desires. It would just be two friends getting to hang out and have random fun.

And I also knew I felt the same. It's been so relaxing to not have to constantly think about what my underlying emotions are regarding this action or that comment. I just am here in Minnesota. I can just be and everything will be alright. My whole world does not rest on saying the right thing or not saying the wrong thing.

At the end of my two week Spring Break, I start therapy. And though I am nervous about it, I am also relieved. I can finally begin talking to a professional about the whirlwind in my head: my anxiety, my insecurities, my bullshit. I can finally start intensely working through my issues, and just maybe I'll come out the other side a stronger more fulfilled person.

My time with PrincessA has been what I had hoped for: relaxed, refreshing, fun, and rejuvenating. And I still have fourteen hours to fill.

Fifteen Hours

I arrived at my airport, about thirty minutes early, at 8am. I texted PrincessA, grabbed my bags, and settled into a seat to crochet and wait for my ride.

After PrincessA picked me up, we headed to breakfast. It felt odd calling our meal breakfast because I'd been up for so long. Then again I hadn't ever actually gone to bed, so no matter what we called the delicious food we ate, it was going to seem odd to me.

We sat in a corner table by the front of the cafe and chatted. PrincessA, on the ride towards food, remarked how it was odd and awesome that the majority of our friendship had been developed through letters. We'd met at Dark Odyssey Fusion last summer, interacting some but not as much as we would have liked. So, instead, we've been writing each other ever since.

Sitting, eating, we now had so much time to talk. We chatted for hours about so many topics: our families, our coming out stories, kink in general, kink in Minnesota, the people I would meet, her rough plans for what would happen in my few days visiting, our fuzzy plans for life, tiny humans (one was sitting at the table next to us, so very cute eating pieces of a broken up blueberry muffin). It was awesome just to get to talk to her.

Checking the time, though, we had to go. Shibari & Sushi awaited.

Once at her home, we heaved my bags into the foyer. Taking my huge black bag to the living room, I opened it to find a small bag of popcorn had exploded inside. Thankfully the popcorn, being neither wet nor sticky, was an amusing teeny tiny annoyance. Rifling through all my toys and toiletries, I created my rope bag.

[Side Note: I find it hilarious that my travel toy bag is SO huge and heavy. I brought almost everything; no humidor, but I have my lighter and cutter. I plan to buy a few sticks while I'm here, as well as when I get to California, though.]

PrincessA grabbed her toy bag, as well as a snack and things for work, and we were off. Driving from one twin city to the other, we arrived at Inretrepida's home. She was the host of Sushi & Shibari, a monthly gathering of Minnesota rope-y folk.

PrincessA introduced me to those in attendance, as well as meeting a few folks herself. Taking a quick tour, we made our way to the downstairs dungeon. The floor was firm foam (+1), there was a spanking bench (+2), a cross with attachment points (+3), school desks (+4), and a hard point (+5).

It was a rather excellent space...except for the cats. There were two of them. I could smell the hazards as soon as I walked down the steps. I, unfortunately, am allergic to cat hair.

Still, I wanted to play. PrincessA and I negotiated a simple scene, opting for floor work. I secured her wrists behind her back, tied a simple chest harness, and frogged legged both of her lower limbs.

I then attacked PrincessA's left thigh, punching relentlessly. We found ourselves rolling on the floor as she desperately tried to get away from my blows. Over and over, I attacked her thigh mercilessly, laughing as she struggled.

Once she called me a Top, which got me surprisingly mad. I told her I was topping her, but I was not 'a Top'. I am a switch. I sat on her and asked if she wanted to call me a Top again as I continued to punch her one thigh.

As we rolled around, her chest harness and unharmed leg's bindings loosened. I pulled off their ropes, but her wrists and other frog leg remained intact, which was all I needed. Her skin grew red from my beating.

Soon, though, we had to stop. She laid back on the floor, breathing. I untied her leg and sat beside her, in case she needed anything.

PrincessA asked to have the discarded rope draped across her body. She breathed and rested. She turned to me and asked if she could kiss my feet. I said she could. She smiled and kissed them, snuggling up next to me. She then sat up and asked for her wrists to be untied. I released them, and she rest her head on my knee. I stroked her hair.

PrincessA stood and scurried upstairs, saying she would return. I sat with my rope and began watching the other scenes happening around me: a delicious looking cake with lots of frosting to lick off; Inretrepida and a beautiful woman in a rope suspension; a Sir and his submissive playing with pain and pleasure.

When PrincessA returned, she sat in my lap. I hugged her from behind and laid my head on her back. We stayed there for a few minutes before she had to go to work.

Gathering her things, PrincessA said her byes, but she would not be separated from us for long. The Sushi portion of Sushi and Shibari was to be at her work, where she would be our server.

With PrincessA away, I relaxed back into the play atmosphere, deciding I wanted to suspend myself. As I prepped my lines, Inretrepida saw what I was to do and asked if I wanted to see her modified gunslinger harness. I happily asked for her to demonstrate it as I tied my chest and hip harnesses, always wanting to learn something new.

When she finished, she decided she too wanted to self suspend, and headed downstairs. I stepped under my point and rigged myself up.

swimmy. My legs configured differently with the ankle rope, able to move and shift more than in my previous self suspensions. I liked the change and decided to keep it for later play.

MattP, whose rig I was playing on, came up and saw my work. He cautioned my moving, seeing as I was close to a wall. I decided he was right, and let myself down. I was already high and happy.

I slowly gathered my things and headed back downstairs, still quite floaty.

However, since I didn't feel close to anyone in attendance, I had no one to ask for hugs or cuddles for aftercare. I came down slower than normal, curled up in a corner by the stairs.

I watched as Inretrepida rigged herself, smiling at her work. As she finished, she sat in a chair close to me and began an electricity scene, receiving the attention of a Violet Wand and a mean mean man.

My inner voyeur was happy to have both Inretrepida's scene, as well as some interesting foot and calf bondage across the room, to watch. Later, when Inretrepida's scene ended, there was talk of possible cigar play at PrincessA's house before I leave for San Francisco (fingers crossed).

As the day rolled into evening, it was soon time to go. Inretrepida let me use her shower so I could wash cat dander off of me. I also used disinfectant wipes on my ropes, just in case.

My things gathered, I sat in the living room chatting with folks. There was an entire Pokemon conversation that I merely smiled and nodded for, the only reference I understood being Picachew. But, thankfully, an Inception conversation began which I was able to follow. (Thank you JEJ.)

With everyone's things gathered, and the house reset, we all hopped into cars and headed for food. We were a party of twenty that slowly filtered into a tiny sushi restaurant. Taking over the front tables, we weren't too loud and kept our kinky talk (mostly) at normal volume levels.

Because half of us pre-ordered, PrincessA and staff had some food ready for us. I tasted ginger beer for the first time (yum), and greatly enjoyed my rather large meal. The company was lovely. There was talk of Kink 1001 next weekend, as well as possible plans for future events (Shibaricon, Rope Camp, etc.).

Soon, though, it grew late. As people now filtered out, I strained to keep my eyes open. PrincessA still had to clean up, so she gave me her house key. I hugged folks bye, each wishing me good travels and lots of fun while I was in Minnesota. MattP gave me a ride to PrincessA's house; I blinked and we were there.

I brought some stuff up to her room. She, too, lived with cats, but they weren't allowed in her space. After fumbling with my things, figuring out something to wear to bed, and finally brushing my teeth, I plugged my phone in to charge, softly played a Jack Johnson album, and passed out around 11pm.

Bye For Now, Hello Minnesota

It was wet, misting. DeepEnd arrived at 4am, just as we had planned. I hopped into his car and we were off. As we traveled down the interstate, we chatted about random things.

At 4:30am he exited, taking his normal way to the airport.

NIGHTLY ROAD CLOSURE 8PM-5AM

Hmm...

He tried going anyway. Seeing a cop in the distance blocking the way, he backed up and off the road.

We circled around, trying to find a way back onto the interstate. I stayed calm, quietly assuring myself I had plenty of time. The airport I was flying out from typically had a low volume of passengers. According to DeepEnd & SkinnyBitch, it would only take 45 minutes from my arrival to my sitting on my plane.

