poeticdesires

Month: January 2012

  • Interesting

    He hates that word. Hates it probably as much as I hate the word ‘nice’.

    Tonight was my second date with “the Gent”.

    “You’re dangerous; I’m loving it.” – my text to him on the way home; ‘Toxic’ was the first song on my radio.
    “Stop Texting. Drive safe.  Good night Mrs. Desires.”- his reply.

    “I’m knee deep in training.” – his text to a friend that I read over his shoulder.
    “Am I training you or are you training me?” – my magical question for the evening. (His text was referring to his work.)

    “Who do you care about? Your mother? Your father? Your ex?” – me
    “Yes.” – him, as he cleared off my car.
    “Why?”
    “Because I care about them more than they care about me.”
    “Good answer.”

    It was snowing. Not at the start of our date, but by the time I was driving home there was enough accumulation to make my trek take way longer than my bladder wanted to allow.

    I really had to pee. “No one can top you like you can top yourself.” – DeepEnd, while I panted and cursed during a recent workout.

    I didn’t stop driving til I got home, accept once at a shitty traffic light.  The unrelenting pressure on my abdomen, coupled with my heightened state of arousal, made me cum.  I cursed the light, and the Gent. I crept into my house as quietly as I could. I tried to not wake anyone. I hoped I succeeded.

    My head, right now, is still swimmy from the alcohol and the orgasms. I came two times in the bar. As I rode his knee, I grabbed his coat, pulled his ear next to my lips, and told him, “You have to tell me to cum.” I’ve been trained well.

    I came about a half dozen more times on my ride home. I cursed him and adored him for the cruelty.

    We’re not going to fuck, but I want to fuck him. He pretends like he’s in control. He pretends like he decides. Really, it keeps bouncing back and forth, like an endless tennis match. My dominance is passive aggressive. He likes the games we’re playing.

    “Are you a happy drunk? A horny drunk?” – him
    “I’m happy, horny, handsy.  All the positive drunk qualities.” – me

    I felt him up. My uninhibited self wanted to feel his arms, the solid muscle of his biceps that I’d been staring at all night. Wanted to rub his back. Wanted to grip his ass. 

    He dressed down for the occasion. I dressed up; I had work in a nice corporate office beforehand.  Clingy cleavage top.  Dress pants.  My ankle high Timberland boots.  A jacket.  All of it matte black.  Under my dress pants, I didn’t wear underwear. 

    He paid for the first two rounds, the drinks we nursed while we played pool. I paid for the last two, the two rounds that each included a shot and a beer.  I got us very…happy.

    I love eye contact.  Once as we talked, I grabbed his chin and turned his eyes towards me.  He looked, for only a moment, and then turned away.  I turned his face towards me again.  And again.  And again.  I liked looking into his eyes, trying to guess what was going on in his brain.

    I close my eyes when I play.  I close my eyes when I cum.  I let myself get lost in the sensations.  The touch.  The heat.  My chest, my breathing.  I soak it all in, fall into the chasm of my body, never wanting to come up for air.

    He adverted his eyes as he bounced his knee against my clit, but I caught him, once, looking at me. I caught him seeing my ecstasy. I wondered what it would be like to see him cum. I wondered if he would later masturbate to my face as I rode his knee while we sat in the crowded bar, and I reveled in the delicious warmth that raced through my abdomen.

    He was very poised, very matter-of-fact that I was writhing against his knee in such a public place. Very ho-hum about me wanting to cum for him. He was good at projecting his confidence.

    “I want your cock in my mouth.”

    I was not going to fuck him tonight. Mother Nature, and my need to torture him, had sought fit to  prevent that. But the idea of him filling my mouth did excite me, but only to the point of teasing him. I would not have given him enough to make him cum, though apparently that had never happened to him before. Not yet, that is.  Plans…

    I like this boy, this new adventure, this creature that pushes me, enthralls me, that makes it hard and yet so easy.

    We played five games of pool tonight. I won, 3-2. More accurately, he lost two, I lost one, he won one, and I won one.

    And we did it, again.  Our first encounter lasted 6.5 hours.  This one, 5.25 hours, with no movie as filler.

    I wonder what he’ll want to do next Friday.

  • Bio

    Recently I’ve had to try to emcompass all that I am as a person into one paragraph. I submitted a short story, “Daddy’s Girl” to an erotic anthology (which will let me know if my work has been accepted some time in April).

