Second Wind

We met in the Dungeon soon after parting by the pool. He chose the suspension rig to the left of the stage. I sat down my things, slipped off my sandals.

"Should I take off my clothes?"

"I like to unwrap my presents."

He unrolled what he had dubbed his 'big bundle of ow', a blanket with implements nestled inside of it. One of them included his piece of graphite (shit), but one of his toys was not the Twisted Bitch (thank Christ). He had two floggers, including his big whomping flogger, as well as three or four canes and some rope. I stretched, prepared myself for what was to come. He rigged his ring to the frame.

I stepped to the center of the rig, relaxed, hands resting behind my back. He uncoiled a length of rope. Dragged the chord across my chest. Wrapped it around my neck. Stepped behind me. Pushed his body against mine. My hands felt his cock through his pants. Massaged him as he ran the rope along my skin and breathed into my ear.

He pulled my hair tie from my head. Let it drop to the floor. Let my locks flow down my back.

His hands slid down to mine. Raised them. Bound them. Brought my hands into the air above my head. Secured them to his ring.

He kissed my cheek. Punched my back. Stepped in front of me. Punched my chest. Kissed me more. Traced his fingers from my face down to my chest. Pulled my strapless dress and bra down. Wrenched my boobs. Pushed my dress to the floor. Grabbed my ass. I kicked my dress away. He unhooked my bra. Tossed it aside.

He slapped and punched my chest and ass.

Picked up his flogger. Attacked my back. My ass. Hit my boobs. Went for my nipples, occasionally catching my rings for a split second.

He picked up a cane. Wailed on my ass. Grabbed my hair. Pulled me into a back band. Caned my breasts. Came across my nipples. I cried out.

And then a hand was inside me. He fingered my pussy, dancing his digits in my wetness. And another strike came from his cane, burning sensations on my ass. More fingering. More pain. Alternating the mean with the sweet.

He put down his cane. Picked up his paddle. Again attacked my ass. But, again, his fingers found my cunt, working his magic inside me. I begged, pleaded to cum.

"Not yet." He had one specific demand. "On the third strike." I knew they would be brutal. I always had to earn my orgasms. One hard smack. A second. And then finally a third.

I pulled myself down onto his hand. Rode his fingers for every single molecule of my cum. Screamed and cried out my ecstasy.

He stood. Loosed my wrist rope. Dropped me down to my knees. Kept my hands elevated. Secured the rope again. Pulled out his cock.

He grabbed my hair. Pushed my face onto his cock. Fucked my face. Sunk deep into my throat. I relaxed into his will. Until I had to breathe. Until I could take no more. Until I pulled away. But he held my head. But he insisted. But he wanted his cock inside me.

He pulled my head back. Let me breathe for a moment. Then did it again. And again. And again. I gagged, yet yielded to his will. Took all of him in me.

He rubbed his cock against my face. Let me suck on his balls. Let me play with his cock with my mouth.

He reached up. Let down his rope. Brought it between my legs. Pulled me down into a reverse hogtie. Secured my wrists to my ankles.

I felt his cock rub against my pussy lips and ass cheeks. Felt how hard he was. Felt as he reached over to his bag. Slid on a condom. Slid inside me. I moaned my pleasure. Moaned his name. He grabbed my hips. Pulled my body onto his cock. Fucked me hard on the floor as I took all of him, yet wanted more.

He came. Slid out of me. Reached his fingers inside me. Finger fucked me til I begged for his permission. He gave it. With his yes, I felt the race of orgasm through my pussy out to his hand. Out to my lower back. Down into my thighs. Up my spine. My thank you. My sounds. My cum.

He untied my ankles. Untied my wrists. Pulled me into his lap. Stroked my hair as I curled up into him. Lightly kissed my head. Sunk into his exhausted state, his second wind spent.

Menage-a-trois

* If you're free, rough & I have some cigar ash here at the tiki bar with your name on it.

- Be there is a quick moment.

I had no plans for my Wednesday night. Class practice with Rough had me riding a cloud of glee through dinner into my prep for the evening. Even without any plans, I showered and put on a cute outfit, just cause.


As I gathered my things to head out and find something fun to get into, I got Gray's text; perfect timing.

I grabbed my cigar play box, as well as my bottle of red wine, and headed down to the tiki bar.

When I arrived, I found Gray and Rough sitting at a table near the center of things, smoking their respective cigars. I sat my things down, draped my hoodie on the concrete, and knelt next to Gray.

"Only naked girls get ash."

As I knew he loved, I gave the men a show as I disrobed. I draped my dress on the ground as well, giving me more room to move about comfortably. I sat up on my knees and patiently waited for my treat. Gray held his cigar above my outstretched tongue, then delicately rolled his ash for me to eat. After watching it sit there for his amusement, he gave me permission to swallow.

Both Gray and Rough bemoaned an unhappy circumstance: in the short moments between Gray's message and my arrival, Rough's ash had fallen to the ground; a true sadness.

I sat down on my hoodie, Gray's hand casually brushing my shoulders as I looked over at Rough.

"I asked Gray a question and now I'll ask it to you. What is your relationship with Gray?"

"And it's not like you're being judged or anything," said the voice behind me.

I could've been nervous. Any other time I might've been nervous. But having Gray behind me, and Rough being the person asking the question, gave the moment a calming air.

"We have our title, Sempai/kohai or Teacher/student. It's sort of a friendship plus."

"Is that like friends with benefits?"