Eventually we found our way back onto the interstate. With his exit no longer a possibility, DeepEnd drove around and got off on a main road. The speed limit was 25mph. As we crawled towards the airport, I kept trying to not panic.

Arriving at the airport at 5am, I hugged DeepEnd goodbye and headed towards curbside check-in.

"Have you paid for your bag?"
"No."
"Gotta go inside."

I waited in a short line to get to the front. A roving attendant asked everyone when their flight left. Pulling out my journal, I checked. Thank goodness, my flight didn't leave til 6:30am. Deep breath out.

The attendant pulled all 6am departures to the front. After a few people cut ahead of me, I finally stepped up.

"Where's your boarding pass?"
"I don't know. I haven't done this before."
"Go check-in at the kiosk."

Stepping out of line, I made my way over to the small electronic island. I followed the computer prompts. I paid for my huge black Nike bag. I got back in line, which had now quadrupled in size and slowed to a painful crawl. I kept checking the time on my phone. I grew anxious.

The roving attendant came around again.

"Who has a 6:30 flight?"

I was pulled to the front. Nervous, I asked the man if my small rolling bag was carry-on size. He said it looked a little too big, but they could add the checked bag at the desk.

Stepping up, I piled my two bags onto the scale. I pulled out my ID. The man asked for my boarding pass. I had folded it and put it in my wallet, but for a split second I couldn't find it. When I did see it, my hands shook so badly I could barely unfold the piece of paper.

Extra bag paid for and tagged, he instructed me to drop off my luggage around the corner and head to my gate. Pressed for time, I lifted both, not bothering to roll them even with the weight, adrenaline fueling me.

"Do I just leave them here?"

My bags secured, I speed-walked towards my gate.

Stepping into the security line, I handed the attendant all the papers I'd collected.

"Who is Nicholas Polk?"

I was mistakenly given someone else's transfer ticket along with my boarding pass and checked-bag receipts.

I stepped up to the conveyor belt. I took off my shoes, took my netbook out of my backpack, and proceeded to remove all my metal (a process that takes way longer for me than for most individuals).

I slid my three trays onto the x-ray belt. I stepped through the metal detector.

I was prepared for a beep. DeepEnd already told me I might need to tell them I have body jewelry.

"Take off your hat. You're good."

The attendant had a warm voice and gave me a small smile. I felt better.

I grabbed my trays and slid them to the end. I put my necklace back on, my phone back in my pocket, my wallet with its chain reattached to my hip, my loud jangling keys. My Zim belt would take a minute to get back on, so I instead carried it to the gate.

It was 5:50am. Technically, scarily, I actually could have made it if my flight were at 6. Instead I used the restroom, put my belt back on, and waited.

When it was time for my zone to load, I stepped up to the desk and handed in Nicholas Polk's transfer pass.

Getting to my aisle, I had the window seat.

"Hi guys."

Two rather large men sat in the two seats between the walkway and my cubby hole. They stepped out. I eased in, dropping my back pack onto the floor and nestling my legs around it. I fumbled with the lap belt, but got it on. I turned off my phone.

And then I turned it back on. I texted DeepEnd my mother's phone number, just in case. I apologized if I woke him back up. I turned my phone back off.

I leaned back in my seat. My eyelids grew heavy even as my heart beat with excitement.

Looking out the window, I saw a familiar tableaux, one I had dreamed some time ago.

As we taxied to the runway, I saw the sky had turned from dark blue to deep purple. In the minutes before the plane lifted off the ground, the sky again changed, this time to slate. As we climbed, I blew a kiss to my home below.

Bye for now.

I slept for most of the flight, listening to a new favorite album on my iPhone.



I tried my best to pop my ears, but to no avail. I leaned forward, closing my eyes, pulling my earbuds out. I pressed my thumbs into my ears. Remembering my pain processing, I started counting to four, over and over again. I took deep breaths. I gritted my teeth.

I tried looking out my window. At first it didn't work. Though I marveled in the ocean of clouds, cotton waves extending to infinity, even the beauty could not subside my pain.

Gradually, painfully slow, the plane descended. Little by little, my pain lowered as the plane lowered.

Cutting through the clouds, my ears finally popped. The worst of it was over.

We landed with a thump. I turned my phone back on; texted DeepEnd & PrincessA.

Hello Minnesota.

Metaphorically Speaking

Recently I read a blog entry by my friend Graydancer asking what metaphors do we live by and how those metaphors contribute to our lives. His, unfortunately, was of a crumbling house built on love. Mine, unfortunately, were not much better.

Cabin Bitch

The first metaphor that came to mind was Cabin Bitch. My title, so earned at Rope Camp and lasting still, fits quite well. I strive to do for others, to put in the work to make others happy, to be the bitch for those around me so their lives are made better.

My title feeds into my need to be helpful, to be the one who saves the day, who has what's needed, who produces the coin.

But there is an obvious downside to this. If I am looking out for everyone else, who is looking out for me? SkinnyBitch once told me (not in reference to my own actions) that those who seek to take care of everyone else do so because they do not take care of themselves.

Have I been taking care of me? Have I given as much time, care, attention, energy, affection as I do to everyone else in my life? The blunt and sadly true answer is no.

Teacher's Pet

The second metaphor that came to mind was Teacher's Pet. I was so dubbed almost a year ago at Dark Odyssey Fusion.

I know, full well though, that I have been a Teacher's Pet for as long as I can remember. In school, I always got good grades. I always threw my hand up to answer questions, to give my opinion. I always worked hard, did my best, and was often on the Honor Roll. But, even more than that, I wanted attention from the teacher, from the person in charge.

I know my school girl fetish was fed on the times when I was singled out by mentors. In third grade, my teacher took me out on special dinners, doting on me. In high school, I spent time after school most days with my Math teacher. Granted this was partly out of convenience, but I still sought his approval, his attention. For a time, I battled him in the classroom, believing (and I still do) that I was smarter than he. Even still, it fed into my desire to be the best, to be worthy of his attention, and, dare I say it, his affection.

My Teacher's Pet persona is so a part of me, I could never let it go. It would be like asking me to stop feeling like me; the quirky slutty inner twenty-five year old just would not have that. Teacher's Pet may just be the only metaphor I do not look down upon and will keep for all my days.

Freelancer/Lone Soldier

As much as I want to be owned, as much as I want to be a part of something greater than myself, I often identify as a freelancer. Not only is it my job title, it feels like my life title. I go where life takes me. No one takes hold of me. No permanent attachments. No unending loyalties.

This metaphor only goes but so far. I know full well that if I were completely free of attachments or loyalties, I would not be living where I am. I would've moved to New York or LA right out of college. I would have a very different life.

Big Bro once called me a Lone Soldier. His metaphor is closer to how I feel, though he cautioned me against it. Being unpartnered, it often feels like I'm going it alone. Though I have a network of close friends, when I go to bed at night it's just me and Tessie. I have no one to curl up to, no one's arms to snuggle in, rest my head, take my ease. No one to bitch about my work, plan for future fun, share my life.

Big Bro didn't want me to take up the moniker because he knows it is but a temporary state, a place holder for my future self. And that is what I keep telling myself.

But every day that goes by without me finding those partners for my life, everyday my Daddy hasn't come home yet, it feels more and more true.

And Thus...

So no, I don't believe my metaphors are enhancing my life. In fact, I know I need to work against them, to push past them, to think of new metaphors for who I want to be, for who I strive to be.

My metaphors are me running off an old script. I need to get cracking on new material.

Poetic's Spring Break

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Three Moments

1) "Do you know how to coil rigging rope?"

Do I know how to coil rope? Hmm...

One of my projects at work today was, simply, to coil rope. But not just any rope. 3/4 inch braided black nylon, with a blue accent. Two coils. 150' in length, each.

They sat on the warehouse's concrete floor, two mangled piles waiting for my manipulations.

I picked up the first, the less messy of the two, and began to unwind it. The coil was semi in tact, but would have still been a nuisance to the riggers if I'd just chucked it into a bin for them to deal with later.

Finding an end, I pulled. I ran the rope through my hands, knowing full well no part of this chord would be touching anyone's sensitive skin. But still, I remembered my training.

