poeticdesires

Category: Boots

  • A Boot Scene

    He stood beside me for a moment before his turn. He asked for a light for his cigar, which I gratefully gave.

    Sitting down in my chair, the din of the event fell away. I picked up his boot and placed it on my thigh. I unlaced his leather and began working.

    I was still in the bar shine mindset. I made myself slow down. I made myself take care with his leather. I cleaned each of his boots twice, making sure I massaged the flesh beneath the leather.

    As I worked, he blew cigar smoke into my face and ran the cherry of his tobacco delicately near my skin. The intensity of our interaction increased.

    He ashed into his hand and brought his palm to my eye line.

    “May I?”
    “Yes.”

    I took his hand into mine and licked up the flecks. Some ash spilled onto his thigh. His hand clean, I bent down and licked the ash off of his leather kilt, all the while nuzzling my face into his crotch.

    His kilt free of ash, I sat back. He flashed me momentarily. I gave a smile, but got back to work. I’d already cleaned his boots once and not gotten to the polish; I didn’t want to get sidetracked again.

    As I reached down for my polish supplies, he stood, placed his boot on my thigh, and pointed. I bent my head down and licked all over his leather. I kissed. I caressed my face.

    Satisfied, he sat back down, but then placed his boot in between my legs, applying intense pressure onto my clit. With the force of his weight behind him, he merely pulsed his boot as he fucked me with his leather.

    I leaned back in my chair, moaning rather loudly. I begged permission to cum. He gave it. He allowed sweet warmth to pass through me three times, my hips bucking with the rhythm of his leather, before he ceased his delicious torment.

    As I rode his boot, as I sunk into my ecstasy, I forgot about anything else going on around me.

    When finally he stopped, I raised my head back up, regained my breathing, and got back to servicing his boots. I cleaned where his leather had met my pussy. I asked him what polish he preferred; Lincoln.

    I pulled out my tin and popped it open. I rubbed the dark substance and applied some polish to his leather.

    He took the tin from my hand. He built up saliva on his hand, so much so some dripped from his lips, rubbed his hand into my polish, and applied it to his leather.

    Moving his hand to my face, his fingers rubbed my lips. My mouth parted and I sucked on his fingers, sucked like I knew he wanted me to suck on his cock. I could hear him moan from my mock fellatio.

    Upon his request, I put the tin in my mouth between my teeth. I vigorously worked the polish from the tin into his boots. I buffed his leather.

    Taking my brush from me, he licked the bristles and buffed his toe caps. Once again I followed his lead, licking my brush and buffing his heel caps.

    “Now you are in my leather.”
    And you are in my polish.

  • My Service

    “I can wait; she’s worth waiting.”

    “Now you know what it’s like to be a presenter; everyone wants a piece of you.”

    After the Dirty Pig Leather Contest, I packed up my kit and headed down to the Cigars and Services event in the Pavilion. It had already been underway for a bit, but I was the first bootblack to arrive. After retrieving a few chairs, I made a place for us at the edge of the stage, opened my kit back up, and waited.

    While arranging the bootblack area, I happened to bump into SirRonC. He introduced me to his friend, Prophet, and inquired if I was doing cigar service for anyone. I informed him I was not, but that I was bootblacking at the front.

    I ate ash from Prophet’s hand, a new experience for him. I also offered to check on him throughout the night to see how he was doing.

    My first set of boots was a fellow classmate from earlier that day. As I worked on his boots, we chatted. His leather was new and needed little attention other than a standard cleaning and conditioning. My services were soon complete and he was on his way.

    As I waited at the bootblack station for my next pair to work on, Rabbit approached. He was to be another bootblack for the event. He left to retrieve his kit and came back as I was working on my next pair.

    My next set of boots were far more difficult than my first.

    Pendragon sat down in my chair. As I looked on his leather, I silently cursed. He had been working to help bring the camp back from the storm. As such, his leather was beyond dirty.

    I worked hard to clean all the mud and grass from his boots. I earned my tip from him.

    As I worked on Pendragon’s boots, I heard people behind me. One voice I recognized was Stefanos. He was to be next in my chair.

    At least, I thought he was to be next.