"We do fuck; we do play. But... I have friends and then I have friends I can talk to. I talk to Gray. I care for him."

"You know, some people would use another word for that."

"Yes, I love him. He knows this. I've told him this."

"Okay."

I reached over, sipped my wine, washing the remnants of Gray's ash down my throat. Slightly awkward moment ended.

"What are you drinking," asked Rough.

I smiled, taking the bottle up in my hands, and tilting to towards him.

"Funny you should ask. Menage-a-trois."

Rough lifted his eyebrow, possibly only half believing me. He picked up the bottle, examined the label.

"Very apropos, no?"

"Gray, she's drinking Menage-a-trois."

"Really?"

"She told me what wine she was drinking temptingly." For the record, my selection was a happy accident, much like the entirety of my camp.

For the next hour, Gray and Rough alternated their opportunities for my cigar service.

Once, as I sat nearer to Rough, he held his cigar to my face. Close to my eyes. I stayed still, allowed his heat to fill my face. He moved his cigar closer. Closer. Until the tip touched right in between my eyes, leaving a small fleck of ash in its wake.

Another time, Rough grabbed my hair and pulled me close into his lap. He lifted my strands and blew smoke once, twice, thrice into my hair. Gray followed Rough in turned, bringing his lips to my head and blowing his smoke into my hair. Unlike Rough, Gray patted my hair, pushing small puffs out. He liked that trick especially.

Gray used several different ways to puts his ash on my body. One instance he had me lean into his lap. He dabbed his cigar along my back, five strikes on each of my shoulders. I jumped at each touch. After each set of five, he wiped the ash along my back, then scratched my flesh. Another time, Gray had me stand in front of him. Ash in his hand, he slapped my breasts hard, rubbing the flecks onto my flesh. Another instance, Gray rolled his ash into my hand. He then instructed me to rub the flecks all over my breasts while looking up at him as I did so.

During our evening, an individual sat next to Gray and struck up a conversation. While the two of them spoke, the newcomer also smoked a small cigar. They were interested in learning about cigar service, so I agreed to eat ash out of their hands, first the right and then the left. When I finished my service, they remarked, "I think my clit has migrated to my hand."

When Rough's ash grew long enough for a treat, I swiveled back towards him. But, in the split second before he was to lean over to deposit the ash on my tongue, again the head dropped, half on the ground and half on my jacket.

"Lick it up," said Rough.

Without thinking, I got on my hands and knees and licked up his ash. Licked at my hoodie. Licked at the concrete ground. Darted my tongue, strategically picking up as much as I could in the most efficient way possible.

I felt Gray's fingers against my pussy lips as I worked. Felt him massage my outer folds before inserting a finger inside me. And then another. And another. I moaned as I worked. Delighted in the moment.

When I finished licked up the ash, I turned to Gray, who stuck each of his fingers into my mouth. I lapped up my juices before he smeared the remnants on my face and in my hair.

With yet another head of ash for Gray to give me, I stuck out my waiting tongue. He rolled the ash; I held it. Gray then licked around my mouth, tickling my lips. Then I was allowed to swallow.

"Do you have anything planned tonight," asked Gray. I shook my head no. "Good, cause I want to beat on you. This week, I'm going to work on marking you."

Practice

"Poetic, you like breath play."

"Yes."

"And I know you."

"Yes. Rough, do you need a demo bottom for your breath play class?"

"Yes."

"We should probably practice."

"Yes."

Rough stood and beckoned me from the porch into the cabin.

It was early in the event; most people had yet to arrive. We crept through the cabin trying our best to not disturb Gray was napping before dinner. We found an empty quad in the back, new beds barely broken in.

Whispering in the empty room, Rough asked me about my previous experience with breath play. I informed him only one other person had used blood chokes on me: NHF in Minnesota. I described NHF's technique; Rough was familiar with it. I also mentioned how NHF had taken about 7-10 seconds to get me out.

Rough had me stand at the edge of a bed. He stepped behind me. Asked me to lift my head. Point my arm up and to the left at a forty-five degree angle. He wrapped his arm around my neck and squeezed.

I felt my body fall through the air, but I didn't feel the impact of the bed, though I may have heard it. It was as if I were moving through water, as if I were a marionette and the strings on my body had been cut. I never went out, never forgot where I was. But for a moment I lost control of my muscles, lost the ability to stand.

Rough stood over me. "That was faster than seven to ten seconds."

I smiled into the mattress. I talked to him about my experience. Explained what it felt like.

"You were in that sweet spot, loss of body without the loss of consciousness."

We decided to go a bit farther. Again, my arm rose. Again, his arm wrapped around my neck. He squeezed and I held my arm up. Held it with all my might. Held it until...

When my eyes opened, I had forgotten where I was. I don't know what I dreamed, but I know I dreamed something. I looked up and saw the ceiling. When I registered I was in a different place than I had been, that what I thought was real was actually a dream, my memory came crashing back.

I was at camp. Rough was behind me. And I was high as a fucking kite.

I was so gleeful, so full of the awesome with life, that I couldn't stop smiling. I picked my body up off the bed. Rested on my knees on the floor. Looked up at Rough. I couldn't remember feeling this good in so long. I was so appreciative of Rough for giving me this gift, for imparting these feelings in my brain, I asked him an odd question.

"If it is not against your dynamic, may I kiss your boots?"

"Of course."

I bent over and met my lips to his leather. I kissed both his boots in appreciation and adoration for my experience.