    I also used that paragraph as my staff bio for the upcoming Dark Odyssey event, Winter Fire, which will be occurring in our Nation’s Capitol in February during the Presidents’ Day weekend.

    Now don’t fret my dear readers. I am on the Setup and Breakdown crew for Winter Fire. I work before the event starts and after it has ended. I will still have all the time in the world to bite into the meat of the juicy happenings. In fact, I have a list of possible playdates all set, which I sure will translate into many many sexy stories for you to read.

    But I digress…

    I found it interesting when trying to boil down the vastness that is my life into fifty words (the limit for the anthology). There is just so much to one life that it felt like an impossible task. Obviously, since I sent in the story, I made it happen, but there is no way to fully describe a person in such a small number of words. For goodness sake, there is a whole genre of writing just concerning who people are/were. So, to condense twenty eight years into a paragraph…

    For me, it seems almost impossible to describe any life in only fifty words, even a life that lasts for one breath.

    Since my bio was for an erotic anthlogy (and a kinky convention), there were obvious things I cut out: any mention of my colorful family life, my job, my shoe size. And there were obvious things to highlight: the fact that I am an “aspiring writer” since I’ve only been published once, in the sixth grade; it was a limerick; I couldn’t tell you where to find it now. I, of course, made mention of my kinks, but there was no way to include all of them; besides, my bio would have then looked more like a singles ad then trying to encapsulate me as a person.

    I did the chessy thing, mentioning how people can follow me on Twitter or read my blog, but only for DO; my hard word limit for the anthology made that an impossibility.

    Now wouldn’t that be meta? Someone reading my bio from the Winter Fire booklet, coming to this blog, and then reading this entry about the bio they read in the booklet that got them here. And now I have a headache.

    So, for your viewing pleasure, my bio from my erotic anthology entry. Feel free to give your critiques, or post your own. How would you describe your kinky self in fifty words?

    poeticdesires is an aspiring writer who’s been exploring kink since she graduated college in 2005, and has been highly active in the east coast kink community for the past year and a half. She is a polyamorous switch and pansexual slut whose kinks include rope, fisting, bootblacking, and cigars.

  • No Matter

    It was the slightest touch, imperceptable to anyone save the two of them, but it was enough to seal her fate. The electricity in that simple act was apparent, screaming in her every nerve. She loved him, therefore she was lost.

    He didn’t allow love, didn’t want it, didn’t need it. He sought discipline, order, obedience. And she gave all of these, asking little for herself. Her only wish, her only goal, was to please him. But now that she had broken his rule, that she had shifted in the slightest way, it was over.

    There was love and their was submission. He allowed the deep affection of subjugation. He allowed the attachment, the wanting this position would naturally encourage. But he made it clear, very clear, that if her emotions grew beyond those previously negotiated, if she longed for more, she was not allowed to keep quiet. She was not allowed to push her emotions aside. She must, was required, to tell him.

    As per their contract, she politely requested a meeting. He chose coffee at a shop he liked to frequent. Walking through the door, she knew which was his favorite spot: in the corner upstairs by the back windows, with a little table and two chairs, the only two chairs that matched in the entire shop. He would look out on the diplapidated parking lot, at the tall trees, at the cars and trucks and middle class houses, just sitting and thinking. She always wondered what he was thinking.

    When she climbed the stairs, he was there, sipping his coffee. Her tea was steaming on the table in front of the chair next to his. She was grateful she didn’t have to wait. No gut wrenching worry, no playing out of their conversation over and over til he appeared. To be fair, they both liked to arrive early, always, so his beating her should have been expected. But she was not in her usual state. She anticipated this would be a heart ripping goodbye.

    She took off her coat, resting in on the back of her chair. She sat, sipped her tea carefully, and took a deep breath.

    “I have fallen for you.” He sat, sipping his coffee, looking out the window, no immediate change evident. She was grateful for the warmth of the mug in her hands. Indeed, it helped keep her hands from shaking.

    “I asked for this meeting because you made it very clear when we first negotiated our contract that should my feelings ever develop beyond what we agreed to, I had to come to you immediately.”

    “When?”

    “In the foyer at Stephanie’s dinner party two nights ago. I got our coats, helped you with yours, and then put on mine. As I buttoned up, you so delicately brushed a strand of hair from my face. That’s when I felt it. I kept my head tilted so that you wouldn’t see my eyes, so that I wouldn’t have to look into yours. I feared what would happen if you saw how I felt in that moment.”

