“There is no safety from a sophisticated Top.” – Max

“Do you deep throat?”
“Yes.”
“Open your mouth; tilt your head back.”

I sat on the ground by his knee.  Cigar smoke loomed in the air.

It was the first cigar social at Paradise, the only one I’d be able to attend.  Keet and Clash each enjoyed their tobacco just across from me.  Other folks milled about.  I had my kit open and at the ready, just in case anyone needed assistance.

I’d already prepped Kilawama’s cigar.  Already had a fun day chilling in the camp site.  Meeting new people.  Chatting, relaxing.  Taking a nap in the hammock.  Laying across the leather couch (yes, he brought a leather couch; the campsite was amazing).

As everyone created their temporary homes, I felt the need to do something.  These kind people had been so gracious, Kilawama especially.  While he was away on an errand, I cleaned up Kilawama’s tent, folding clothes and organizing his things.  When he came back, he was quite thankful.  It was then I believe he realized my service nature.  The campsite put me to work and I felt at home.

That night, as I sat on the ground by his side, I felt like a part of the group.  With his question asked, and my answer given, I obeyed his request and opened my mouth.  I knew, though, that Kilawama was never so straight forward as he might seem.

With a flick of his wrist, he opened his knife.  The blade loomed above my face.  Like a painter applying his first stroke onto canvass, he eased his steel down.  I trusted him, sunk into my fear, and accepted his knife into my throat.  I gagged, but didn’t move my head.  I maintained control of myself; I wanted to do this for him.

He pulled the knife out, impressed by my act.

As the cigar social meandered on, Kilawama found time to wrench my hair, beat on me, assault me with his toes, and open up my ass for boot stompings from Keet (a delightful treat).  But it was the blade that made the greatest impression on me.

~

“I need your permission.  Because it’s your tent and your Hitachi, even though you’re not there, I still need your permission to cum.  I know my brain; it’s weird like that.”

Kilawama lent me his Hitachi for the event.  After the cigar smoker, he roamed through Paradise greeting friends.  I, however, went back to the tent for some alone time.

The air was chill, but my writhing and heavy breathing warmed the tent just fine.  Paradise has quiet hours, so I had to hold back my screams as I finally came while in Seattle.

The following day, in the early afternoon, my horniness surged again.  I again asked for and received Kilawama’s permission to use his Hitachi.  I crept into the tent, no noise ordinace in effect.

Naked, writhing on my borrowed air mattress, I could hear voices chatting outside, but I didn’t care.  I came.  And came.  And came, screaming as little or as much as I pleased.

“My blade down your throat.”

I laughed, then came again.

Later Kilawama told me someone in their group felt a little uncomfortable, saying it seemed like he was violating my consent by talking to me while I masturbated in private.

“It’s my tent and my Hitachi.”
“Oh.”

Yup.  Oh.

Categorised as: Boots | Cigars | Clash | D/s | Keet | Kilawama | Knife Play | Max | Paradise | Seattle

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