My Wednesday had been shit. Setup had been difficult. And hot. And full of starts and stops. And took so long. Before I laid on the porch of the cabin feeling dejected. My camp had just started, but it felt like all my possible glee was gone.

And then Rough's arm had been around my neck. And my world felt right again.

Rough had other material he wanted to go over before class. I stood, my back to the wall, Rough standing in front of me. With a quick move, he clamped his hand over my mouth and nose. I tried to hold back my lizard brain, tried to keep myself from struggling. But soon enough I couldn't stop my hands from grabbing his hold. His other hand found my face. I flailed about. I pulled; he followed.

And then he let go. And breath rushed back into my lungs.

For his next practice, he instructed me to give him a double tap when I wanted him to stop. Again his hands clamped over my mouth and nose. My hands twitched. My feet stomped. I held out for as long as I could trying to stop my lizard brain from reacting. But, eventually, I tapped on his arm four times.

"You know, since that was a quadruple tap, I shouldn't have let go."

He pushed me up against the wall. His fingers pinpointed on my neck. I slipped once, twice, before I felt my muscles about to give out. Rough slipped his knee between my legs to stop my descent.

"How are you?"

"Excellent."

"How do you feel about face slapping?"

"Absolutely."

Rough hit me hard across the face, left to right. He grabbed my head and bashed it against the wall. All the while, my arms lazed at my sides, scratching against the wall.

"What's with the gripping?"

"When I'm cuming, or when I'm about to cum, I grip. When I'm turned on, or wet, I grip. It's fun when I'm on a bed."

Rough sat on the bed to my left. I settled against the wall for a moment, perfectly happy, before transitioning to the bed on my right.

"Why would anyone take drugs when you can do things to make your body this high?"

I rested my head against the wall, lazing in my post play haze. In that moment, I was completely uninhibited, and decided to be bluntly honest.

"You have this look in your eyes. You always have it. It's... gripping. Intoxicating."

I saw his satisfaction at my revelation.

"You know I'm gonna write about this, right?"

"Kinda figured. Just wait til Tuesday."

In that moment before dinner, before it was time to wake Gray, I realized I didn't have my notebook on me. I needed to take notes, now. I made my way back to my cabin.

As I skipped towards my temporary home, a giddy-happy-bubbly-girl, I stroked my neck and said over and over again to everyone and no one in particular, "My life doesn't suck. My life doesn't suck. I love my life."

Little One

~ erotica ~


She rode his face, her hips rising and falling with the bend of her knees. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her pussy to his lips, as he enjoyed every last bit of her. She reclined her head back, body rolling, as his tongue moved just the way she liked.

I had the perfect view. My mouth around his cock. My hands resting on my lower back. My eyes focused on them.

It wasn't everyday they allowed me to participate, let alone watch. It wasn't every day that I got see them, both of them, this way. But this wasn't any normal day.

One year. One year since we started our interactions. One year since I walked through their front door, got down on my knees, and asked them to have me. One year of learning what they wanted, how they wanted it. One year of being at their beck and call. Doing this. Completing that. And always, always ready to be on my hands and knees, all holes open for whatever either wanted.

I circled my tongue around the head of his cock and flicked just underneath. I moved the way I knew he loved, playing with his dick as I pleasured him, taking glee in my work. Closing my eyes, I sucked hard, and slowly filled my mouth and throat with him, sinking his cock inside me. I slid my mouth up and down his shaft. Slowly. Slowly. He never wanted to cum too fast. I never wanted to stop sucking his cock.

I felt the grip of my hair. Felt the hand pull my mouth off his cock. Opened my eyes, and saw her, still riding him, a fury in her gaze equal parts anger and lust.

She stared at me forever before slapping me across my face. Then again, backhanding my cheek.

"Try harder," she said before forcing my mouth back onto his cock. I clenched my hands. My pussy quivered. I was glad she couldn't see how wet I was.

She pushed and pulled my head on his cock, quickening my pace, bringing him closer and closer to his cum. He started moaning into her cunt. She purred at his sounds, the vibration adding that much more pleasure to her fun.

"That's it, little thing. Make him cum."

Her hand released my hair, but I felt her will pushing me still. I continued my speed along his cock. Continued my tongue dancing along his shaft. Continued to take him into my throat. It wasn't long before his hips moved. His cock twitched. And he screamed and spewed his cum into my mouth.

I heard her, too, as she came on his face. Her guttural growl as the wave of ecstasy rolled throughout her body.

I swallowed his semen, licked my lips, and sat back on my feet, eyes lowered, waiting whatever they asked of me.

"What do you think," he asked her as he wiped the pussy juice, saliva, and sweat from his face. He wore the grin I loved, the one he always had after I made him cum.

She stood, her stiletto boots making her tower over me. She stared down on his unassuming frame.

"She's useful," he said. "And talented."

"I had to coach her."

"You had to encourage her. And that's only cause you weren't patient. You never want a long slow fuck."

"But she does."

I made sure not to look up, not to move.

"You love sucking his cock. Would love to do it all day and all night, I'm sure. Is that right?"

She had asked a direct question. I had to answer.

"Yes, Mistress."

"What about my pussy? Would you lick and suck it til the Sun rose?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Hmm..."

"I told you," he said. "She's useful."

"And eager. I think I will teach you how I want my pussy licked, since you seem to have mastered his cock just fine. I think we will keep you around a bit longer. Does this please you, little one?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Submit

~ erotica ~


"You must conquer me."