    He took a long deep breath.

    “Yes, I noted that interaction, not completely understanding why though. Not until now.”

    Her eyes began to water. Though she knew she could not have prevented the feelings, she felt she had let him down, the only man she wanted so desparately to please. But still her inner strength kept her from allowing her tears to fall. It was time to settle on their fates.

    “Sir, as your contracted submissive, under the directives we set forth six months ago, I have to now ask you what you want to do.”

    He did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. She knew the look on his face. He was thinking, calculating. But what would he decide? He tilted his head back, finished his coffee, and set down the mug. Finally, he looked at her.

    She did not recognize the glint in his eye, could not read his face as she had so many times before. This was something different. What was this look? If she had looked up that night in the foyer, she would have seen the same face that now stared at her.

    He reached into his leather messenger bag, pulled out a manilla envelope, and place it on the table. She knew it contained their contract.

    “Since the terms of our agreement no longer apply…” He pulled out the contract. “I wish to alter them.”

    Alter them? “Sir? You…you still wish to have me?”

    “You thought I would not?”

    “But I…”

    “Your affections have grown. You came to me almost as soon as you knew. You have followed my instructions to the letter. Why would I release you?”

    “I just thought…”

    “Besides, you are not the only person whose feelings have…shifted.” She quickly inhaled, but then held her breath, taking in the earthquake his statement caused in her. My Sir…he feels it too.

    Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a long thin box. He placed it on the table and slid it to her. Setting down her tea, she slowly picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace with a lock charm. The delicate nature of the metal hid its weight, both in heaviness and meaning.

    “Will you accept my offer to be my collared slave?”

    “Sir…I…”

    “Yes or no?”

    “Yes Sir. Yes.”

    He stood, walked behind her, took the collar from the box, and placed it around her neck.

    When did he…? How did he…? How long had he…?

    Hearing the click of the lock on the back of her neck finally pushed one single tear from her eyes.

    No matter.

  • Blind Spots

    FetFest memory

    Every person, no matter how hot or sexy they are, has a blind spot. For me, it’s women. I get incredibly nervous trying to flirt or be around women who I find incredibly attractive.

    Women are complicated. They have all these emotions. You never know what’s going on in their head. They, sometimes, can be a little crazy. And yes, I say all this with the acknowledgement that I am a girl. (Suck it.)

    My nervousness can be avoided under a few select circumstances.

    1- In the midst of our talking, they point out someone else to whom they are attracted. My brain then switches me into assistance mood. How can I help them in the conquest of this person?
    My ease also holds true if they are currently partnered; my brain ignores the existence of poly for these women unless it comes up in conversation. I become the friend, which to me is better than no interaction at all, the only other option my brain sees as possible.

    2- If, for some reason, I am overly confident or have nothing to loose, I’m put at ease. This often happens at events when I’m surrounded by friends and high off of a number of scenes or general interactions with folks. If someone has whispered into your ear how much they love eating you out, another battered and bruised you, and a third massaged your scalp til you are floating above cloud 9, it is easy to not care if the pretty girl likes you.

    I have practiced and learned how to approach people who catch my eye. I intentionally push myself to be more extroverted. It is my natural state to sink into the background and just watch & listen. As a writer, this has been helpful for my stories. As a young slutty kinkster, I have to work against this inclination.

    So…to the meat of it.

    Going into FetFest, my biggest blind spot was eating pussy. I mentioned this to a few friends who ended up easing me into the experience.

    Outside of Cabin 1/2, Gray sat smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey while hanging out with K2 and TwistedView. I walked over to the cabin after finishing Lochai’s Bondage For Sex class. Seeing Gray, I asked if I could sit and place my head on his knee. He agreed, and I disrobed as per usual, using my clothes to sit on.

    I relaxed there for about twenty to thirty minutes, just taking sometime to appreciate the moment. Going into Fet, I knew I would not see Gray or interact with him as much as at Rope Camp, so when the opportunity came up to just be next to him for a bit, I had to take it.

    After my time by his knee, I knew I still needed to go about my day. In earlier conversations that day, Gray, Glenda from NCSF, and Lochai all seemed to be encouraging me to ponder running for IMsL. I was unsure about the prospect, but thought I should at least go find Sara Vibes, the current title holder, and ask her about it.

    In getting ready to go, I happened to mention to Gray that I had not yet eaten pussy. Of all things, it was this that shocked him. I explained how I got nervous around girls.