Getting to the other end, I began my coil. I grasped the end while creating a large loop that extended all the way down to my knee. I carefully matched my next loops to this same length. As I worked, the rope began to twist. With my free hand, I spun the rope, pushing the twist along as I went.

After about fifty feet, I transferred the rope to my fore arm, creating the loops still, the nylon draping across so much of my skin. I was just barely able to hold all the loops the long length required before it was time to finish off the coil.

With about fifteen feet of tail, I wrapped the end around the entire coil. The coil was so large, though, that I had to wrap half way, hold the tail between my thighs, and grab it from the other side. I wrapped around the coil about eight times. I then brought the tail up through the top of the coil and cinched off twice.

"This about what you were looking for?"
"Yes. God, the riggers are going to feel like they're spoiled."

I repeated the process for the other length, sat it next to its match, and took a picture for posterity.

2) As soon as I walked into the house, I recognized the sweet smokey smell. DeepEnd was home.

He'd been away for a few days, and had returned the night before while I was asleep. I heard the thump of his drums before I entered the house. As I set my things down, I could feel the rhythm he played on his drums in the basement through the floor. The music, along with the cigar scent, made me smile; it felt like my home was back to normal.

As I headed upstairs, DeepEnd finished his set.

In my room, I disrobed, wanting to get out of my work clothes. Thursday meant DO Happy Hour, and I didn't want to socialize in my work blacks. As I took my clothes off, I heard DeepEnd say my name.

Yelling from at the top of the steps, I asked him if he'd called me. Actually DeepEnd had been talking to the dog, hoping I was home instead of someone in the house trying to rob us. I then pointed out we had nothing worth stealing. He concurred.

"Oh, and by the way, welcome home."

As I finished undressing, DeepEnd called for me. Throwing my robe on and stuffing my cellphone and its charger into a pocket, I headed into his bedroom.

On his bed, there was an impressive array: about a dozen cigars in a few different bags, a small Tortuga wooden cigar box, and a large empty humidor.

He showed me his new humidor, which needed to air our before he could use it, as well as all the sticks he purchased while on his trip. I marveled at the display.

DeepEnd also pointed out his minor boo-boo. While looking at this humidor, the lid to the box closed, striking him on the bridge of his nose. A small red line, about a half inch long, graced his face between his eyes.

DeepEnd talked about the different cigars he purchased, most notably a few rather large diameter sticks and a Rocky Patel 15th Anniversary, the #5 cigar of the year.

As we had stood there for a bit, talking shop and my marveling his stash, I asked DeepEnd the time. It was 5:20pm. Play time over. We both rushed about. He needed to go pick up SkinnyBitch and I didn't want to be late for Happy Hour.

3) "So I need someone to be co-topped by Lynk and myself for needles. They..."
"Yes."

FancyDancer, HoopFlyBurn, and N3rddom all snickered. We sat in the McDonald's just a stone's throw from our weekly happy hour bar. Both HoopFlyBurn and I snacked on french fries. N3rddom and FancyDancer enjoyed milkshakes. Big Sis ate a chicken sandwich.

"Hey, she just spent how much time back at Happy Hour telling me how hot he is."

And we were in the middle of a conversation about blood play, how I'm so easy, and the endorphin highs to come from Big Sis upping the ante with our needle play.

What else was I suppose to say:

Maybe, after I've seen your work, I'll think about it.

Possibly, if my dance card isn't too full, and I'm not feeling itchy.

I don't know; blood weirds me out.

Fuck that shit. Hot people AND endorphins. I'm surprised I didn't say, "Fuck yes."

Don't Shit Where You Eat

You can't make this shit up.

Me. My Ex. In a slow elevator.

He stood towards the front, staring at the doors. I leaned against the side wall, looking down at the floor. 

I happened to gaze upon his shoes. They were Timberlands. I'd never seen him in them before. Brown, dirtied, nowhere near new. A quiet reminder of how long our lives have been apart.

I wanted to say something to him. I wanted to say...something, anything to break the tension, ease the mood. 

How's it going? How've you been? Life treating you well? 

Instead I kept my mouth shut. He didn't speak either, nor did I expect him to. I think I made the right decision.

The whole situation could have been more dramatic if we were alone, but there was another person on the lift. He worked for another company. He stood towards the back attending to a large cart. It made my Ex's ignorance of my presence less...offensive is the wrong word, but it's close.

As the elevator approached our floor, I stood up straight and stepped closer to the doors. I swung my head around to crack my neck and rolled my shoulders to loosen them, mentally preparing myself for the impending shitty gig. As the doors opened, I walked left; my Ex walked right.

I barely saw him, barely interacted with him for the rest of the night. Even though we both drove trucks, I calculated he probably didn't want my help in packing his vehicle. When it came time to pack my truck, there came no offer of assistance on his part.

For the night, I believe we each said two words to one another:

As I was packing my truck, I paused, waiting for him to walk by. "Go ahead," he said.
"Thank you," I said as I pushed my case past him.

I'm not quite sure why it irked me that he barely acknowledged my presence. Maybe because I would have been pleasant if he'd wanted conversation, or even just a simple hello. (Fuck, he didn't even say hello to me.)

Maybe because I like to think we could be friendly, cordial even, in our interactions, that we could find a way to make the rare times we see each other not so fucking odd.

Maybe because, during part of the gig, he was smoking a Black & Mild; the sweet scent tweaked me without my wanting it to.

Either way, I left that night without him really acknowledging my presence. We are now, I assume, back to our mutually implicit avoidance pact.

[Aha! It just dawned on me. He was being passive aggressive. That's why I was so pissed. I was trying to be polite and he was being a dick.  Why that took me almost a day to realize, I don't know.  But it sure explains why I drove away last night wanting to hit him.]

Going To The Well

Sometimes I'm lost for what to say. Sometimes I go to the well and it's like, "Um, what do you want? I've given you plenty. Leave me alone." Sometimes I've just got nothing.

When that has happened in the past, I'll end up writing a piece of erotica. Frankly, for me, it's easy. I think of a character, what that character finds sexy, and craft a story around that. It can be long. It could be just a page. But leaning back on erotica is easy.

Today I wanted to write something profound. I wanted to express a sweet sorrow of some sort.

All I've got to talk about, though, is allergies. (Yeah, not so sexy today folks.)

As an adult, this year is the first where my body has decided to attack itself. For the past week my head has felt like cotton balls have been shoved up my nose, lubricated but the abundance of snot dripping out.

I've sneezed more in the past seven days than I may have in the previous seven years. I set a new record for how many sneezes I expelled in a row: five.

Random Fact: I love to sneeze. Love the build up, the anticipation of the release, and then finally the massive gush of air as my body convulses and I let go. A wave of relief passes over me. My skin is tingly sweet. I feel almost high.  (Bet you didn't know sneezing could be so sexy.)  This experience, however, has almost dampened my love of the act.

I know things change. Our bodies are constantly changing, no matter how much we try to stop it. As an adult, I've recently found a love of physical activity on a semi-regular basis. (Translation: I'm exercising, and I kinda like it.) I feel better. Others have said I look better. Overall, it's pretty fucking awesome.

And, funny enough, physical activity did help, somewhat, in the relief of my allergy symptoms. It's funny, a good friend of mine recently mentioned how, when she is sick, if she has sex the symptoms ease during the act and for a time after.

Today I can't give all the credit to my yoga DVD. I took a Claritin at 8:30am. It's currently 8pm. I feel much better, less like I want to kill everyone and everything. I seriously hope this shit doesn't come back, but I know it will. Thankfully, I bought a five pack, so at least I'm good until I fly away for a week.

And yeah, really excited for my trip. And scared shitless. And wondering if I'm crazy. Or whimsical. Or adventurous. Or super naive. Or optimistic beyond belief. I guess I'm a little bit of everything.

Left coast, I will see you in nine days.

Allergies: GO AWAY!

The Wolf, part two

~erotica~


I don't remember how we ended up at my place. Looking back, I'm not surprised; everyone I talked to said the same thing, how they just sort of brought her home. They could never recall why.

We barely made it inside my door before she kissed me, before the Wolf began her torment. Her hands explored my body, slowly gliding over my curves, the ones I loved along with the ones I hated.

As she reached her hand down, going for under my skirt, I stopped her. I backed away. I wasn't ready to have that conversation, wasn't ready for all that she had in mind. But nobody stops the Wolf.