    Once I finished Pendragon’s boots, his companion, who had quietly sat on the stage floor next to him, sat in my chair. Neither her nor Pendragon informed me she also needed my service.

    Stefanos was not put off. “I can wait; she’s worth waiting.”

    I informed Pendragon’s companion that I would be right back. I wanted to check on Prophet since it had been a spell since I last saw him.

    As I stood up to step away, Gray, who had been chatting with Stefanos behind me, grabbed my attention for a moment.

    “Now you know what it’s like.”
    “What?”
    “Now you know what it’s like to be a presenter; everyone wants a piece of you. Just remember, keep something for yourself.”

    I took his comment with a grain of salt and rushed off to find Prophet. He was indeed good. His cigar was near finished, with no ash for me to eat though. I politely asked to be released from assisting him, my bootblacking obligation being more than I initially realized. He graciously agreed.

    Back at my station, I worked on the companion’s boots. These were her first pair and they were beautiful. I consulted with Rabbit as to how I should condition them. Once done, both she and I were pleased with the results. She walked away happy.

    And then Stefanos sat down in my chair…

  • Dirty Pig Moments

    It was raining only a little, ever so lightly, as D3 and I setup our space.

    As we sat, waiting for anyone to sit in our chairs, Chey came over and sat in my seat. She wore shoes and didn’t want them blacked. But she did need them cleaned, having walked through the dirt and mud throughout her Sunday.

    I used my saddle soap and towel to clean off her shoes, giving extra attention to massaging her foot as I worked.

    Once finished, I turned back around in anticipation of the show.

    “May I play with your hair?”

    I gave my permission. She softly pet my mane, lacing her fingers through my strands. Quite quickly I was in my happy floaty place.

    “I love your hair.”

    I loved her hands in my hair.

    ~

    “Have any of you heard of the red and blue parade?”

    I sat on a piece of fabric on the ground. D3 and I had setup a bootblack station on the side of the small hill next to the Barn stage. He worked on a difficult pair of boots; aside from Chey, I had no customers for my evening.

    SherynB, who was hosting the Dirty Pig Leather Contest, was stalling for time. Contestants needed to prep for their pop fantasies, and, with over a hundred people watching, time needed to be killed.

    “I want you to come up here and show us your bruises.”

    She didn’t need to tell me twice.

    I popped up off the fabric and galloped onto the stage. 

    However, someone had beat me to the limelight. I stood upstage as Sheryn asked them how they’d received their marks.

    And then it was my turn.

    I stepped to downstage center, lifted my dress up above my cleavage, took two steps to my left, twirled, and then walked back to SherynB, who asked me the obligatory question.

    “Well Monday night was biting while fisting, as well as Tuesday morning. I had an interrogation, a kidnapping…”
    “Ladies and gentleman, Dirty Pig contestant number six!”

    My eyes grew wide. I think my hands went up to my face as I cutely cowered. I very quickly, and sheepishly, scurried off the stage and back to the fabric on the hill.

    ~

    Once, towards the end of the competition, I looked over and saw D3 playing with his knife. He held it inside his mouth, never touching his tongue, cheeks, or lips.

    With the show ended, he packed up his kit. Slightly concerned, I asked him if he was okay. He explained he didn’t care for the show; that was all.

    He then informed me he was leaving camp; this was it for him. As he sat in his chair, I got up on my knees to hug him. He sunk back down to the ground onto his knees for our bye.

    We kissed, his lips and tongue now familiar. He sucked and played with my ring. He bit me a little. And we hugged.

    As he walked away, I consoled myself with the fact I would see him at The Floating World.

    And then it hit me: I liked him. Crap.

    For a moment, it felt like my camp drop had started.

    But I still had the rest of my Sunday night, and a pair of boots to attend to.  I packed up my kit and headed down to the Pavilion.

  • You May

    “I like her. Can we take her home?”

    Even though I was tired, having only gotten about three hours of sleep, there was no way I was going to miss the first class session Sunday morning.

    I got up, quickly showered, put on my gray cotton stretch dress with mesh cut outs, laced up my boots, and almost skipped to the upper fire pit class tent. I was the first to arrive for WhipMasterBob and Bootpig’s Puttin The Boot To Them.

