I saw him in the hall among the crowd as I briskly exited the Cabaret.
“Hey, I just need to give a friend a band aid and I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, he was standing right where I left him, talking with friends. There remained a large mass of people in the hallway.
As we stood, talking over the din, I spoke to him about my reactions in scenes. I told him about the sobbing, the tears, the snot. I informed him this type of reaction would most definitely happen, but also reassured him it was a good sign.
With the crush of people around us, he wished to move into the dungeon proper to talk more. Walking through the crowd, the sea parted for him. I followed behind.
We settled in a corner of the dungeon free of equipment in what was section seven of Ropen Space. Sitting on the carpeted floor, we were able to hear each other more clearly.
The subject of marks arose. I love bruises, but asked none be given to my face. In a shared moment of bragging, he lifted his shirt to show his whip marks, and I in turn pulled up my shirt and twisted my head to show my marks from a Handsaw scene.
I spoke about how I loved impact: punching, kicking, elbows, knees. He obviously knew I loved rope. He confessed he was not confident in his rope work. I imparted a helpful fact: I would keep my eyes closed for the majority of our play.
He told me his plan for what was to happen. He would tie me up in possibly a simple chest harness, flog me with three separate floggers, and then knock me out.
He pulled out his toys from his bag. The first was leather with a moderate amount of tales. The second was soft supple leather but with many more straps than the first. The third was hard, stiff; I knew it would be very stingy.
Then came the question of language.
“You can call me Sir, not Daddy. Daddy denotes a relationship and deep meaning.”
“Yes. Actually I’m looking for my Daddy, and you’re not him.”
“Yes, but you want a leather Daddy. That’s why you like me.”
With my head bent down, and biting my lip, I sheepishly said, “Yes.”
Then it was my turn to talk about language.
“You can call me bitch, slut, cunt. Anything sexual is fine with me, but don’t call me stupid or anything like that. I won’t buy it. I know I’m smart and it’ll take me right out of the scene. Actually, I really love being called a ‘good girl.'”
Our plan made, with a shared awareness of where not to tread, we sought out a place to play. But, as we walked through the dungeon, every piece of equipment was filled. Heading into the hallway, again bursting with people, we checked all the smaller side rooms. There too each piece of play equipment was occupied.
Heading back into the main dungeon, again through the sea of humanity, for a moment people got in between us. When I did catch up to him, I slipped my hand into his.
“Don’t want to loose you.”
“Right. People seem to get out of my way.”
Standing almost a foot taller than me, with a brood frame to match his height, yes the crowd of rope enthusiasts parted for him.
I must confess: I really liked holding his hand as we walked through the crowd.
With no better option left to us, he chose a rig for which we would wait. Next to his chosen frame sat a stack of chairs. He pulled down one for himself and invited me to sit as well.
“Umm, may I sit on the floor with my head on your knee?”
He gave his consent.
The rig we wished to occupy was currently home to a motorcycle suspension, a clever scene that included projections, a helmet, and gloves.
With NHF seated in a chair, and my head on his knee, we patiently waited our turn.
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