She matched each of my steps until my back hit the wall. I felt like a trapped rabbit who knew they were dinner. But instead of pinning my wrists against the wall, or her hand against my neck, she snaked he lips to my ear, nibbled, and said, so very softly, "Please."

"But..."

"Please." She gave me a choice, but there was no other way I wanted to answer.

"Yes," I squeaked, afraid of what her reaction would be.

Bending down, she lifted my skirt and eased down my panties. My cock unfolded, hard, wanting her, even as my breasts and nipples tingled their desire too.

Before I had a chance to explain, before I had a chance to apologize or run away, my cock was in her mouth. I gasped, the first time in a long time anyone had enjoyed the pleasure. Her hands gripped my ass, pulling me in further. My hands reached back onto the wall, trying to find some purchase.

I'd passed for so long, lived as the woman I felt inside, but still I couldn't give up my cock. It was almost like I was two people, two beings. No. No, I felt like a new being occupying a unique body.

Sometimes I felt confused; other times torn or alone. Every day. But in the few seconds of her question, my answer, and her hunger, I now felt like me, like a person, a hot sexy bitch, instead of a freak.

I panted and cursed as she worked on my cock and balls. I reached into my bra and squeezed my nipple hard. She was so good, I couldn't help but ease my hand into her hair and gently begin to fuck her face. She didn't pull back, didn't let up.

I felt my orgasm rise, but in a instance she stood in front of me. Panting, aching for my cum, I didn't understand. And then I remembered Louie and Katra; I remembered the game.

Just as quick, though, the Wolf surprised me.

"Fuck me."

Two words. Two simple words. And yet I hadn't fucked anyone in ages, hadn't felt comfortable enough to let anyone in like that, hadn't felt I could or would do that to or for someone in so long.

As she stood in front of me, her eyes burning into mine, I wanted nothing more than to please her. I suppose this was how she got Louie's cock in her mouth, how she kept Katra from cuming. The only thing that mattered to me in that moment was being all she ever wanted.

Sliding my hand into hers, I led the way to my bedroom. My apartment was tiny, ordered, tidy. Since my life felt so crazy, I controlled what I could: laundry, dusting, vacuuming. My bedspread still smelled like the dryer sheets, crisp and fresh.

The Wolf still wore her diner outfit: her white tank top, a simple black skirt, black apron, comfortable shoes. All the fabric stuck to her skin from her day's labor. I peeled off each piece, marveling her body as inch-by-inch it was revealed to me.

When I last pulled off her shirt (her perky B-cups required no bra) I fully took in the enormity and scope of her tattoo, stopped in stunned awe. I found myself tracing the lines of ink on her back with my fingertips, my nails, and finally my tongue.

The Wolf rested her hands on my bed, arching her back, moaning softly. She reached back and felt I was yet still erect, my cock peeking from under my skirt. She pulled hard, stroking my shaft firmly.

I opened the top drawer of my end table and pulled out a condom. She took the condom from my hand, again sunk to her knees, and placed the prophylactic on me. She stroked me still, looking straight into my eyes again.

Gripping her arms, I raised her up and softly pushed her back onto my bed. Brushing my hand against the side of her thigh, her ass, I slid up to grip her hip as I entered her. She arched her back up, bucking her hips into mine, burning a beautiful image into my mind of her closed lids, open mouth, and perfect breasts, all on display for me.

Her hands found my shirt and pulled it off. I reached back, unsnapped my bra, and flung it away. She began kissing and sucking on my breasts as I continued to slowly thrust in and out of her. She wrapped her legs around my waist. We slowly rocked, locked into each other, grinding, fucking as I had never before.

"Harder." She said it as both an order and a plea.

I obeyed, now ramming into her. Her nails dug into my back. Her teeth bit down on my shoulder. The pain she gave fueled me. I fucked her harder still.

I then felt the grip on my cock as her first orgasm came. She breathed and moaned her joy into my ear.

"Don't stop." I didn't. I couldn't.



Again she came, her body convulsing, her moans still in my ear. Hearing her, feeling her, being so near this amazing being... I felt as if I'd been touched by something divine.

"Cum with me." And I did.

Sweaty, exhausted, barely able to move on my bed, we laid in heaps, breathing heavy. After a time, she slowly curled into my arms. I pulled her in, not wanting to let her go.

I knew the name on her work tag was a lie. Knew if I tried to ask her questions she'd probably leave. Instead I waited, hoping she would open up, hoping she'd somehow know what I wanted, that I craved more beyond her body.

When our breathing came back to normal, she did begin talking. She spoke about her family, how she'd grown up, why she left and would never go back. She talked about her crappy apartment and okay job, and how it was all heaven compared to what she came from.

In my arms, against my skin, she felt nothing how I'd imagined, and exactly how I'd dreamed.

Passing By

Twice in the past month I've almost run into the Ex. He is still employed by a company I occasionally work for. Both times it was when I was driving, dropping off rental equipment, and, if I had lagged at the rental house for but a few minutes, we would have interacted.

It's been two years since I broke up with him. Two years since he drove his mother, in my car, with me in the back seat, to our shared apartment in hopes that she would live with us. Two years since, after I hurriedly drove away from our home, I sat in my car, the same car I own now, sobbing, screaming, crying, not knowing what to do. Two years since that horrible conversation outside in the parking lot. Two years since I gave back his necklace. Two years.

Fuck, how my life has changed.

When I think back on who I was then, who I was with him, I am both sad and relieved. I spent three and a half years of my life, some of which you can read about on this very blog, waiting for a man to change. Waiting for him to make good on the hints he would drop. Waiting for him to commit to me as much as I had committed to him. Waiting for three words I never got.

I can't hate him. I still care about him, though I would never seek out anything from him and pretty much avoid him at all costs. It wasn't that he was a horrible man; if he were I would not have stayed so long. And though at first glance he came off as hard, stern, a bit scary, he was mostly sweet and caring towards me. Of course except when he wasn't. I can't lie; I liked the moments when he dominated me.

No, I'm not sad about the relationship. It was what we never achieved together that saddens me. It was how he didn't change, didn't grow, that truly makes me want to cry. He was a manchild, from the beginning of our interactions til the end. And though I was far younger than he, I often felt like the adult in the relationship.

I had plans, goals for us. In the end, it seemed like he would be content to just stay as we were: cohabiting, but with no compass to guide us; emotionally choked off, not willing to talk about his feelings and therefore implicitly asking for my silence; me always wanting more and he never seeming to care.

When I saw him recently, I noticed he had shaved his face. I never cared for that particular look. I always liked his scruffy beard, even as it got in the way when we kissed. As I passed by him in my van, he in his truck, I gave him a head nod. He returned it. There was no malice, no anger or hurt, just acknowledging the other's presence and moving on.

It could've just been work, or the first hot day of the Spring, but he didn't seem happy. His ill temper was not directed towards me. I've noticed in the few times I have interacted with him since the split that he reverted back to his easily annoyed persona. Like I said, manchild.

Even so, I learned a lot from my Ex. He helped me in my kink journey, teaching me as we grew together. I still remember once lying on his bed as he pulled out a book and talked to me about negotiations, the first time I'd had a formal conversation about play. He fostered my love of rope, though only from a bottom's perspective. And when times were good, we were playful and, dare I admit it, happy.

But, good or bad, he taught me quite a bit about what I don't want in a partner. I need emotional openness, even as I struggle within myself to achieve it alone. I need affection, the simple ability to hold someone's hand; he was not much for PDA. I need acknowledgement of our relationship; he called me his girlfriend once. I need a partner and a friend, not "She just keeps showing up and I never kick her out." It was cute the first time; by the sixth, I just wanted to scream.

All that aside, whatever his life has been in the past two years, I hope he has lived it well and found room to grow.

With this blog as a testament, I know I sure have.

The Wolf

~erotica~


They called her The Wolf. She prowled the local haunts, nightclubs, bars, and bath houses alike. People weren't sure how she identified herself. She never objected to any pronoun used, but then again she rarely talked, except when stalking her prey.

She seemed to have no preferences, loving cock and pussy alike, tall or short, slim or curvy. Some wondered if it was just the challenge, though she conquered the easy along with the hard.