    I greatly enjoyed the lessons they taught in nonverbal communication using just your boots, but my favorite part of the presentation was the last thirty minutes.

    The duo always left this time for student requests. Coming into the lesson, what did we expect to learn? From those answers, they would provide us with the final bits of information.

    The consensus in the class was a desire to learn about rough body play with the boot.

    Bootpig laid on a soft mat in the middle of the class benches. WhipMasterBob stood above her and spoke about different areas of the body to target. He stood on different parts of her body, suggesting that tops have something to hold onto to keep their balance.

    But then he stopped. Bootpig was having back issues and could not demo the rest of the information. Could he have a volunteer from the class?

    My hand shot up.

    He waved me onto the mat. I got on all fours in front of Bootpig, who then didn’t move off the mat.

    “Oh, am I in your way,” I asked.
    “No honey. I’m just enjoying the view.” Yeah, I wasn’t wearing any underwear…

    Bootpig complimented my ass before sitting on another mat to watch the rest of the demo.

    Lying down on the center mat, WhipMasterBob now loomed over me. He spoke about how I’d positioned my body on the mat. I was flat on my stomach, my arms above my head, exposing my ribs. He then gave some swift kicks with the side of his boot to my torso.

    Stepping towards my rear, he stood on my back, pushing my body into the mat.

    Using the toe of his boot, he struck the lower portion of my ass with an upward angle. I started to softly moan as my hips ground into the mat with each of his strikes.

    “Your welcome,” he said.

    With that as a warm up, WhipMasterBob had one more lesson to teach.

    Slipping the toe of his boot under my clit, he inched farther and farther under me until my entire crotch was on his boot, my pussy right against laces. Using his other boot, he gyrated my ass, having me hump his leather. My moans grew loud as I rode his boot.

    And then he stopped.

    “What? I’m a Sadist.”

    The other students in the class groaned for me. Someone saw my pout and advocated to our instructor. WhipMasterBob looked down at my face and ah-ed.

    “Can you beg with your eyes?” I did. “That’s pretty good. Okay.”

    His boot was again on my ass, rocking my body against his leather, fervently humping his boot. As I moaned, I still felt the need to ask permission, but couldn’t quite get out the words. WhipMasterBob, ever the experienced Dom, understood my garbled request.

    “Yes, you may.”

    “Thank you,” I panted.

    And right there, in the middle of class, I humped his boot and came.

  • Cage Match

    D3 stripped naked, save for his boots. I wore only a black strapless dress, a cute pair of underwear, and my boots. I told D3 how I like it when people take off my clothes.

    “Mean or nice?”
    “Whichever.”

    He stepped in close. We kissed, our arms wrapped around each other.

    He began punching me. I slowly, blow by blow, backed up into the wall of the cage. I looked into his eyes as his punches landed on my chest, my arms, my thighs.

    He kissed me, turned me, and then stripped off my dress, unzippering the back and quickly peeling it off my body. He left my boots and underwear on.

    He punched my back, my ass. Using the toe of his boot, he kicked my thighs. He swung his leg and landed his boot across my ass.

    Grabbing my hair, he pulled me to the ground. Lying on my stomach, he put his boot by my face.

    “Lick it,” he demanded.

    My tongue traced up, down, and around his leather as he continued to punch my back.

    Using his boot, he flipped me over. He loomed above, stepping onto my body, using the cage for balance until he could apply his full weight. Adjusting his body, he intensified his weight into his heel, down onto my flesh. Turning my head with his boot, he stepped on my chin line.

    Coming down to my level, he chose to sit on my ribs and once again punched my chest. Using his elbow, he applied pressure points to my chest and arms. Pulling out a knife, he glided his steel along my chest and over my face. He made me endure more pressure points.

    His knife away, he leaned down and once again kissed me. He licked my eyelids. As we continued to makeout, he pulled me on top of him.  His body now laid below mine.

    In an instant, the dynamic of our scene switched. I kissed him, teased him.  I danced my breasts in front of his face.  He pinched and sucked on my nipples.  I leaned down and bit his neck. He encouraged me to bit harder; I did so. He moaned with my increased pressure.

    I kissed him more. Without realizing it, I’d begun grinding my hips on his leg. I was happy my underwear was still on.