    And I mentioned the one time I almost did eat a lovely red head out, that is until the girl started violently puking up the alcohol she’d consumed and had to rush to the bathroom off and on for three straight hours. The ordeal was a little bit traumatic. So no, the experience hadn’t happened yet.

    Gray, ever the friend, pointed out my little predicament could be fixed. K2, who had walked inside for a moment, stepped back out. Gray turned to her and asked, quite simply, “Hey K2, do you want to have your pussy eaten?”

    She gave her agreement and things just kind of happened from there. To hear the full audio of my experience, because awesome friends do awesome things for each other, here is the LINK to Graydancer’s Ropecast episode featuring the recording he made at FetFest. It’s the last segment, about two-thirds of the way in. Once again, thank you Gray.

    So, with K2 in a camp chair, my hands gloved, K2’s legs spread and tied down, and my “It doesn’t have look pretty; I’m just trying to eat pussy” line enshrined on Twitter, it was time to begin.

    I was nervous, very nervous, but I did have an ace in the hole, so to speak. On the drive down from New York, Murphy and I had had a long conversation about blind spots. His was fisting, which I helped him overcome later. Since mine was eating pussy, he decided to give me pointers. He talked about technique, suggested some tricks, and most importantly, talked about reading your partner. He spoke about how, just like when giving a guy head, you listen for what they like and keep doing that.

    Kneeling before K2, Gray’s phone recording the experience, I began. I gently warmed her clit with my fingers. Then I bent over and slowly started licking around her clit. K2 spoke up, telling me I could go harder. She then started making noises, informing me what I was doing was right.

    However, all of a sudden, I could hear and feel Gray stand up; previously he had just been sitting in a camp chair next to us. He placed his phone on K2’s chest, the perfect spot to pick up her moans.

    But then he came behind me. He placed his iPad on my back and also knelt down behind me, using me like furniture. To my delight, he then started fingering me. Naturally I started moaning.

    “Oh honey, don’t forget about me.” K2 piped up as my focus momentarily drifted. I had gotten close to orgasming, but not quite. I redoubled my efforts, concentrating more on eating out K2 while still trying to enjoy Gray’s hand inside me.

    Of course then Gray decided he wanted to spank me, my ass being right there. Murphy, who had just returned to the cabin, suggested Gray use the Konami code. Gray spanked Up Up, spanked Down Down, spanked left, spanked right, spanked left, spanked right, squeezed a boob for B, squeezed my ass for A, and then said “She has the start button,” referring to my manipulations of K2’s clit.

    “Are you a taxi?” Walking by our cabin, someone randomly yelled at K2.

    Her response, “Do I look like a fucking taxi?”

    This was an…interesting scene.

    After a while, TwistedView asked K2 how I was doing. “She’s doing a good job, but she’s teasing me. I almost get there, but then I don’t.”

    Oh, really?

    I started going harder with my mouth, harder with my tongue. I finally slipped two fingers into her pussy and firmly massaged her G-spot. My stronger efforts did the trick. K2 asked TwistedView if she could cum. He gave his permission and her ecstasy rolled through, hard. In fact, she came so hard she later told TwistedView it felt like she had to pee. I’d call that a job well done, and on my first try no less.

    We hugged; we both were happy; everyone enjoyed the show.

    And as a post script, Murphy, ever the caring Big Bro, sang an impromptu “I Just Ate Snatch” for our entertainment. Good times.

  • My NeverEnding Bag

    FetFest memory…

    On Saturday I attended Lochai’s Bondage For Sex class.

    For some special/odd reason, my Hello Kitty bag seemed to solve every issue that came up during his presentation.

    When I first arrived, I sat in the Barn on a bench and grumbled to myself, “Dammit, when did I get so fucking popular?” I had checked my phone and saw I’d missed a bunch of texts and a phone call from my friends, no doubt in need of their Cabin Bitch.

    Lochai, looking over, said, “Well, since you’ve been cute.  And you’re into rope.  And you’re a great submissive.  And you’re learning a lot.”

    “Oh, okay.”

    That shut me up real quick. If I could have blushed, my face would have been bright red. One, I did not realize I had grumbled so loudly. And two, I didn’t realize Lochai noticed even a quarter of the shit I did. (Yeah, I really need to get over this ugly duckling bullshit. No matter how much I think it, I do not fade into the background.)