Everyone wanted to be dragged back to her den. Everyone wanted to be blown away. For that was how each of her conquests described their experience with The Wolf.

Her crew cut hair and leather chaps had most guessing she was butch. Her black corset, silver lips, and red stilettos screamed femme. She defied all expectation, all explanation.

I met Louie, a forty-something leatherman, in a smokey tavern on a Thursday night. He'd come across the wolf about a year ago.

"It was a slow night, much like tonight. It was cold outside. Only the regulars showed, and not even all of them. I'd blown or fucked every man who walked through those doors that night. But then she walked in.

"A femme in the Stallion. She turned heads, if for no other reason than everyone thought she was lost. She wasn't lost. She was hungry.

"God, she must have blown me for a solid two hours. I'm a faggot, through and through, but she was...persistent. Buying me drinks. Buttering me up, really. She wanted me nice and relaxed, more open to a new experience.

"I hadn't had head from a chick in ages. God, I didn't know a chick could suck cock that good. She was all over my dick, sucking my balls, deep throating, tickling the tip with her throat muscles. Shit, I may have had my cock down her throat, but I knew I was her bitch.

"She took forever to let me cum. A whole fucking two hours before she finally let me pop. Every time I got close, every time I was ready to bust in her mouth, she'd stop, grip my dick real hard, squeezing the base of my shaft, and just stare at me, right in my eyes. Just stare and wait til my cock started to go soft. And then she'd start again.

"Fuck, I still don't know if it was pleasurable or painful. But if she ever came my way again, ever set her sights on me, I wouldn't turn her away."

Katra frequented the Kitty Lounge every Friday and Saturday night. Her thigh high boots and latex dress shone, reflecting the club lights and bringing everyone's attention to her. It took me a full month before I could even get her attention, let alone strike up a conversation.

"She has an impressive assortment of cocks."

As soon as I realized Katra loved flavored cigars, I kept a fresh stogie and a lighter at the ready. She'd talk as long as the tobacco lasted.

"Not just in size, but in color and texture. And she had different harnesses too.

"Normally, even when a cock is inside me, I am the one who's fucking. But with her...

"That bitch had me screaming words I haven't heard since I was in high school, with my Momma bout ready to tear into my ass."

Katra took a long, knowing inhale, and let the sweet scent drift about her face. I could see the memories floating back to the front of her mind.

"God, my cunt and ass are still sore. She'd fuck one, switch to the other, switch again. Shit, she had me all night and wouldn't let up.

"I beat boys, hard. I make them cry, make them scream, make them beg, and they love me for it. With her, I was her bitch and I couldn't stop thanking her. Even as she denied my orgasms, denied me cum after cum. Even as she pounded my pussy, drilled my ass, I just couldn't stop thanking her.

"Fuck, where does a bitch like that come from?"

She came from a small town from a fly over state that she'd never name. She hated her home, hated her parents. Hated her brothers, hated her sister. She hated her life.

None of them could understand, would ever understand what is was like to want so many, to feel so much, to be more than the life you were born into.

The day she turned eighteen she was gone. No note, nothing. Her family didn't miss her and she didn't miss them.

She caught a bus to New York City and never looked back. She got a shitty job, rented a shitty apartment, and lived a less than shitty life. She didn't care that all of her neighbors were loud at every conceivable hour of the day. Didn't care that her bed was a mattress on the floor, her couch was some empty milk crates, and her TV was her toaster sized window.

No one threatened to rape or kill her. No one bashed her head into Bibles or screamed about eternal damnation. Most people did all that she ever wanted from anyone else: left her the fuck alone.

She'd been in the city for a few years now. Her job had become less shitty and paid a bit more. Her wardrobe and sex toys chest were the beneficiaries of her increased income. She saw no need to upgrade her furniture. Most nights she slept wherever she fucked. And she fucked, a lot.

I met her on a Monday. It was lunchtime.



As I sat, having downed two glasses quite quickly, she said I should try some pie. I wondered aloud why she suggested dessert instead of a full meal. She told me I looked like I needed to treat myself. I had to admit, she was right. I got two slices of apple, a la mode, with whip cream, no cherry.

I knew it was her when I saw the tattoo. Everyone noted the tattoo: angel wings that spanned her entire back, with dripping blood, seemingly deep gashes, and errant feathers, like she'd been ripped down from heaven.

That day, that balmy August day, she wore a tank top that stuck to her sweaty flesh. When she turned away, after dropping off my dessert for lunch, and giving me the largest warmest smile I'd ever seen, I finally saw it. I'd finally seen her.

I'd finally met The Wolf.

Crimson

The rope was crimson, a dark blood red, that seemed to vibrate through the packaging. She held it in her hands, not sure what to do with it.

It was a gift, a random gift from a stranger who, when presenting her with the small plastic wrapped hemp, said only, "For you." She'd thanked the woman, not knowing what else to do, but also not knowing why it was given.

She'd never met the woman before. She'd never met anyone here before. It was her first kink event; everything was new.

She sat on her bed, the short length of rope, still wrapped in plastic, throbbing in her hands.

Well, I don't think she gave it to me just to look at it.

Gripping hard, she ripped open the packaging, and sent the sweet aroma of the hemp blazing up her nostrils. An audible "ah" left her lips.

Putting the plastic aside, she ran the chord through her hands. She liked the feel of it as much as the smell, that way it grazed her skin, the caress of the natural fiber rope.

As the chord kissed her flesh, each pass created what she could only describe as a line of energy, pulsing warm over her.

Still, even as she felt the energy, felt the raw power, she didn't know what to do with it. But she couldn't let the rope go, this amazing unexpected gift bestowed upon her by a stranger.

She began running the rope along different parts of her body: over her arms, across her thighs, lightly against her stomach, kissing her breasts, and finally around the back of her neck. It felt right there, as if the power of the rope pulsed and surged throughout her whole being.

With a simple knot, she created a necklace, now wearing her gift. It felt true; it felt like her. From that day on, the rope rarely left her neck, and never left her side.

My Sir

~erotica~


He sat on the corner of the bed, the corner nearest the door. He still wore his clothes from work: collared dress shirt, creased dress pants, polished shoes, tie. He'd set his glasses on the end table beside the bed, his briefcase on the floor just under them.

I stood in the doorway. I wore the sundress he liked, light blue. The color of the sky on a clear day. The color of his eyes. I was barefoot. My hair flowed down my back.

He smiled at me with a familiar grin, a mixture of "I'm going to hurt you" and "I'm going to fuck you." When I saw that grin, I knew what my evening had in store.

He waved me over, and pat twice on his thigh. I slowly crept, coyly shying my head away. Lifting my legs, I straddled him on the bed, and wrapped my arms around his neck, resting them on his shoulders. His arms found their usual spot on the cleft of my hips, his hands brushing my ass.

He kissed me softly at first, a greeting. Which turned into a knowing. Which turned into a wanting. His nails dug into my ass as our kiss grew deeper, longer. My fingers brushed his jaw line. Our tongues danced.

We had begun.

"So good to see you again, girl."
"So nice to see you too, Sir."
"Did you remember your homework?" I looked at him, puzzled.
"Homework, Sir?" He shook his head disapprovingly.
"Lean back."

His arms cupped my hips as I bent my body back, eventually resting my hands on the floor. With one arm still around my waist, he used his free hand to try to slip my dress up to my hips. When I found balance, he removed his other arm and was able to guide the fabric completely. I wore no underwear.

He ran his hands over my hip bones, pressing down at the clefts. A quiet scream escaped my lips.

Grabbing the center of my strap-less bra, he lifted me back into a seated position in his lap.

"Over my knee."

I quickly repositioned myself, resting my hips against his right knee. Both hands were on the floor. He rubbed my bare ass, and then smacked hard, the left cheek first, and then the right. The crack of his blows echoed off the walls. Smack! Smack! He gave me five blows to each side.

Finished, he pulled me back onto his knee, my dress still at my hips.

"You may not have remembered it was an assignment, but you did come to me fully shaved. I gave you ten strikes for forgetfulness."

He tapped my nose with his index finger.

"You would've received twenty if you hadn't shown up properly. Less forgetful from now on."

"Yes, Sir."