It was what he had heard before. The first had said it to him. She had spoken her truth on her knees in front of him their first night together.

"I want you to take me. To over power me. Break my will. Make me bend to you. Force your control upon me.

"I won't make it easy. I'll fight you, fight your will at every turn. But know that it's my greatest desire for you to win. I want you to find a way to make me yours, make me submit to you.

"I'll never just strip for you. You must tear my clothes apart. I'll never cater to your every whim. You must push me to do as you wish. I'll never beg or plead for your body, nor will I ever simply lay down my flesh at your feet just because it is your desire to have me. You must take what's yours. Fight my fury for every kiss and fuck you wish to have.

"I want you to conquer me. Can you? Will you?"

He tried, but never did.

This night, our first night, I sat on my knees in front of him prepared to speak my truth.

I was not her. And I knew I would say something all together different.

"I submit to you.

"I give my body to your desires. My will to your guidance. I kneel here in awe of you.

"My greatest wish is my head on your knee. Your hand caressing my hair. Knowing all is right because I am here with you and you are here with me.

"I want only to be yours, totally and completely. I ask for the privilege of being dominated by you. Of submitting to you. Please tell me what you want; I will fulfill it. Make any rule; I will follow it. Give me the tools to please you and I will never go astray.

"Use my body as you desire. My mouth, my pussy, my flesh is for your enjoyment whenever you have need of it. My mind is to be cultivated from your knowledge. My life enriched by being yours.

"Please, may I submit to you?"

e[lust] 47

Photo courtesy of Behind the Chintz Curtain

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #48? Start with the newly updated rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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Erotic Non-Fiction

Sexentric News and Public Cam-Sex Report
The Play's the Thing
Sadistic Bitch
It was a good night
Kink Chronicles - Panties
Quickie Afternoon Delight
"No, you don't!"
“Objectification” by Blacksilk
Best.Sex.Ever
So I Asked SilverHubby About Our Orgasms
For Pity's Sake, No
Like a Virgin
Three Ashes
His Princess and His Slut
I hope my neighbors got a show.

Poetry

Watching
I want to know You
Once Upon an 'O'

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Testosterone! Don't Leave Home Without it!
Why Modeling Is Poison
Should
On the swingset
Achievement Unlocked
How To Make A Woman Orgasm
Mutual Masturbation is Mother****ing Awesome!
The Wonder of Weddings
Introvert recovery
May is International Masturbation Month
Make love to yourself

Erotic Fiction

Fighting Spirit
Dinner is Served
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Five
Belle and Sandy
Babygirl Gets Caught

Writing about Writing

Beauty and the kebab

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Return of the Vulcan Penis Problem
Masturbation Mishaps, Introduction
"For Novelty Use Only"
BDSM Lexicon Entry #24: Aftercare

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Mad Men: the dominance of Don Draper
Wicked Wednesday - Knowing When to Say No
Why Do I Like Being Owned?
The difference between BDSM & Abuse

Matt

~ erotica ~


"Hello Matt."

"Hello Whit."

I know my type. I get it. Tall. Leadership position. In control. I get it.

But there is something about Matt. Something in his manner. Something in the way he bosses us all around that gets me off.

We've never done anything, of course. I like my job and greatly want to keep it. The idea of me fucking the boss probably wouldn't sit right with any of my fellow co-workers.

So, instead, I greet Matt as I always do.

"Thank you, Matt."

He never replies to my habitual farewell. Never lingers until everyone is gone. Never tries to talk to me after the gig is over. Never makes a move.

Sometimes, in the middle of setting everything up, I look over and see him. He'll be shooting the shit with the client. Keeping tabs on everyone working. We never make eye contact. I don't look at him that often. But I usually have a sense of where he is. The hunger in my body often senses him.

Today was not a special day, nor a special gig. It was an easy load out. An easy going client. Everyone was happy.

I especially was pleased with the quickness of our work. I had a party to get to after the gig. People I was happy to see. Chill time to be had. I packed a bag just to change my clothes. No matter the rush, I did not want to show up in my dirty work outfit for what was sure to be a fun night.

When Matt dismissed us, and I said my normal thank you, I made my way to the restroom. Changed my clothes. Played with my hair. Sprayed my favorite scent on my skin. Transitioned from worker to party girl.

As I slung my garment bag over my shoulder, I grinned to myself. This was a first for me, looking this cute after a gig. I wondered what my coworkers would've thought of the switch.

Stepping outside of the restroom, I lazily walked towards the exit.

Passing the room I'd just worked in, I happened to glance inside. And I saw him. Matt, with his bag slung over his shoulder. A small smirk on his face as he walked towards me.

And then he saw me. His smirk got bigger. I waited the few breaths for him to join me.

"Hi Matt."

"Hi Whit. Off to have fun."

"Always, Matt."

We walked out of the building together towards our cars.

Matt had never seen me like this. I knew it would leave an impression. But I had one more gem to impart.

"I'm here," he said as we came upon his Jeep. "Have fun tonight."

"I plan to, Matt. But, before I go."

I reached into my bag, felt around for a moment, and then found it. I pulled out the cigar and handed it to him.

"For you, Matt."

He took the stick, glided it under his nose, and closed his eyes.

"Thanks again, Matt."

I turned and walked away before he could respond, but I could feel his eyes on me. Tracing the lines of my body from toe to tip. I hoped he liked the view, and trusted it would be his preferred thought as he enjoyed the tobacco some day soon.

"Whit."