    As people filtered in, I pulled out my notebook and buried my face in it, scribbling some notes on my day thus far before class started. Before lunch, Glenda from NCSF casually mentioned how she liked my spirit and suggested I go out for IMsL. Gray, who I happened to be walking with towards the Dining Hall, got bug-eyed and said I would be perfect for it. I noted the interaction, the conversation at lunch, and that I should talk to Sara Vibes, the current title holder, about it.

    At the start of Lochai’s class, he began with one small question: What is sex?

    My answer: An intimate connection.

    There were many many answers (oral, vaginal, anal, digital, etc.). For Lochai, it was anything you wanted it to be.

    He started with the example of chocolate. Chocolate could be sex, to which, as a lover of hot, milk and dark, I had to agree. Lochai thought he had a piece of the sweetness, but unfortunately he did not. He asked the class if anyone had some.

    I piped up, saying I did. Reaching into my Hello Kitty bag, I pulled out my last piece of dark chocolate, the last piece of the bar Gray gave me at Rope Camp. Put it to good use, Lochai.

    I handed him the treat. He instructed NaughtyEm to lie on her back and purse her lips. Placing the chocolate on her lips, he then instructed her to not eat it. That was now bondage for sex.

    Lochai next talked about how bondage could be physical or emotional. “We’re not going to talk for two weeks.” An example of emotional bondage, impeding the connection between two people.

    Lochai went on to show a bunch of different ties and positions, getting the minds of everyone in the class working. Lochai cared more about us thinking and understanding the theory of bondage for sex rather than specific ties.

    He suggested we make our ties simple enough to undo with one hand; this would allow for quick changes or using the other hand to please ourselves. He mentioned crotch ropes and using insert-ables, with a lovely cameo by KnaveKarina. Lochai strove for us to be creative.

    However, there was one tie he did mention by name: Gray’s Tie Em Up and Fuck Em Harness. Lochai couldn’t remember the specific way to tie it, though. Once again, I piped up. He allowed me to show the class the harness, using my own rope on NaughtyEm. I was a giddy giddy Teacher’s Pet, happy to have contributed to the class.

    But wait, there was more.

    After my small demo, Lochai showed how you could achieve a similar effect with webbing.

    He then spoke about an easy way to use rope for sex: just use a coil as a dildo. With a demo bottom on the mat and ready, Lochai pulled out a coil, but he needed a condom.

    Once again, my Hello Kitty bag came to the rescue. I gave him one. He unwrapped it, but then dropped the condom on the floor.

    Did I have another?

    I searched through my bag as others looked on their persons’ as well. Aha! “Got it.” I handed him a second condom. He wrapped the rope and gave it to his demo. She started masturbating with the coil, but needed some assistance.

    “Do you have lube?”

    “Hold on.” Another quick search. “Got it.” I handed him the packet of lube. Squeezing the slick substance onto the condom, she returned to her fun, and I smiled ear-to-ear.

    And that’s why I’m a full service Cabin Bitch.

  • Training

    ~erotica~

    With his hand on the center of her chest, he firmly pushed her up against the wall. She hit with a loud thud, a smile on her face. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, her dimples prominent on her cheeks.

    His hand remained on her chest; his other was by her head, as he leaned against the wall and into her. His head was bent down. He breathed heavy, as if he were in a fight. And though no one would see them in the comfort of their bedroom, should they have magically glimpsed the interaction, they would have indeed seen he was battling a worthy foe.

    He slowly lifted his head, locking his eyes with hers. His intensity was mirrored by her whimsy. “You are just so gentle with me,” she chirped, egging him still further.

    The hand on her chest slipped up to her throat. He squeezed, slowly taking away her breath. “So…patient…and…nurturing.” She forced out the words, then brought her hand up to caress the side of his face. He twisted his head away from the touch.

    He released the grip on her throat, instead securing his hand under her jaw. Standing up strong, he slapped her on each cheek once, twice, thrice. Random chunks of her hair, now disheveled, fell across her face at awkward angles. “You make me look so pretty,” she softly crooned.

    She did look pretty. He had to admit that. But this was not about being pretty or sweet or kind. He wanted to break her, had tried to break her, but never could.

    She only antagonized him more with each attempt. She had learned early that the taunts made him angry. She loved his anger, fed off his rage. He wanted her to beg for him. She never had.

    Each time, it always ended the same way:

    He’d punch her chest. She’d call him her “big strong man.” Then she’d caresses his chest. Her thigh would graze his throbbing manhood. She’d bring her lips close to his, but never gave him a kiss. And as she would back away from him, teasing him, the want, the need in his eyes would appear. And she had won.