He took his index fingers and laced them through my dress straps. Pulling down, he shifted the fabric off my bra, down to rest on my hips. Reaching behind, he unsnapped my bra as he lightly bit my breasts. My hands found his hair and grazed through his strands. Unhooked, he flung the bra away.

Taking up my breasts in his hands, he began sucking on my nipples. His tongue circled my areolae. His teeth gripped parts of the flesh, imprinting their pattern in my skin. My eyes closed. My head craned back. My body grew warm, my pussy wet.

Gripping one arm, and then the other, he positioned them behind my back. I felt the kiss of the rope on my wrists as he wound the chord and secured his binding. He wrapped it around my chest, over my shoulders, and then began weaving an intricate pattern in the back. Finished, happy with the harness, he stood, balancing me as I slid from his lap.

With a push, my chest landed on the bed, my hips bent, my ass presented to him. With one yank, he pulled my dress off and onto the floor. Again he caressed my ass, but this time he also pressed his hips in, simulating what I hoped would be in my future.

Gripping the back of the harness, he pulled my body to standing again. A hand found my clit, massaging me there. The other controlled me through his rope.

"Hmm, someone is happy."
"You always seem happy to me, Sir."

He rubbed a little harder. My knees buckled for a moment before I righted myself.

"Happy? No. Content. Controlled. Calm. No, not happy. Happy comes when I'm inside you. Happy comes when I hear your little noises. Happy comes when I see you cum."
"May I cum for you, Sir?"
"Oh, my little pet, not just yet."

He pushed me back down onto the bed. With a rush, his knee landed on my ass. I would've rocked forward more, but his hands gripped my harness keeping me set. Left. Right. His knees continued to pound me. I made one of the noises he likes, a mixture of a grunt and a moan, with each swift contact of his knee on my ass.

With a hand in my hair, he elevated my head.

"Do you like it when I knee your ass?"
"Yes, Sir. You know I do, Sir."
"It never hurts to ask. And I do love it when you call me Sir. In fact, from now on, begin and end your sentences with Sir. Do you understand?"
"Sir, I do, Sir."
"Good girl."

His hand again found my clit

"Please, Sir."

His hand quickly moved away. He wrenched me up from the bed again, his face now a breath away from mine.

"What did you say?"
"Sir, please, Sir."
"Your forgetfulness."

He slapped me hard, back handed, across my left cheek.

"Sir, my apologies, Sir."

He graced my other cheek with a blow.

"I don't want your apologies. I want you to remember and respect my wishes."
"Sir, I will, Sir."

Again he shoved me face down onto the bed. I felt rope around one ankle, and then the other. He lifted a line, and with it my left leg. He ran the line through the back of my harness, and then down to my other ankle.

I found myself in a balancing act. Only one foot could be on the ground at a time. My left leg desperately tried to stay in the air while my right felt the strain of its counterpart's weight pulling it from the ground.

With a hard smack, both his palms landed flat on my ass. I yelped from both the pain and the surprise. Stingy blows followed, one after the other, as he punished me further for my mistake.

"Good girls remember what their told. Good girls remember their assignments. Good girls remember the rules. Are you a good girl?"
"Sir, I am, Sir."
"Then start acting like one."

He spanked my ass til it grew sore, til it throbbed with the memory of his hits, til I knew it would be red for days. I whimpered from the pain, another sound I knew he enjoyed.

"Sir, please, Sir."
"Please what?"

He stopped his spanking, irritation in his voice.

"Sir, I need to switch my legs, Sir. Sir, and a good girl would never kick her Sir, Sir."
"You think you can do that?"
"Sir, may I try, Sir? Sir, please, Sir."
"You may."

I could hear the now grin in his voice, I suspected from the many times I threw in the word he loved, but also from the ridiculous act I was about to attempt. With only my chest on the bed, I had no way of balancing so that I could simply ease my legs to switch. Instead, I needed to basically leap.

I counted to three in my head, rocking my hips with the numbers, and then, at once, flung my legs, hoping gravity would assist me. My left leg did successfully landed on the ground, with my right leg up, but my whole body inadvertently rolled over. I tumbled towards the floor and into his waiting arms.

"Sir, bad idea, Sir?" He chuckled softly.
"Not your best, but you got me to stop punishing you, so maybe not so bad."

I felt the air of his voice as he spoke against my neck. His arms wrapped around me. Slowly, a hand crept down my stomach. Down my hips. Down to my clit once more. He lifted us up to a seated position as he slowly circled his fingertip over my clit. My arousal rose, the heat in my abdomen overwhelming.

"Sir, please, please, Sir."
"Yes."

He kissed me as my body convulsed in his arms. I screamed my pleasure into his lips. I could barely breathe, could barely think, could barely do anything beyond feel the rush of ecstasy in my body and the joy of his lips against mine.

Suddenly my legs were free again. He'd untied the ankle cuffs as I came. He lifted me, even as I languished in the final moments of my orgasm. Once more, my chest rested on his bed.

I heard his zipper, heard the condom wrapper, and then felt him inside me. Instinctively, I cursed and screamed.

"Sir, oh God, Sir!"

Once again using the harness for leverage, he now rocked his hips into me, thrusting his hard cock into my wanting cunt. With what little leverage I had, I pushed back, needing more of him, all of him, inside me.

As we fucked, he slapped my ass, pulled my hair, bit my shoulder, and whispered, "That's my good girl," into my ear. He sucked on my neck and I begged him for permission again.

"Cum," he whispered, driving harder still inside me.

"Don't stop," he whispered, not relenting in his fucking. His balls slapped my clit. A hand gripped my hip. His teeth left impressions all over my body as we fucked liked starving men at a feast.

I never stopped cumming. Never stopped screaming. Never stopped cursing. Never stopped thanking him, proclaiming my love for him, for my Sir.

I Miss You

It's not your clothes. God, you are such a slob. With your tattered jeans, ruffled thrift store polo's, and sneakers that barely stay together. I don't miss your clothes.

And it's not your apartment. Books in piles randomly set. Your eclectic collection of old school Nintendo 64 games. And your Game Boy, at the edge of the TV table, with either Kirby Pinball, Chess, or Tetris inside, the only three games you played on it. Your bathroom that was never cleaned. Your bedroom, the most acceptable room, with only strewn about clothes as its vice. Your kitchen, which you never used to cook. Just the microwave, the fridge, with its many leftover containers, and the sink piled high with glasses and silverware. No, I definitely don't miss your apartment.

But your scent after you've come back home from a run. That delicious mixture of sweat and old cologne. The way I sometimes sniff your ratty t-shirt that you left at my place once, hoping to pick up that scent. I do miss that aroma.

And your hair. Thick, black, perfect when it's messy. Stuck to your face in the morning. Stuck to your face after a run. Stuck to your face as we fucked. My fingers ran through, gripping hard. And the way you'd nestle your head in my chest as I massaged your scalp. Yes, I miss your hair.

Oh, your arms. So strong, yet not obviously so. The way you'd hold me tight, pull my body into you whenever we hugged. Hello or goodbye. The way you'd suddenly pick me up into your arms, lifting me in glee, and then dumping me on the couch. On your bed. On the floor. And us either giggling as you tickled me mercilessly or grunting as we began kissing and fucking. I do long for your arms.

Your lips. Your perfect mouth. The way you gave soft subtle kisses. Teasing. Pleading. Light wisps of your lips with mine, kisses. Deep. Desperate. Passionate, enveloping my being kisses. Lost in the moment. Head and heart suddenly one, kisses. I dream of your lips.

Your eyes. As you gazed on me while I snoozed in your lap. The way you'd always look so damn happy in the morning when I shoved you to wake you up because you never heard your alarm. When I'd peek, for just a second, as we fucked, and saw the way you loved me when you were inside me. When you brushed an errant strand of my hair away, put your arms around me, pulled me in close, lightly nuzzled your nose against mine, and stared through my eyes as you said for the first time, "I love you."

Those eyes, your eyes. Your hair. Your arms. Your lips.

I miss you.


[Side Note: Since this is a poem, I decided to give you, my fair readers, a treat.  For your listening pleasuring, the following is a link to a download-able WAV file of me reading said work.  Enjoy.

Link: I Miss You.]

Idiots

I don't consider myself a bitch, per se. I am highly opinionated, and, when it comes to my job, I am greatly annoyed when others do not know their shit.

