With the sacrifice of my Saturday a given, an unintended consequence arose. All of sudden I only had one day left at camp. One day to go to class. One day to play. One day to make everything happen.
When I woke up Sunday morning, I already had a tight schedule. One class, four play dates, participating in an elaborate scene, and I still wanted to spend some time with friends. I wondered how I would make everything work.
Quickly getting up, I showered, changed into a cute dress (cause this was my last day, dammit, I was going to look good), and headed to breakfast.
After food, I went to the one class I knew I wanted to make, Playing Well With Others. I had already taken one of Vesper's classes and knew that this one was a must see.
As luck would have it, two of my cabinmates attended. We shared a futon couch as Vesper spoke, asking everyone questions, engaging the entire class in the conversation. The discussion focused on Monogamous and Polyamorous relationships, how they differed, and elements that were important to every relationship.
At the end of the class, with most everyone gone (including my cabinmates) I found myself in a conversation with Vesper and one of the other class attendees. As one would expect, we mused on relationships and life in general.
As it was soon time for lunch, once our extra-class discussion came to a natural end, I asked Vesper if he'd like to have lunch together. I had felt a friendly vibe from him from our initial meeting and wanted to get more time to chat. He agreed. We strolled down to the Dining Hall.
During our meal, he flagged the camp organizers over. Vesper's flight home was that evening and he needed a ride to the airport. I was now very happy I'd asked to spend some time with him.
As the organizers thought on who could give Vesper a ride, an idea occurred to me: I could.
Yes, my schedule was tight, but I could postpone a playdate for later that evening, opening up the time I would need to get him there. With Vesper happy to have a ride with someone he actually knew, we called over to the organizers; problem solved.
Of course, this opened up a new can of worms for me, but I do love rising to challenges.
And thus began my three hour whirlwind.
First their was lunch with Vesper, chatting and laughing and such. Then, right after lunch, I rushed back to the cabin, changed, and waited for my first play date: cigar play lessons on the grass in front of my cabin.
I told the gentleman with whom I played simply, "You scare me. I appreciate that."
He replied, "The way I get girls to play with me is I scare them."
"Like I said, you scare me and I appreciate that."
He requested my clothes off. I left on my red underwear with the words "I HATE U" printed on them. I think he appreciated that.
After smoke-and-heat-and-ashy fun, and the promise of more play together at some time in the future, I grabbed my things and caught a taxi to the Dungeon for my second play date.
Jim was waiting for me. I was five minutes late.
We found a sex swing, setup two chucks (one in the swing and one on the floor), and then began our fun.
The date was Jim's idea. He quickly cleaned my boots before licking my leather and slipping his hand inside my pussy.
"You have to be quiet; they're having a class."
Behind Jim, across the Dungeon, I saw a group of people sitting in folding chairs having what seemed like an intense conversation.
I wanted to scream as Jim's fingers danced inside me. Orgasms rolled, but I had to muffle myself, my hands often covering my mouth, quieting my ecstasy.
When we finished, with about ten minutes to spare, Jim and I chatted for a moment.
As we spoke, I kept looking down at his boots. In a moment of asking for exactly what I wanted, Jim granted me permission to kiss his boots. I kissed and caressed his leather, allowing myself to get lost in the smell and sensation, but only for a few precious minutes.
Cleaning the swing and collecting my things, I put my dress back on. I thanked Jim for the fun and then ran off.
Arriving at Vesper's cabin, I was right on time. He said his goodbyes before we walked to my car.
During the ride, we again got to chatting, learning still more about each other. My initial vibe was confirmed in that car ride. He's a cool guy; I could definitely see us being friends.
I gave him a hug before he flew away, and then I flew back to camp. I still had two play dates and a psycho drama to perform in.
"I like the French. They taste like chicken."
"Don't mind me; I'll do this til I die."
"Oh honey, you'll never fit in that."
"Our short sash marriage has included you judging me, and leaving me... and you didn't even give me any flowers."