    Though he had lost, he almost always enjoyed the victory lap.

    Seeing the look, the need in his eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed. As he sunk down to his knees, her other hand lifted her skirt. She wore no underwear. Lifting a leg, she rested her thigh onto his shoulder.

    His lips quickly found her clit. Her hands gripped his short dark hair, moving his head, angling his work, fucking his face. One of his hands was allowed, this time, to reach up her skirt and squeeze her ass. The other had two digits bound for her soaking wet pussy.

    She rode him hard, sinking down on his hand, and slamming his head into her crotch. Screaming obscenities, she came, and squirted onto his hand and into his mouth while calling him her Good Boy.

    And because he found the magic button, because he ate her right, he would now get to fuck her. When he didn’t, when it took forever for her to cum, or when his despair made it difficult to please her, she’d merely push him off, let her skirt drop, and go about her day.

    The reason why she always won was simple: she stopped herself from caring about anything but her orgasm. From the moment he initiated the challenge to the moment she came, her focus was on her pleasure. His focus was on her pleading, her begging, her submission. When he asked for it, he got it. When he tried to force it, tried to train her, it was she who trained him. And since he’d fucked her hard the last few times he tried to break her, she thought it was going well.

  • Friday

    “You moan like a porn star.” – Slut to me

    “Oh, they just put on Metallica. I feel sorry for you. That means you’re going to get punched.” – Murphy to Slut

    I recently had a roller coaster of a Friday.

    It started off well. I drove SkinnyBitch to work, getting to spend quality time with her in the car. She picked on me a little, as she is wont to do. I laughed it off, enjoying the playful conversation. Heading home, I finished up a blog I had started earlier in the morning and posted the entry before I began to get ready.

    I had, shock and awe, a date.

    It was a lunch date with a recent friend. We planned it the night before on a whim, so there was little to no pressure going in. We initially met at the theatre where we would later see the movie we’d chosen, Shame.

    The movie started at 2:30pm; we met at noon. Wandering around, we stopped by a store to buy a hat, and then found ourselves at a Starbucks. I got my hot chocolate, the impetus for choosing Starbucks, and they purchased lemon pound cake because apparently it is their addiction.

    We sat and talked for some time before transitioning to lunch. We swung by a touristy restaurant, chatted more over our meal, and then headed to the movie.

    I will not go into a full review of the film, but I will say I enjoyed it for a few different reasons. 1- There was as much said in silence and stares as there was in words and actions. 2- The cinematography brought a level of intimacy between myself and the characters that was both painful and beautiful. 3- The story centers around a sex addict; there is a lot of sex. But the moment that most turned me on, though, involved no fucking. It involved the main character sitting at a bar, a woman waiting for her drink, and him describing how much he wanted to eat her pussy. Just words, his voice, and the look on his face. I get warm thinking about it even now.

    After the movie, we wandered a bit more. We hit up a bookstore, then tried the Starbucks again, but it was full. We settled on a quite casual dining place, took the spot in the back corner, and talked more.

    Our interactions last 6.5 hours. It was…interesting.

    After exchanging hugs, I jumped into my car and sped away. I had a party to go to.

    Arriving at home, I quickly ran upstairs to use the restroom and then came back down to chat with my roommates. And thus, the quick moving crash began. DeepEnd and SkinnyBitch were to leave the next day. DeepEnd had a family emergency. We talked about schedules, the puppy shuffle, and their flight plans.

    I only had about thirty minutes before I needed to be out the door again. I found some carbs to down, since I had not eaten dinner, and changed into a quick cute outfit. I packed my toy bag and headed out.

    On the way to pick up Slut, and on the drive to the party, I felt deflated. I wondered if I should have still gone. I wondered if it would have been better if I stayed home with them. I felt like shit. But I didn’t tell Slut or bother DeepEnd or SkinnyBitch. I drove to the party, I smiled for the people in attendance, and I hoped I would feel better.

    The small show put on was quite fun. I found myself smiling before I even knew I had. Unfortunately, not only was I battling an understandable funk, I was also tired. I found myself yawning a lot.

    After the small show, the space opened up for play. Murphy setup by a hard point. Slut was the first he strung up. I took on my Cabin Bitch-ly duties and assisted, feeding him rope as needed.

