1) “Do you know how to coil rigging rope?”
purchase Latuda 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…”
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.”
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