"Everyone knows International Mr. BootBlack is treated like the red headed step child."
"I listened again, and I heard some slight snoring. So much for my sex appeal, bitch."
"Jim is the best sort of sash husband. We shared everything, including play partners."
"Jim was the first bootblack I ever met...Not really."
"I take the appropriate amount of time for each pair of boots. If it doesn't take me that long, I'm not into you."
"He's cute. I wonder what he looks like when he stands up."
"Jim, yeah, I didn't know he was funny."
Two amazing events occur in the same city at the same time every year: Shibaricon and International Mr. Leather. The two events draw an overlapping crowd, intertwining multiple cross sections of kink. For the crossovers among us, directions to get to IML, both with a vehicle and through public transit, were listed in my Shibaricon registration packet.
I knew, even before I stepped foot in Illinois, that I would try to make it to IML. My friend Jim was stepping down as International Mr. Bootblack, and I wanted to go support him.
Unfortunately his actual step down ceremony conflicted with Shibaricon obligations. However, Thursday night, before my Shibaricon officially started, there was the roast for the current IML and IMBB.
So I found myself, right after the Meet&Greet, in a friend's vehicle traveling to The Leather Archives and Museum to go see a roast.
Our trio arrived just in time. Technically the festivities had begun, but the guests of honor were not yet called to the stage. We quickly slipped in and sat in the back as the various roasters were introduced, followed by IML 2011 Eric Guttierez & IMBB 2011 Jim Deuder.
With their loins girded, the host brought forth the first speaker to the mic. It wasn't long before I was bent over, laughing uncontrollably.
Some of the best lines were sent from those not in attendance, as well as the current title holders' rebuttals.
When the laughing subsided, and the festivities ended, our little group made our way to the front. We greeted Jim, and were able to spend a little time chatting with him.
"So, if you don't mind me asking, what now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What now that your year is over? What will you do?"
"Go back to my life. I presented on leather and fetish before. I went to events before. Now I just don't have to wear the sash."
Though my first experience with bootblacking was at FetFest, Jim taught the first class I took on the subject. Jim sold me my first kit. Jim was the first person to black my boots.
If you'd asked me about bootblacking a year ago, I wouldn't have had an interest. I would've acknowledged my love for boots, but not understand the service and the skill. Now, with Jim's guidance and encouragement, as well as others, I feel like a different person, a fuller person. I am a bootblack.
Even with this being the end of his time as IMBB, Jim was still busy. He had a car waiting for him even as we spoke. He was off, and then we were off.
After a journey, with a detour to possible Mac & Cheese pizza (don't do it) and a drive-by of Wrigley Field, we found ourselves at a 24hr diner in the queer crossroads of Chicago. Over steak and eggs, french toast, and the best veggie burger I've ever seen, we chatted, relaxed, happy to be among friends.
We vented. We crushed. We hoped for what our weekends could be.
And then we made our way back to our temporary home, excited for the yet more fun to come.
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.
I wore my boots because I knew he'd like it. I wore my gray and black Delicious dress because it hugged my curves just right, making me feel sexy. I ran to meet him because I was running late.
Once again music requirements made my evening's start hectic. I was to meet Jim at the bootblacking station at 8:30pm. I made it at 8:35. I apologized profusely for my tardiness.
He held a black baton. The leather wrist strap laid beautifully across his skin. I wondered what he had in store for me.
We made our way to the Dungeon. It was rather full, busy with multiple scenes started. He, however, went straight for the cage. Stepping inside, I set my bag in a corner along with his things. He had me retrieve two chucks. I gave them to him. He closed the cage door behind me.
I leaned up against a side of the cage. He came in close, looming over me. I could feel the heat of his body, just inches from mine. He began lightly punching my chest. He asked what my limits were. I had few. No bathroom funsies. If he fucked me in the ass, please use lube. Don't cut off any body parts. "But I can destroy your hair." I liked that he sought out loop poles.