    As I watched them interact, I could not help but smile. I loved the way they connected, played with each other. I remembered why I wanted to come to the party in the first place: to be with my friends. Watching them, helping them, made me feel better.

    As Murphy cycled through his multiple ties of multiple people, all the while with me feeding him rope, I also chatted with folks. I gave away a Moo card. I saw an old work acquaintance from back when I was in college. My mood rose.

    And, later, Murphy made me fly. I giggled a lot, dropping into a whimsical headspace. As he tied, I was curious about what harness style he would use. I paid attention as best as I could while endorphins raced through me, and planned to try to replicate his work later.

    As I came back down to Earth and he removed the lines, I asked him for some advice. I wanted a rope reading list. I have many rigger friends, from who I’ve learned a lot, but I have not yet taken the time to read as much as I’d like to about the subject. He gave me a list of about five books (one of which I purchased recently for an incredibly affordable price).

    After my time in rope, I gave my hugs goodbye. It was late, I was sleepy, and I still needed to drive home. Slut stayed with Murphy, as I suspected she would, and I made my way back to base.

    As I slipped into bed, a full day behind me, the mixed emotions of it all lulled me to a brief, but deep, sleep.

  • Don’t Pretend

    ~erotica~

    – You like my ass. Don’t pretend like you don’t. I know you think it’s hot.

    * True. Your ass is quite impressive.

    – And you want to fuck me. Don’t pretend like you don’t. I see the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice you staring.

    * True again.

    – Good. At least I know you’re not a liar.

    * Did you think I was a liar before?

    – No, but I reserved the right in my mind to see if my first impression was incorrect.

    * So you tested me?

    – No, I asked a question and you answered it.

    * And that’s not testing because…?

    – If you had lied, I would’ve given you another chance.

    * What would the other question have been?

    – Didn’t think that far out. But I did decide one question wasn’t enough.

    * I see.

    – And just so that you know, we’re not going to fuck.

    * Excuse me?

    – We’re not going to fuck.

    *Is that like today, in the next hour?

    – We’re not going to fuck, ever.

    * Hmm, and why is that?

    – Because you want to fuck me. And as much as I’d love to fuck you, and I’m sure you’d love it more, I’m not going to just because you want to.

    * So you’re depriving yourself just despite me? That seems petty, and hurting yourself in the process.

    – Hmm, petty? Maybe. But I see it more as denying you what you want until you beg for it, and then denying you again. It’s like torture, sexy sexy torture. And as for hurting me, I am not in want of people to fuck, as I am sure neither are you.

    * True. Quite true. So really this is closer to a thought exercise.

    – Maybe. Actually I like the way that sounds. I especially love the delicious warmth racing through me just now.

    * Are you cuming?

    – No, though I have before just from fantasizing. No, it’s the anticipation, the build up, the tension. The carrot dangling on a stick. Because, really, do you ever want to eat it? Everything tastes better before it’s in your mouth.

    * You did it again.

    – I know. That one was on purpose.

  • Random Facts

    ~erotica~

    I like being fucked, a lot, and well. Random Fact: In the top drawer of the small storage container beside my bed I keep a box of condoms, a box of latex gloves, and a jar of lube. If you want something, best prepare for it.

    Daddy likes fucking me, a lot, and well. He especially likes fucking me at my apartment. Random Fact: My place is on his way home, only a five minute drive from his job. On my days off, Daddy loves dropping by during his lunch hour and eating my pussy as his meal. The best lunch visits are when I’ve been lazy, having stayed in bed and snoozed for hours, when he walks in the room. The sleepy dreamy feeling of his tongue playing with my clit, his soft lips caressing mine, and his teeth lightly nibbling about is overwhelming.

    Daddy loves my pussy. He loves to eat it, beat it, fuck it, and fist it. Random Fact: Daddy prefers fisting me to fucking me. Though both he and I love it when he bangs the shit out of me, Daddy still loves fisting me more. There is, of course, his Dom-ly desire to watch me squirm, knowing he’s the one causing me to wiggle. But he also has greater control, easily dictating when I cum, and, when he is feeling in a bendy mood, he can jam his cock down my throat while still wrecking havoc in my cunt. Fisting 69’s are the best.

    I love to suck my Daddy’s cock. Random Fact: Sucking his cock is more intimate to me than fucking him. My Daddy’s cock is so pretty. I always take a quick moment to admire it before enveloping my mouth around it. My tongue running up and down the shaft. My lips kissing and caressing it. My mouth so full of him. And when I gag, heaven.