I stopped. Turned. Smiled.

"Yes, Matt."

He pulled out a knife from his pocket. Flicked it open with a click. Wetted the end of the cigar. Notched the tobacco. Put away his knife. Lit my gift.

"Every time you say my name, it sounds like sex."

"Really, Matt." He wasn't the only one smiling.

"When we fuck, will you scream or whisper my name?"

"Depends, Matt."

"On?"

"What you want, Matt."

His smoke lingered around his face as his grin grew.

"Come here." He beckoned me over, the ember of his cigar's cherry a beacon for my steps.

"Yes, Matt."

Small World

~ erotica ~


Small world.

Is it him? Is it really him?

I see the picture. The tiny image on my screen. The arms. The abs. The smile.

Yes. Oh god, yes. It's him.

"Holy shit," I say to no one in particular.

There he is. Of all the people on this site. Of all the possible faces to come across my screen. His grin beams at me. The power of the internet.

And he sent me a message.

Small world.

What does he mean by that?

I look at our statistics. We line up well. No, amazingly close. Almost the best I've ever seen.

He knows about my life. What I do after work, on vacation. He hears the stories I don't tell anyone else at the office.

And he tells me his own secrets. What he and his girlfriend do on the weekends when a certain someone is in town. Or on vacations to beautiful beaches full of beautiful people.

Whenever we chat, I feel his gleeful face in my flesh. His laughs warming my loins.

The many things I want to do with him. The thoughts of all the things I want him to do to me.

But no. You don't shit where you eat, right? Everyone knows that, don't they?

And yet, he wrote me.

He is nothing if not a trickster. Did he seek me out? Is this just some fun little game of his?

No. He's heard my stories, yes, but he doesn't know my persona. My name outside of the cubicles. What people call me before they make me cum.

But now he does.

Should I answer? Play along?

What if this isn't a game? What if he isn't kidding around?

What if he's thought about his arms around me? What if he's wondered what my face looks like as I cum? What if he wants to feel my lips around his cock? See my eyes looking up into his as he fucks my face? Hears my begging? Tastes my tears? The power he'd have over me?

But what to say? How should I play this? What would he want to hear?

Fuck it.

Indeed, I reply.

Your move.

The Mask

"Stop."
"Dammit."
"Feel that. Whatever you are feeling right now. Just sit with that emotion."

I didn't want to. I was reading my homework for Doc. A few pages typed into my netbook. Very honest words to myself. My pace was measured. I tried to put on my writer-ly voice.

But then I got to two lines. Two deep lines. I hoped he wouldn't notice. He did.

"Close your eyes. Imagine the emotion. How do you see it? Perceive it? What does it feel like? What does it look like? Try not to qualify it as good or bad. Just be curious about it. And just sit for five minutes with it."
 
I felt it in my face. Tense. Constrictive. From my eyes down to my lips. Curving almost under my chin. Pressure. Pain.

It was a mask. Shiny and red. Beautiful, if I didn't know where it came from. It was angular, asymmetrical, with ridges and valleys that gave it depth. Drew in your eye. It was a primary red, but not one color. It melded into darker shades, but always came back to the true blood hue.

It pushed down on my top lip. Constricted my breathing. Covered my nose. Palmed my cheeks. Squeezed my face tight. Swirled around an eye. Rested where my third eye would be.

It reminded me of a dark masquerade adornment. Like something I would wear with layers of black and spiked heels. Or with no layers at all.

I didn't want to stay with the mask. But this was Doc. So I trusted that I needed to feel this. I kept repeating the lines over and over again. I kept myself in that place, mostly. Tears streamed silently down my face.

Doc gave me space to come back. Open my eyes when I was ready. I described the mask to him. Noted how it was probably symbolic of something. He put that thought aside.

Instead he noticed my change in demeanor. My voice was lower. Distant. I wasn't vibrant any longer. I'd wiped away my tears already. Blown my nose. Tensed up my shoulders. Hunched over.

I was protecting myself. Pushing that feeling away. Like I always do. Whenever I really feel it. Whenever I delve into hurt or pain or anguish or grief. When I stop the tears, I shut away the emotion. I was trying to protect myself from myself.

I was compartmentalizing. I'm really good at that.

Doc handed me a piece of paper. It was a long list separated by three categories. Doc asked me to read the list and pick which statement fit me most. I read.

Maybe.

Kind of.

A little bit. 

"Huh," I scoffed.

I couldn't even remember the other possible statements. The one I read, the last one I read, was so perfect.

"I can't get what I want."

Kids

[Trigger Warning: This entry features a description of childhood sexual abuse.]


I love my niece. She's about to turn four this summer. She's a ball of energy: running, jumping, crashing into walls while cackling.

Today, before she, her parents and I headed out, I assisted her in putting on her socks and shoes. I grabbed the miniature footwear and fabric, as well at the tiny human they belonged to.

"Give me your foot," I said, my voice noticeably different, a higher pitched, younger, playful tone emitted from my lips. I slipped on one sock, then the other. I got both shoes on, and success; the child was shod and ready for the road.

As I worked, she clung to my arm, holding on like Tarzan swinging from a vine. I love every time I hug her. Kiss her face. Feel her strong compact little self next to me.

I want kids. I don't know if I'll ever have them, but I know I want them. It's a scary prospect, another human life that not only would I help to create, but then care for. Nurture. Make a home for. Assemble a life for.