And so it happened that today I had to deal with an annoying dumbass.

I'd worked with him before. For the first hour of our interactions, I thought he was new. Like brand new. Like just started in the business new.

I tried to teach him what I knew and help him with the work. It was a 5am call. I was tired. But I figured if I helped him learn now I wouldn't have to deal with his incompetence later.

And so it happened, that around 6am, as I'm explaining something else to him, he turns to me and says, "I've worked for Company Q before. You don't have to talk to me like I'm a child."

I could have reacted to him in many different ways. I could've just turned and walked away. I could've laughed, considering Company Q is thought of by many in my industry as being full of idiots who don't know shit. I could have told him how pathetic a worker I thought he was if he had experience with another company and yet seemed like he knew nothing.

Instead, I calmly said I was just trying to help him because it seemed liked he didn't understand something.

For the rest of my extremely long gig, I attempted to avoid him. For some strange reason, he seemed to take this as me liking him because he then decided to follow me around and try to talk to me like we were buddies. Like we were equals.

Frankly I was rather angry he was being paid the same amount of money as me to do a piss poor job.

Of course, since I had such a great time with him before, he just had to show up again. Today. Unfortunately he was the only other crew member for my department; therefore I could not get away from him.

I put my headphones in and concentrated on my tasks. At one point he got my attention, saying something to the effect of, "What? Do I have to say your name to talk to you?" Obviously the fact that my project was separate from his AND I was wearing my headphones didn't clue him in to my desire to not fucking talk to him.

He ended up following me around again.

His incompetence shined multiple times. Not properly securing equipment. Not know the correct procedure to manipulate the equipment. And messing with equipment from another department that had nothing to do with his task.

By the end of the day, I just wanted to sit back and laugh. This motherfucker was getting paid the same amount as me. This idiot who didn't bring the proper equipment to work. Who basically calls me condescending but then shows his incompetence at almost every step.

Sometimes I just want to scream.

Why can't people just show up, know their shit, do their job, and leave? Why do I have to deal with idiots?

Why?

[Of course I know the answer. It's because I'm not one.]

Pretty Pincushion

"Oh you're easy."
"So I've been told."

It felt like I was moving through water. It felt like new... fuller... a dull electricity.

Touching my hands as I slowly lifted them to my face.

Touching my chin as I rested my head on my hands.

Everything was slower. I swayed, as if I were floating in water. Though my shirt was off, my skin was warm, especially near where Big Sis had put the needles in me.

There were two in each arm and one in each of my breasts.

"Deep breath in." I held it.
"Deep breath out." I let it go.

The pain was sharp, but not as I had imagined it. It was pinpoint. A spot. A single spot on my skin that hurt. The one needle tip she buried was on my right breast. As she hit it, I felt that one spot, the one point where the needle rested, burst forth with exact pain. It grew, escalating to a scream in my mind. Make that one spot stop! After some more hits, I called yellow.

But I didn't want them out. I didn't want them gone, even as she removed them from me about fifteen minutes later.

I sat on the couch. Dreamy. Dazed. Delighted. I smiled. Tears softly ran down my cheek. My breathing was slow, metered, but not deliberate. My body slowed. My speech slowed. Everything was slow.

My voice was soft. I could not yell. I could barely speak full sentences.

I have one photo on my phone of me, turned to the side, glancing down at the pretty holes in my arm. Big Sis captured a moment of my bliss.

Before she removed them, she asked me if I wanted them out nice or mean.

"Nice please."

They quickly slid from my flesh, as if they were never there.

"I guess I'm not a bleeder... Oops, spoke too soon."

I did not bleed, not even as she hit me, until they came out. I watched as a small dot of red formed in one of the holes on my right breast. I wanted to dip my head down, spread my tongue wide, and lap the droplet up, but even in my haze I knew that would seem a bit odd.

My left arm, which had needles in the longest, to a depth away from my skin, and therefore received the brunt of Big Sis's pats, bled the most. After cleaning the holes, she had me hold a paper towel over the wounds. The bleeding stopped. I sat, coming down.

Big Sis will eventually move into our home. When she does, she has already said she will use me as her practice pincushion.

I will definitely be doing needles again.

Christened

~erotica~


"You've never fucked in your car before?"

It was late, very late. Dark. Misty. The windows in my car were fogged over.

We sat in the parking lot of my apartment, talking. He was horny. I was horny. He had work in the morning. I had a roommate who was a light sleeper.

He leaned over and kissed my neck. He bit and sucked, and did all the things he knew would make me as horny as he was.

My car was old, just this side of beat up. But I wanted him and he wanted me.

I pulled out his cock and started sucking. As I worked, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a condom. He put it in my hand. I fumbled, but was able to get it on him.

We crept into the back. I pulled my jeans off; he kept his on. I got on my hands and knees, and presented my ass. "Sit back. Get low." I sunk down and onto his cock. He thrust into me. I gasped and sunk down more onto him.

He fucked me hard. I heaved air, taking all of him in. We rocked my car. I was thankful the windows were up. My normally muffled screams reverberated around us.

I came hard, my muscles squeezing down on his cock. He grunted his cum, pulling my hair and biting my ass. My breathing remained heavy as I collapsed forward, my body folded. I could still feel his cock against me as he too fell into the seat.

"Fuck, I love your cock in my ass."

He eased the condom off and tossed it in the trash bag hanging off the shifter. I put my pants back on; he secured his zipper.

As we stepped out into the crisp air, my skin tingled. I looked around and saw no one.

He walked around the car, grabbed me by my biceps, shoved me against the door, and kissed me hard. His eased his right leg into my crotch. I instinctively ground against it.

I could no longer feel the autumn air, the night stillness; just his tongue, his lips, and his leg.

He stopped, pulling away, but not before gripping my bottom lip with his teeth, drawing my face towards him for an instant as he moved.

"Next Friday." He didn't ask.
"Of course." I knew my answer.

As he drove off, I wondered what fun we would get into next week.

Elevator Entertainment

The final night, the final hours of WinterFire, of course I didn't want to go to bed.

I found myself in the lobby of the hotel discussing possible cookie snagging with TwistedView & Dov. In our conversing, I learned of the secret (not really) rope folks lounge up on the ninth floor. With the allure of sugar at almost 3am, the three of us headed up the elevator.

But then, magically, we were treated to a show.

Looking out of the glass elevator car, we happened to see some hot people having lots of hot kinky fun. Not ones to pass up an opportunity, we pushed the button on the elevator to take us back down to the 7th floor. We realized the action was actually happening on the 6th, so we lowered ourselves down, but not before I became quite giggly and super excited.

"It's Jim! Oh my God, it's Jim!"

Yup, Jim was fisting a lovely woman on her bed, curtains open, lights on. Not only that, there were others in the room, including her partner, who held a fuck-saw; there would be more fun for her later.

To keep the elevator on the correct floor, TwistedView slipped his bag in between the doors. When the car eventually made its mean noise, we removed his bag, but we had already pushed the buttons for the 5th and 7th floors.

As the elevator traveled down, I hopped up trying to keep my view. On the correct floor, I stood, still hyper and giggly. One floor above, I crouched down low, trying to keep my excellent view.

As we three watched the show, Dov realized he knew the lucky lady. He took out his phone and called her; no answer. Instead he left the lady a voicemail, complete with TwistedView's and my voices in the background wishing her well.

Our magical elevator time could not last forever. Because it was so late at night, we did partake in the fun for about ten minutes. Eventually, though, the car was called up. We accepted a group of folk, and then treated them to a brief view of the show on our way down.

Dov needed to grab his bag from the Dungeon and I stilled wanted my cookies. TwistedView and I headed up; Dov went down (snicker snicker).

TwistedView led me to the lounge area. There was soda and chips and salsa and fruit and hummus, but no cookies. So instead we ventured back to TwistedView's room. K2 is an excellent baker; TwistedView, quite graciously, gave me the last of a bag of her cookies. I hugged him goodnight.

Ready to head back downstairs, I ran into Dov. Detoured back to the lounge area, we sat and chatted.

About ten minutes later, the hosts of the rope folks lounge, PhoenixEddy & Anicca, appeared.  They sat and chatted with us for a spell. Time eased by, and it was soon 4am. Dov and I politely excused ourselves.