My arms rested at my sides. My hands gripped the chain-links. His punches increased. I gasped with each blow. He asked if this was too much, or was I just highly reactive. I noted that was an excellent description of myself in a scene.
He continued his punches. Normally I would have closed my eyes, but I found myself learning Jim's rhythm and instinctively tensing, waiting for his blow. Often he'd pause, then hit me.
Unlike my normal scenes, I endeavored to keep my eyes open. I looked up at the ceiling, able to glean Jim's next hit through my periphery. Occasionally I ventured a glance at his face. I looked into his eyes, saw the quiet concentration, and rested back into my pain.
I made my body relax. I un-tensed my muscles as hit after hit came. He concentrated on my chest, punch after brutal punch.
With his now harder blows, my body curled forward. I explained crying was good, in case it came up. I anticipated its occurrence; Jim punched hard.
I told him how I, when in need of a moment of respite, would curl my body away, taking from him his target. With a breath or two, I would be back for more pain. He understood my gestures, but warned unless I verbally safeworded that he may not heed my body language. Instead, if he felt so inclined, he might go after me more. I acknowledged this as a possibility.
He had me disrobe, but keep my boots on.
Jim was oh so close as he punched. One arm rested above my head as he too leaned against the side of the cage. One leg stood in between my thighs. His head just above mine. His free fist working my chest, over and over again.
He stood back, now wanting to change up a bit. He punched the sides of my arms. He punched the sides of my thighs. He took my face in his hands and slapped it.
Coming in close, he went back to my chest. Blow after punishing blow, my torso rocked with the force of his fists. I loved the brutal agony of withstanding his punches, loved the radiating pain, dull and powerful, through my lungs. With each breath, I felt the impact of his hands. I gasped and groaned. I almost cried.
Stepping away, Jim grabbed a chuck and spread it out. I laid down.
Looming above me, he used his own booted foot to guide my legs together. He held each boot above my face and asked if there was anything on the treads. I said they looked fine.
Gripping the top of the cage, he placed one boot across my thighs and the other on my chest. Letting down his weight, the pressure of his mass pulsed through me. I loved the feel of being under his boot, loved the sensation of his weight through my body, loved feeling this new type of pain. I sunk into it. He slowly moved about, changing positions slightly. I moaned with the feel of him on me.
He stood on my hands, lightly. He stood on my biceps, less lightly. His boots pressed down my hair. He took this opportunity to bend over and punch my chest.
His weight returned to my body. One boot found its way to my chin, pushing my face back. Then it rested on the center of my chest. He stood balanced, not holding onto the cage, allowing his full weight across my thighs and torso. I looked up and saw his tall boot with its red laces, his long supple chaps, his flattering vest, and his ever-hard-to-read-yet-always-welcoming face, a tableaux I will not soon forget.
Stepping off of me, he removed his vest and put on his black disposable gloves. My knees up, he knelt down by my boots. He used my lube.
He started slow. Clit stimulation. Pulling on my labia lips. He inserted a few fingers. Within moments, I begged to be allowed to cum. "No. Too fast." He worked more.
My right boot found its way to the cage wall. My hands reached out for something to grip onto. I begged again, this time more fervently. He relented. I cried out, cursing, thanking him, screaming his name, and cuming hard.
I asked him to push. He worked his hand all around, creating the space it would need. He pushed. I could feel my pelvic bones slowly separating.
He pushed.
And pushed.
He was in. I asked for permission again. He obliged. I bucked my hips. He punched my chest hard.
I loved the blended sensations. Pleasure and pain, writhing on the floor, my body gradually moving towards one end of the cage. We stopped, twice, his hand still inside me as I moved back towards the center.
I endured the beautiful pain, asking him a few times to stop and start, finding a moment to breathe without the intense sensations of my now. The pain pleasure grew. I came close to having to stop. I mistakenly kneed his chin. I apologized profusely. Finally, I hooked my boots onto his shoulders and pushed him off. I loved the smooth feel of his fist escaping my body.