    Without warning, he hooked his leg and flipped me back onto the mat. Again we kissed. My legs grasped his thigh as I continued to hump his limb.

    He sat me up, crossed legged. He punched my thighs more. Using his lead shot mallet, he attacked my back and thighs.

    And then he asked a magical question.

    “What do you want to do now?”

    I answered bluntly.

    “Fist me or fuck me.”

    We laid down a chuck; he gloved up. I removed my very wet underwear and got comfortable on my back.

    We started slow. I asked him if I needed permission to cum. He said I didn’t. I could have as many orgasms as I wanted. “I love to watch people cum.”

    I orgasmed a few times before his full fist was in.

    Once inside, he used a turning motion to make room, sending my muscles racing. What he thought was to be our final flourish was merely about a third of the way into the fisting. I continued to fuck his hand and cum like crazy, pushing back as he rocked me forward.

    Once, during a rather intense orgasm, I lifted my hips up off the ground, bridging my body high. “That was intense,” he remarked.

    My ass back down on the ground, I hooked my calves around his elbow and squeezed my thighs. I rode his hand as hard as I could. I came so hard, I cried. I asked him to vibrate his hand, and then came again. He tried to open and close his hand quickly. I stopped him, coaching him instead to do it slowly.

    Soon, his wrist tired. He asked me how long I could go. I informed him this was a loaded question, as my record for a fisting was an hour and forty-five minutes with forty-two orgasms (yes, we counted).

    He decided, with his wrist about done, it was time to pull his hand out. There was a final flourish, the delicious feel of his knuckles against my pelvic bone when his hand exited.

    Ungloving and joining me on the mat, we cuddled and kissed, and almost fell asleep.

    He then asked me if I wanted to help him orgasm. I gave a very enthusiastic yes.

    I then gloved up as he laid back. As he masturbated, I massaged his asshole. When he came, I caught his cum in my glove and smeared it onto his lips. He licked off his cum, sucking on my fingers, all the while our eyes locked on each other. It was so very hot.

    Gloves again discarded, we cuddled more before cleaning up.

    When we checked the time, we could hardly believe it was real. We’d started at about midnight. The time had flown by.

    We finished at 2:22am.

  • D3

    I asked D3 if he wouldn’t mind blacking my boots, seeing as my shift was up in fifteen minutes. He agreed, sitting on the ground as I remained in my chair, setting up his kit as I stashed mine away.

    He then asked, “Do you need to go anywhere?”

    “No,” I replied. My commitments for the evening didn’t start until much later, about two hours from then. This was his tester, to see how much care and attention he could give to my leather. In my view, he had all the time in the world.

    We started with my showing him how to unlace my boots, first trailing up the boot & around the rosettes and then back down over the rosettes & through the side loops.

    As he began his cleaning, I slipped into my happy floaty place. His hands massaged my calves. Pressure and sensation mixed with the feeling of having someone up close servicing my leather. My head rolled back and I sighed.

    To condition my boots, he used a mixture of Black Gold and Hubberd’s. I loved the visual of him rapidly rubbing his hands together and them applying the mixture on my boots.

    As again his hands kneaded into my flesh beneath my leather, my sighs grew into moans. My eyes closed; my head collapsed back. I fell into the feeling of the service; got lost in his hands.

    When I peeked, just once, I saw what looked like Hubberd’s on his lips. I smiled, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to be lost again.

    His work mostly complete, I explained how to re-lace my boots, a chore all its own.

    His work finished, I offered him a tip. He refused. He knew the money came from the tips I’d made earlier. Instead he told me to put the money back into my kit.

    Not able to compensate him monetarily, I asked if I could give him a hug. He stood up on his knees into my seated arms.

    As our limbs initially intertwined, we somehow naturally… gently… kissed.

    And kissed a little more.

    And a little more.

    Our lips parted. Our tongues played. Before I knew it, we were making out.

    My hands trailed down his back and gripped his ass.

    He started sucking on my tongue. Normally, I hate it when people do this. It’s only happened to me once before and it was not a pleasant experience.

    But D3… when he sucked my tongue.  And played with my ring.  I was so fucking aroused I started grinding against my metal chair and panting like a begging puppy.