Apparently Dov had not grab his bag from the Dungeon, having been distracted by another group on the elevator that he wanted to introduce to the show. I decided to follow him down to the lobby, my not-wanting-the-event-to-end thing kicking in.

As we descended down, we again saw the curtains were drawn on the room. Dov attempted his phone call once more, and this time he was answered. After much jumping up and down, the folks in the room saw us and invited us over. We ran around to their room. Excited talk of planned peep shows for next year followed.

Dov still did not have his bag though. We again found ourselves on the elevator heading down. When we got to the lobby, fortune smiled on us once more. Jim was there.

Walking over, we greeted him with a, "Nice show." We then explained the elevator fun we'd had. He was shocked, but pleased.

Dov drifted off to find his bag. I stayed to talk with Jim. I mentioned how someone had added to his chest bruises, and recounted my Righteous Beating from earlier in the evening.

I also spoke about how, even though I'd been stressed with AV duties, I had experienced some amazing scenes that made my WinterFire worth the struggle. And, yah know, he was a part of that.

After watching a drunk gentleman in the lobby for a few minutes, we decided it was time for bed. Getting on the elevator, I pushed the button for my floor and he for his. But, for some reason, my button didn't light up. We passed by my floor. I told Jim it was a mistake, but he didn't believe me as he pushed into one of the easy buttons on my chest.

We reached his floor.

I mentioned IMsL, and hopefully seeing him there. As the doors closed, Jim mentioned possibly being in my neck of the woods before then. As a last thought, I said if he did show up in town, he should, yah know, "Call me." I then face-palmed, upset at my ridiculous display of cliche, as the elevator descended to my floor.

Creeping into my room as quietly as possibly, I still woke up Murphy and Slut. I quickly recounted my evening before ducking back into the hallway.

Sitting just outside my door, I took a few minutes to jot down my last journaling notes of my evening. Satisfied, I again quietly made my way back into the room, slipped under the covers, and drifted off to sleep, another WinterFire in my memories.

Quotable

"You're suppose to be working on my leathers. Setup your kit."

Like our previous leather scene at Tied Down, I worked on Gray's chaps and vest. Also like Tied Down, Gray put me in a restrictive harness which, of course, included a crotch rope. He used my same raw hemp, and I had, in fact, saved the happy knot from the previous scene, able to incorporate it into my rope work since then. Instead Gray took out the knot and create a new one, longer and thicker (but, of course, size isn't everything).

"Now you can play."

During our scene, Gray again instructed me on deep throating techniques. He had me practice holding his cock in my throat for a few seconds at a time and then relaxing. He held his finger on his cock where I last had my nose and encouraged my quarter-inch-by-quarter-inch progress down his shaft. But, after the lesson, he allowed me to just have fun with his cock. I licked and sucked playfully, smiling, my reward for such hard work and effort.

"There's cold water dripping down my ass." - Gray
"I am desperately trying to not get my ass beat again." - me

Unlike the harness at Tied Down, I was able to move more freely while blacking Gray's leathers. However, I was also under a time constraint. Gray encouraged me to finish up by a certain hour and I did not want to make him late. However, in the future, I will be carrying two towels in my kit to avoid, um, leakage issues.

"You should call yourself a Leather Bitch and Cock Bitch." - Gray
"What about Leather Slut and Cock Slut?" - me
"No, you need to have Bitch in there. Implies you'll do anything for cock. Your mouth. Your pussy. Your ass."

With my WinterFire fun-ness as example, I can't really argue with his assessment. And I do already have a title with "Bitch" in it.

"You love sucking my cock." - Gray
"Mmm hmm." - me
"I think you enjoy sucking my cock above all other cock."
"Mmm hmm."

Do I need to add anything to this quote?

"Just so you know, I've gotten about a dozen thumbs up and way to goes."

There was a lot of activity in the Dungeon that night, including a scene with my Big Sis right behind me that I saw nothing of. In fact, I didn't take note of anyone watching us unless Gray pointed them out (RopeBoi's Phone-A-Friend; elbow count guy).

Gray utilized my harness for torturing me in multiple lovely ways. Of course there was the obvious yanking. Like before, he pulled on the rope, driving the chord against my clit, pussy lips, and ass crack. God, the pressure on my ass crack.

Second, Gray slipped his cane into the back of my harness and twisted, constricting the rope around me further, pulling everywhere, cinching it tight.

As I worked on Gray's vest, I often bent down to dip my dobber in my saddle soap. Each time I presented my ass. Actually, for the entirety of the scene, if it was applicable, I presented my ass.

I did this for a few reasons. I knew Gray liked to look at it. I liked the idea of Gray looking at my ass. But, to be fair, I did want more impact attention. Gray eventually caught on, or gave in, smacking my ass.

And then, magically, Gray started smacking my pussy lips. Over and over, smack after smack hit stingy and hard on my crotch, and I loved it. For some reason, I absolutely adore being hit in the crotch. It is the one type of stingy pain I can take and take much longer than on any other part of my body.

Even though I love slaps to my pussy, love them, like all pain my body eventually makes me stop it. After what could have easily been a few solid minutes of nonstop slaps, I had to curl away from his hand. Pleasure ended, I went back to work.

"My cock is nowhere near hard. Best way to get me hard fast is to stroke it with your mouth. Can you feel it growing inside you?"

Gray's rule for my orgasms during the leather portion of our scene was simple: when I felt it coming, I had to jam his cock down my throat. However, for that to happen, I needed to encourage him as much as he had encouraged me.

When I finished his vest, standing in front of him, happy with my work, Gray rewarded my efforts with a quick succession of hard yanks to my harness. And quickly I was ready to cum, which then meant I had to drop to my knees and get his cock hard and down my throat.

It was so nice to feel appreciated.

"Look at you, showing off." - Gray
"I like rising to challenges." - me

By the end of our scene, after much practice and hard work, I was able to deep throat Gray's cock far enough to have my nose touching his pelvis, just the way he had wanted, the way he had described as he started giving that scene's lesson.

"How can you do this? Writhing should make it less symmetrical, not more." - Gray
"I'm quirky?" - me

Gray bound his harness on me intentionally a-symmetrical. He thought this would irk me, seeing as I tend to like things ordered. What he didn't count on was my squirming from his manipulations throughout the scene ended up righting the orientation of the rope.

Also, since I was so into making sure his leathers were treated properly, I actually barely took note of the tie, instead allowing myself to enjoy the feel rather than be nagged by the work.

"Do you have a cigar?"

Also like Tied Down, Gray spent the majority of the blacking with a cigar in his mouth. This time, however, at the end of the scene the cigar was returned to me with an urging, "Smoke this when you are feeling down or want to treat yourself." I imagine, when that moment comes, my mind will float back to our time in the Dungeon.

"We should say our goodbyes now." - me
"Yeah, should've said those goodbyes." - Gray, about fifteen minutes later

As Gray and I finished up, I felt I should get my goodbye in then. I had breakdown duties in the morning and suspected I would not see him before he left.

As we gathered our things, Stefanos, Nerine, and a lovely bottom ended up claiming our equipment for their scene. Gray commented to Stefanos about our inspiration for our play from the class that morning. We then left so that they could have their fun.

I drifted over to speak to a friend, but then ended up right back next to Gray as he spoke to Chey about our scene as well. Gray left, I gave Chey a hug, and set off to find a friend or two.

In the hallway, Gray had been stopped by a woman who complimented him on our scene. I ran into the two of them and expressed my happiness that she enjoyed watching us.

Once again, we drifted apart. I went to the water station, which was empty.  I found another, which had just enough to fill my water bottle half way. Gray approached me from behind, looking for hydration as well. I gave him half my haul.

Drifting apart again, I found Big Sis and chatted with her. Thankfully, during our conversation, the water stations were refilled. As we chatted, Gray reached over, took my water bottle, and refilled it. He made his way back into the Dungeon area as I stood with Amethyst a little longer.

But soon I, too, headed back towards the Dungeon. I had made a mental note, as Stefanos and Nerine began their scene, that I would come back to watch them. And, of course, I bumped into Gray again. That was when he made his comment. And, of course, that was the last time I saw him at WinterFire.