When I look at Eve, I see this beautiful little miracle, this sweet (mostly) innocent (the eye roll still kills me) tiny human who I cannot even express how much I love.

But there is something else I see when I look on her beautiful face. I see me, when I was little.

I was about her age when it happened.

My Mom and I were visiting my aunt and my cousins. We did this often. My aunt and her kids lived near our house. My Mom and my aunt were in another room. I was in the bedroom with one of my cousins playing.

That day my cousin wanted to play a new game. I don't remember the name now. I'm glad of that.

She had me lie in the bed.  My clothes still on.   Under the covers. She got under the covers too. Got real close to me.

And then she started touching me. And I think kissing on me. And sucking on my neck. I don't remember her actually doing that part, but I know it happened. My Mom found a bruise, a hickey, on her four year old daughter's neck.

At a certain point, I don't remember when, I pushed my cousin off of me and ran out of the room. I ran into my aunt's bedroom. Found my Mom.

I don't remember going home. I don't remember going shopping. But I do remember jumping up and down on our bed (I still slept in the same bed with my Mom then). And I remember I was trying on clothes she'd bought. I remember her stopping me as I spoke gleefully. Her asking me where I got the bruise on my neck. Me telling her about my cousin and I playing.

The next thing I remember is being back at my aunt's apartment. Rushed right over I think. And my mother yelling at her sister.

I can't remember if it was my aunt who explained it, or if it was my cousin who told me, but the inspiration for her game was a daytime soap opera. My six or seven year old cousin was just imitating what she saw on TV.

My mother never mentions that day. We don't talk about it. I don't think we've ever spoken about it since it happened.

My aunt wonders why I don't like her. She's said as much to my mother. I can't point to that incident as the deciding factor. My aunt is emotionally needy and occasionally emotionally abusive towards my mother, not to mention craves my acceptance though I cannot understand why. Those things, more than her ignorance as a parent, make her less than appealing to me.

This life is not easy. Or fair. Or kind. When I look at my niece, I see innocence. I see happiness. And hope. And possibility.  I see someone I would protect with my own life.

For now, she doesn't know all the bad things that could happen to her. Eventually, she will. But, for now, I like teaching her about coins. And watching Wreck It Ralph with her. And helping her put on her shoes.

I get why parents want to stop time. To savor this moment forever. Because it's the loss of that hope, that joy, that innocence gone, that means their kids aren't kids anymore.

Triad

I sat in the back. Tribble sat in the front. FrozenMeursault drove.

It was Sunday night, the last night at Shibaricon, and they wanted tacos.

I wanted a distraction from my emotional diarrhea. Late night food seemed perfect.

We made our way into the city, parked, and stepped into Arturo's, a 24hr taco spot. Both FM and I ordered juevos rancheros. Tribble got tacos from which we all pilfered. There was chips and super hot salsa that I avoided. FM ordered juice which he loved just a little to much.

We all played on our phones. Chatted. Occasionally watched the tela novela on the TVs above us. Bragged a bit about our evenings and past play at the event.

Late night breakfast consumed, we all wanted dessert. Walking next door, we visited the other 24hr taco spot, Lazo's. Ordered two flan, split among the three of us, and a strawberry shake, which just FM and I shared. We sat through horrible service, but enjoyed our desserts all the same.

By the time we were on our way back, all three of us were exhausted enough to pass out once we arrived at the hotel.

The next afternoon, after the closing ceremony. After lots of people exited stage left, starting their treks home. After I could endure no more long goodbyes, I found myself in their room, lazing on one of the beds, watching horrible TV, but happy to be with them.

And it occurred to me: I was going to miss our little triad.

I spent a large chunk of my Shibaricon hanging out with FM and Tribble. We dined a bunch together. Took a few classes together. FM and I played a few times. They were a sizable portion of my event. Two people I never expected to connect with, and yet.

It was sort of a running joke throughout Shibaricon between the three of us. Tribble brought it up during a lunch, saying how much she enjoyed our little triad. I smiled to myself, not thinking much of the comment.

But her words were true. We were a fun trio, sharing much of our event with each other. I took the beating Tribble didn't want. Bottomed to FM when she had other obligations. Encouraged her in her kinky pursuits. FM and I connected in our play. Enjoyed rope and tears, pain and leather. When they needed space, I gave it. When I needed space, I took it. It was kind of perfect.

And now, two weeks out, yeah. I miss our little triad.

Breakthrough

"I just wanted to say thank you for creating the bamboo rig and encouraging people to play on it. That was the first time I'd self suspended at an event in a year. I'd had an incident before which left me skittish. That tie felt like a breakthrough for me. So, thank you." - Monday afternoon

It was late Sunday night. Not quite the end of open play. Maybe two or three hours before the dungeon was to close.

I was somewhat tired. The past few days of Shibaricon had taken its toll. But I wasn't exhausted. I still had some steam left in me. But what to do with it?

I thought maybe I'd drop into my voyeur headspace, roaming around the dungeon, watching scenes.

And then my friend Meliffica approached me.

"Could you self suspend? This guy created this awesome rig and all he wants is for people to use it."

I turned, stepped closer to it. It was a larger structure made from bamboo and lashed at the top. It looked similar to a swing set, its triangular middle triggering memories of my childhood. On its sides were two smaller triangular areas. These seemed perfect for small, intimate ties.

I thought about it for a moment.

"Okay, I'll go grab my rope."

I switched out my bootblack kit for my rope bags in my room. I then threw on a pair on panties and headed back down stairs.