    As he sucked and I bucked my hips, I came right there in his arms, the smell of Hubberd’s still fresh on the both of us. I never wanted to stop kissing him.

    But, eventually, we did. Our makeout session ended, we then actually hugged, and slowly broke apart.

    I slouched back into my chair, the intensity from the past minutes washing over me.

    D3 asked what I was up to that evening. I knew I was to black Stefanos’ boots, and had plans for play during the Circus. I asked him his plans. He, in fact, wanted a playdate with me.

    We settled on midnight at the Dungeon.

    I spoke about how I loved impact and showed off some of my bruises, exposing my breasts. He asked permission to play with my nipples, which I gave.

    His tongue flicked and licked. His lips closed around one and sucked. He bit, hard. I took in the pain, let it wash over me, until I had to call yellow.

    We flirted. We exchanged numbers. We parted.

    We would see each other again, later that evening.

  • My Bootblacking Shift

    Because of Friday night’s storm, there was some confusion and a handful of things not going as planned at camp. The Pamporium was up and running though, albeit without hot wax, so I made my way over after lunch, a host of much needed calories after my abduction, in hopes of working my bootblacking shifts.

    As I rolled past Oink’s cabin, I saw TheatricalToy there, along with others waiting to be let back inside to retrieve their things. She informed me she would not be bootblacking, but if I wanted I could still try.

    When I arrived at the Pamporium, Amethyst consented to my endeavour. I pulled two folding metal chairs over to a clear spot in the tent nearest the asphalt path. I found two small empty matching garbage bins and flipped them over.

    I unzipped my kit, a piece of well packed carry-on sized luggage, and I sat.

    As people walked in and out, I looked for anyone wearing boots. However, with the hot day, there were none. Me, in my cotton dress and knee-high boots, seemed an anomaly.

    As I waited, D3 came by. He was to be the experienced bootblack on shift (to my novice spot), but he wanted to check on Toy and help her through her current ordeal. He said he would swing by when he was again free.

    And so I went back to waiting.

    I scanned folks walking by, hoping to see leather. And then, a bite. I saw a gentleman walk up the lane in a pair. I called to him, asking if he’d like his boots blacked.

    As he sat down in my chair, he introduced himself. His name was B, and he was also suppose to be on shift with me. I’d signed up for two back-to-back slots, giving me boot time from 2:30pm-6pm.

    Now with a pair of boots to work on, I started. As I worked, I enlisted his aid. It was agreed he would stay by my side, just in case, answering any questions I had and giving me pointers along the way. He, in fact, could not black that day because of some shoulder issues.

    While I worked, my friend Phoenix came over. She saw that I was bootblacking and asked if I could teach her. I was more than happy to help. She scurried away to grab her Master’s boots.

    As I finished up B’s boots, he said he had another pair for me to black if I so wanted. I did. He left as well. Both soon returned.

    As another pair of boots sat in my chair, I explained the basics of bootblacking to Phoenix as she worked on her Master’s boots on the ground to my right. Meanwhile B sat on my left watching my work. I was both the teacher and the student.

    Later I blacked B’s second pair of boots, and he taught me a method for spit shining. Out of gratitude for his aid and tutelage, I asked him if I could kiss his boots. He agreed. Gripping his leather, I brought my lips to his boots, kissed and caressed both sides, and gently parted from his leather.

    At one point SkinnyBitch, who was inebriated, sat in my chair. She wore shiny flip flops and asked if I could black them. I looked through my kit, found a clean toothbrush, sprayed it with water, and dusted very carefully, making sure to not remove her sparkles. Challenge accepted and accomplished. She giggled with delight.

    While waiting for another customer, Stefanos happened to walk by. I turned, saw him, and smiled. I offered to black his boots, but he was on his way to a class. He suggested later, to which I gleefully agreed. I would meet him after the Circus that evening.

    As my shift grew near it’s end, D3 came back to check on me. After chatting with both my mentors for the day, D3, B and I agreed to come back the next day for another shift, as well as setup shop for the Dirty Pig leather contest. Phoenix and B then departed.

    D3, however, stayed.

  • Bondage Bullfight

    “You are using the rope to deliver your message; your receiver is your bottom, not your knot.”

