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.
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