I rested my bags by one of the smaller triangles. I took a breath. The nerves had already come.

I happened to glance right and saw Gray tying. I glanced forward and saw Dov playing. More nerves.

I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took another deep breath.

Fuck it.

I dumped out my rope bag. Picked out five 30s and five 15s, four red and one black of each. I placed them within arms reached of where I would hang. I took off my hoodie. Stripped down to just my bra, panties, and boots. I pulled out my gray flag and rested my safety shears on it.

I stretched.

I stepped inside the triangle. Rigged my ring.

I took off my necklace.

I breathed again, eyes closed, head rested against my ring.

This is for me, and no one else.

I opened my eyes. I began tying.

As my hemp adorned my body, my hands remembered my standards. Swiss seat on my hips. Three bands across my chest. Ankle cuff to the right boot. A short length to lift my hips. The long tail on the ankle cuff to pivot me.

I sat in my Swiss seat, raised the tail of my right ankle's tie, and looped it through a carabener. Slowly, I raised my leg. Pivoted my body. Went inverted.

My left hand found my left boot. My right hand held my right leg's line. I rested in my body.

The rest of the world melted away.

I existed in the pressure on my lower back, which held most of my body weight. The swimming sensation in my head as the blood rushed towards it. My breathing. The slow turn of my body as the ring held me just above the floor, yet high above the world.

I let my left boot go and allowed my hand to skim the floor. To feel the delicate sway as I moved ever so slightly in my ties. It was if I felt the ebb and flow of life in my fingertips.

I allowed my right leg to come down, raising my body to a horizontal position, and locked off the cuff. Reaching down, I grabbed a 15. Larks head to my chest. Ran through a carabener. Locked off. My left leg tucked above my right. I closed my eyes. Lazed in ties.

Again came the gentle sway. Small movements as gravity played with my rig.

Coming back, I reached down, this time for a 30. Ankle cuff on my left boot. Through a carabener. Down behind my head. Locked off. Neck support, yes, but my whole body weaved into my ropes. My hands laid on my stomach. I relaxed.

Did I want to try going sideways? Practice the new knot I learned on Friday? Do something with my arms?

No.

I was in my happy rope place, but I also wanted my floor time.

I released my head. Lowered a leg. Then the other. Loosed my chest and hips. And I sat on the carpeted floor. My lines still attached to my body.

My right ankle cuff became a futomomo, as did my left. As I tied, I remember Wykd_Dave's words on how to tie. On tension. On being present in every inch of the rope. My chest line wrapped through each futomomo and attached back to itself, pulling my torso down. I felt an urge, and went with it. I reached out, grabbed my leather cuffs, and put them on my wrists.

I sat. I breathed. Eyes closed. Taking in my body. My breath. My being. Sinking into my flesh. Melting away life. Letting everything else besides my body and my breath not exist in this moment. I found my Zen. I rested in that space.

Centered in myself. Centered in my ropes. I sat.

When it was time, I released my chest line, keeping tension, feeling the movement of my hemp throughout my being. I untied each futomomo with concentration, running my rope with as much intention as when I put it on.

As I lived in my headspace, someone who had looked on came over and asked if I was okay.

It felt like a window had crashed in. It was gone. My center. My Zen. One sentence and it was gone.

I gave them a head nod and a yes.

I continued to untie, but my love felt sullied. Too many thoughts and emotions came rushing in. Too many of the no-good-very-bad thoughts. All the things I didn't want to think about or feel in what was to be a time of happiness.

I had opened myself up. Exposed my being. And with one sentence, the light, my Zen, was gone. Whereas before I swam in soft calm, now my mind was a tempest of darkness.

I shoved my rope into my bag. Took down my ring. Threw my hoodie and my skirt on. Gathered up the rest of my things.

I couldn't bring myself to put my necklace back on. It went into a bag. Trying to stem the tide of emotions, I instead tied my gray flag around my neck.

I rushed upstairs.

I dropped every thing and grabbed my netbook. Made my way to the lobby.

Opened a new file. Named it 'Emotional Diarhea'. Started typing.

It was 2:30am. I didn't know how long I would be at that table writing, but I knew I would not finish anytime soon. The storm in my mind ragged.

But then, thankfully, not thirty minutes into my emotional expulsion, I was invited to tacos.

Flying

I was nervous to ask the question, but, like many things in my life, I did it anyway.

"Hey, you still need a bottom for your afternoon classes?"

The first class we attended was Newaza to Fly.

It was a large class. The instructors, the DV8 crew, encouraged people to double up on frames. What they were teaching wouldn't be dynamic. We could get close.

And we did. We found a spot on the large wooden square frame, one of many pairs who chose the rig.

We laid out a sheet. I put my things aside. By the wall. Took off my shoes and jacket. Stretched. Dragon prepped his ropes.

The concept behind the class was simple: start from the floor and gradually ease your bottom into the air. Less risk. More control of tension. And less stress on the bottom (in case of nervousness).

Dragon threw a TK on my frame. As he wrapped his ropes around my torso, my nerves both remained and softened. I didn't know how my body would react to being suspended. I hadn't flown in quite some time. But the last person to lift me into the air was Dragon. I trusted him.

Yet, I didn't completely trust my body. Didn't trust the strength I had shown before. Didn't trust that I would be able to live in rope again.

But as each moment passed by, jute tight against my skin, and more applied still, my body remembered how much I loved rope. Remembered the feel, the comfort. Remembered how soaring made me calm. Centered me. Engulfed me in a love of myself, pulsing in waves out to the world.