He laid down next to me. He stroked my skin. He relaxed me. He admired the boot marks on my chest. I touched the treads in my skin affectionately. I breathed.
I sat up. We hugged. We cleaned up.
He bent down and picked up his baton. He'd forgotten to hit me with it.
He thanked me. I thanked him. We spoke of IMsL and hopefully seeing each other there. He opened the cage door and we exited.
I saw MaryLeo, SkinnyBitch, and DeepEnd had been watching. I walked over to them. Jim followed.
I realized I never received any time during our scene to love Jim's boots. I asked if I could steal a moment to do so before I had to leave. He granted my request. On my knees, I gave each boot just one kiss.
Standing, I thanked him again, and then ran off for my next play date.
The first official day of WinterFire was long and hard for me. I was on staff, had help with setup the day before, and stayed up late into the night as Rhythm Section (the name we affectionately gave ourselves as the A/V Music folk) organized our sound requirements for the event.
As Friday night closed in, I felt almost frantic. As anyone can attest, most of the event had me running all over the hotel. Friday set this bar, as all of us scrambled to get iPod nanos and shuffles to their respective play spaces, raised speakers, set levels, and made sure everything was working.
After the music was setup, however, I wanted my time to play. I was stressed and upset, not having realized how hard a staff position I'd volunteered for. Murphy put it best when he said I was getting fucked from three sides: setup, breakdown, & music, as well as being a heavy player.
I, sadly, ended up unloading my frustrations on a few friends I passed in the hall. I later apologized via text, with them assuring me all was okay; talking to a friend in a time of need was, in fact, what friends were for.
As I showered, about to get ready to play, I found myself slamming my fists against the tiled wall and crying. It felt like my event was being taken away from me.
I calmed myself down and continued the ritual of getting ready. I washed my hair. I drowned my muscles in the warm water from the shower. I dried off and scented myself with lotion and body spray. I put on my black lacy skirt and my clingy black tank top that showed off my cleavage quite well. I laced up my boots.
Heading downstairs, I knew exactly where I was going. At the bootblacking station, Jim was free. I approached, timidly, cautiously, but smiling. I politely asked if I could pretty please have my boots blacked. "Could I pretty please black your boots? I think we can arrange that."
I put down my bag and sat in his chair. I was nervous at first, but only for a few seconds. His hands went to my leather. I felt the pressure of his touch through my boot. At once, I had my first sip of an endorphin rush.
He unlaced my boots completely, pulling the red chord all the way out, with it only hanging onto my boot by the last pewter rosette. He started with checking the stitching, singeing an errant thread or two off.
He moved onto cleaning, focusing on one boot at a time. I could feel the temperature change as cool saddle soaped water graced my leather. He massaged the soap in. The endorphins flooded my body. My hands gripped the seat of the chair. My head craned back. I began moaning.
After the cleaning, he laced my boots back, just as I had intricately woven them before. Then he moved onto one of my favorite parts. Taking my boot into his hands, he lifted the leather and began licking up and down my boot. Long strokes of his tongue and face up and down my calves. I moaned more. I was gone.
Suddenly, jarringly, I felt a thud on my thigh. Jim punched the tops of my thighs, left and right. With each new blow, I gasped, leaned forward, and then relaxed into the feel of the pain. Over and over, randomly, he punched my thighs. Whenever it looked like I had guessed his rhythm, he stopped, and then punched again, allowing my body to release its instinctive tension.
He conditioned my boot and moved onto the other. He cleaned and licked and punched me. I was lost, my world existing in the square footage of his chair and his body. I randomly heard chatter from those who watched, but my mind could barely process it. I was in Jim's hands, under his fists, graced with the feel of his tongue on my leather. I floated.
As we finished up, my boots blacked beautifully, my thighs deliciously sore, we set a time and day for our actual play date. It would be the next night, Saturday. We would once again meet at the bootblacking station, this time at 8:30pm. I looked forward to the encounter.