    Daddy once asked me what my ideal fucking session would entail. I told him it wouldn’t be a session; it would be an entire day. Random Fact: I am a slut, a big one. I love to do a lot of sexy, kinky things. Daddy eventually fulfilled my fantasy, though it did not actually encompass an entire day. It took about six hours.

    I wanted it all, everything on the menu. Random Fact: It’s easier for me to tell you what I don’t like than for me to tell you what I do. I wanted sensual foreplay. I wanted him to bind me, beat me, spank me, cane me. I wanted the rough body work with punches and slaps all over my flesh. I wanted many many bruises to remember the day by.

    I wanted service, to give unto him, to feel like I earned the treat of his touch, his attention, his cock.

    And I wanted to screw in every way we knew and loved. I wanted it in my ass. I wanted it in my pussy. I wanted to worship his cock. I literally wanted it all.

    And he gave it to me.

    His final flourish, though, still lingers in my mind:

    “I’ve allowed you to cum, my Good Girl. In fact, I’ve allowed you to cum multiple times. Now it’s my turn.” Pulling his cock from my cunt, he ripped off the condom and shoved himself fully into my mouth. I gagged and came again in an instant as he began fucking my face.

    By the end we were sweaty, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted. And we planned to do it again… next year.

  • Mr. Pitiful

    ~erotica~

    He sat at the bar, an empty glass in front of him, another in his hand. He sipped his bourbon slowly, slowly for him at least, and tried not to think of her.

    He knew this was a mistake. Drinking was for remembering, not forgetting. Trying to drown his sorrow would only in fact make them worse.

    But it was Sunday. It was their day. So he sat at his same place at the bar, sipping his bourbon and remembering.

    They’d met a few years ago. Her eyes caught him. Her body enticed him. He was hooked. She looked on him with carnal eyes, like a predator stalking its prey. Now, as he thought back on this, it seemed ironic. His long time submissive had hunted him down and captured his heart.

    Sunday was their special day. Each had busy lives, too busy to do all they wanted, but they always had Sunday.

    She’d clean, primp herself especially the way he liked it, smelling of sweetness and looking even more sugary. Her short skirt, her two pony tails secured high up in her head, her little ankle socks with lacy frills, and her black and white saddle shoes. Just the thought had his manhood strain against his jeans.

    He’d prepared himself especially for her, too. His leather boots, shined to a brilliant luster. His leather chaps, smooth and supple to the touch. His leather jacket, embroidered with a screeching devil on the back, dark red and hellacious. His pressed white dress shirt and tie. She loved ties, especially when he’d take it off, wrap it around her neck, and cinch it down tight, too tight.

    He longingly remembered the beatings, the begging. Oh, how he loved the begging, hearing her plead, “Sir, sir. Please sir. Please oh please may I cum. Oh please may I come.” The silky sweetness of her voice tempted him to always say yes, but he never broke. He chose when she came; her begging would make no difference to the time, only give more fury to his thrusts as he fucked her.

    He especially loved fucking her when she floated in the air, strung up by his aromatic raw hemp which scratched against her skin. No limbs were free. All she could do was hang, a floating fuck toy for his pleasure. After he’d beaten her red, and spanked her silly, he’d fuck her til he was exhausted.

    Both were sweaty messes by the end of their time on Sundays. Both yearned to do more the next week. But once, it was only he that readied one Sunday. Only he that waited at his door for hours. Only he who worried where she was, what was wrong. And then only he who happened to open the door, see the letter on his porch, read it, and descend into a depth of hatred and heartache.

    He carried the letter in his back pocket. It was worn with time, constant folds and unfolds. He pulled it out now and read it once more. Read the flippant dismal. Read the relaxed way she threw him out like garbage. Read the words from the person he thought loved him.

    He craned his head back, downed the rest of his bourbon, and signaled to the bartender for his check.

    And then he turned to his left, saw a woman walk in, and knew he was done. She looked so much like his love, so much like the woman he drank for, yearned for. It wasn’t her, and yet it was her. Her face, when it was innocent and wanting. Her manner, when she was submissive and pleasing. And her eyes, when all she desired was him.

    And in that moment, he fell in love with a woman he just saw, a woman he had not yet met, and pitied himself still more.

    She gave a small smile, sat down beside him, and asked the bartender for a bourbon. The man told the bartender to put it on his tab.