As he weaved his TK, I closed my eyes. As the instructor talked, I got lost in rope. I leaned against the floor. Dragon tied my left leg. Then my right, and my hips. He secured his lines. And, applying the central idea behind the class, he slowly lifted me. One section at a time. Checking tension on his lines. Raising me just inches off the ground.

Yet it felt like I soared.

I drifted in a bliss of comforting rope. My eyes closed. My being in my body. Floating high above the world.

When he lowered me, I laid on our sheet. Body pressed against the floor. No longer floating above it all. Still full of joy, and happiness. And I remembered why I loved to fly.

After Newaza to Fly, Dragon and I attended Thinking Rope. Wykd_Dave and Clover taught a class about breaking down your ties, finding the little habits we all have, and improving them to improve your technique and skill.

Dragon, for his tie, chose to put me in a TK, again. Over and over, he untied and tied a TK on my chest. I felt the ropes go on and the ropes come off from half a dozen to a dozen times.

As he worked, it felt like I worked to. I stretched in between ties. I relaxed my shoulders. Felt my hands and wrists. Felt in my body.

By the end of our two classes together, I had regained my courage. My conviction in the strength of my body. I felt like a badass rope bottom again, flying high.

Beating

The Cabaret had just ended. There was a crush of people in the hall. A slow lumbering line out of the main dungeon.

I was excited, anxious, at what awaited me.

He stood at the first aid table. When I arrived, he looked me up and down.

"Am I ripping that off of you?"
"Uh, no."

Costume change. I took off my tight strapless black dress. Got naked in the hallway. Threw on a tank top and boxers.

He had a rig held for us. We walked back through the throng. Back into the dungeon. Back towards my fate.

His toy bag sat by a wooden double frame. Scenes were just starting up. We sat down our stuff. Laid down a sheet. Created our space.

He started pulling out all the items in his toy bag. Mean things. Horrible things. Rope-y things. Many many things.

He jumped up on the frame. Pulled up, testing the strength of the wood. He thought he might tie me at some point. He never did. But I didn't care.

I was a ball of nerves. Jumpy. But also horny. He wore boots. His outfit looked vaguely military. This was going to be brutal.

Still, I didn't know what to do with myself. So I talked. Stammered a bit. Giggled a bit. He bought into the ruse. We both knew it was just a matter of moments, though, before I was on the floor.

In the blink of an eye, I was splayed out on the sheet, sobbing immediately. He went from zero to ten; no warm up. Pulled out his knife. Tore open my shirt. Slashed at my boxers.

He punched. Kicked a bit. And slapped. Fuck, he wouldn't stop slapping me. My face. My arms. My back. My ass. That was the worst, at first. The stingy, unforgiving pain. And then gripping the surface he just assaulted. Rubbing in the hurt. Making it last that much longer. It was intense and almost overwhelming.

But then he started with his toys.

A small marble dagger-shaped paddle. Smacking my breasts. Attacking my nipples.

His bath brush, minus the loofah. Burning stings to my biceps, my thighs. It created impressive bruises from the start.

His cane struck all over me. He'd hit a spot. I'd curl in, trying to get away. But it just gave him something new to attack.

My hands flew out instinctively trying to stop the pain. He yelled at me for this. And then came the punishment for my infringement: my sternum.

He slapped my sternum. Hard. And then he told me what he was going to do. Told me he was going to punch my sternum. Told me, if my hands got in the way, he would punch me more than the two times he had planned. He asked me if I could take the two punches without blocking with my hands. Or did I want more?

He punched me once, twice. It hurt like a bitch. And yet, it was the kind of delicious pain I crave.

All during his tortures, he took moments to check in with me. Coming in close to my face. Whispering in my ear as I sobbed.

"Are you okay?"
"I'm okay."
"Do you want to stop?"
"No," I whimpered each time.
"Good girl. You are such a good girl."

He took the remains of my clothes. Put them to my face. Wiped away my tears and the snot.

Once, in the middle of our scene, he asked me a question I suppose many wonder about.

"Why do you do this?"

Through snot and tears. Trying to more than mumble. Trying to speak so he could actually hear me, I answered him.

"Because it forces me to cry. The pain takes me to a place where I can't ignore emotions. I like to cry. Love the release. And I like to know I can take it. I can take the pain. Even when it really hurts."

But he wasn't always sweet with his words. Wasn't always kind. More often than not, he was just the opposite.

"You are in way over your head," he said, many times, an evil laugh following.

During one check-in, my back on the floor, looking up at him, he asked me if I wanted to stop. I had no sense of time at that point, and I worried I would not have enough time for our aftercare, my blacking his boots.

"You are amazing. I'm beating your ass and you're worried about my boots?"

He barked at me to kiss his boots. I got on my hands and knees. Planted my face at the toe of his boot. Kissed and licked up and down his leather. Felt the pain melt out of me. Felt the lust I'd had from before build again. My head went back and forth between his boots, loving his leather.

He moved away. I followed him around. He bent down. Grabbed his whip.

I felt the first pop on my ass. I shrieked, but kept kissing and licking his boots. Another pop. Another yelp. Another lick.

He moved about, whipping me. I tried cowering away. He yelled at me. I was to keep adoring his boots. I scrambled around. Towards his leather. Away from his blows.

He checked back in with me. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep pushing myself. But I also wanted to take care of his boots. So I stopped the scene, leather love more important than my tears.