    At the front of the class stood a whiteboard. The bottoms faced the back, unable to see what Dart, the presenter, wrote. The tops read the word and began.

    My class partner started softly, slowly. Immediately there was intense eye contact. Easing in closer, they pressed their body against mine and wrapped their rope around me.

    Bringing my arms up, they tied my limbs in front of me in an almost prayer position. They hugged me from behind. I felt safe, loved.

    Nuture.

    For the second word, the mood in the Pavilion immediately turned cold. My partner took the rope, which they had previously unwound from my body, and used the fibers as a whip, stinging lashes across my skin.

    “Do you like this?”
    “Yes,” I squeaked through yelps and cries, finding some solace in the catharsis of the pain.

    Quickly working, they cinched their rope around me tight, the fibers biting into my skin. They dragged the rope across my body, burning brutally.

    They pulled my hair. They forced me down to the ground. Their boots pressed harshly into my body.

    They tied one arm above my shoulders, the other below. And they tightened. And tightened. And tightened. I screamed. I cried. I dove into the pain.

    Dart told everyone to stop. He wrote something else on the board. We bottoms didn’t see this as well.

    And then everything changed.

    My partner slowly began untying their bindings. They eased my arms from their ropes. Again they pulled the rope across my body, but this time sweetly, soothing my skin.

    They joined me on the floor, laying their body against mine. They began caressing my hair. With a bunch of the rope in their hand, that massaged it against my face. With their body and the rope about me, I felt safe again.

    When Dart brought the group back together, my partner and I never stopped touching each other. Some part of me was always touching them; we needed to remain connected.

    As we began to talk about our scenes, what we noticed, how things affected us, Dart began with a rather surprising comment towards myself and my class partner:

    “You two over here almost brought me to tears. That’s a lot coming from a gay man.”

    People spoke about letting themselves fall into the words given, turning off parts of their brain to allow the scene to go where it needed.

    I spoke about the change in how my partner drew the rope across my body, the same action but with opposite motivations. How something so basic can be performed in vastly different ways.

    The second word Dart wrote: Ruin.

    Dart’s final words: I’ll Protect Your Forever.

    Class dismissed.

  • At That Moment…

    …my head was on his right boot. His left boot was on my back. I was naked, except for the ass hook in my ass. I was…pleased.

    At that moment, I heard him typing on his Mac, his goal near accomplishment.  And once he hit publish, he removed his left boot and turned the screen towards me.

    “I may misdirect, but I never bluff.”

    There it was, emblazoned on my blog. A momento of our scene. A token to symbolize the hour and a half we spent together, both of us gaining information.

    My arms were tired. My legs were tired. My nipples were sore. My clit was still warm. My head was still stuffed up.

    He let me put my head in his lap, rubbed my back, and caressed my hair. I didn’t need him to fetch anyone else. We remained there as we both came back.

    “I like your tummy,” I said. I just felt like saying it.

    He needed water. I crawled away from him, the glint of metal still in my ass as I swiveled my hips in my task. I stumbled a little, but made my way into the Dungeon, found his refreshment, and brought it back. My head returned to his lap.

    After a while, I sat back and smiled. I laid against the blue matts. We just kind of looked at each other for a bit.

    “You still have an ass hook in your ass.”
    “Yes I do.”

    It had been intense. More than intense. I had pushed myself further than I ever expected I could. I loved that he pushed me.

    And then he revealed a little secret: the pepper wasn’t a habenero, but it burned enough all the same.

    As we eventually gathered up our things, my riped off clothing and his toys, he wanted to try one more stimulus.

    He had three small hooks. One went into my nose. The other two went into the sides of my mouth. Using rope, he pulled them all taut.

    “I guess I shouldn’t have taken the ass hook out.”
    “No, you shouldn’t have.”

    I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to. I had no idea how much I would love it. Love it. But he was cleaning up, putting away his toys and recoiled rope. We were winding down. I was being polite, too polite.

    Something else to try, next time…

    Oh, and he found his Ow stick. It was in the grass, hidden by the dim light. He gave me matching ow’s on each of my breasts. Two more bruises as trophies from our scene.

    [For context (or for those who happened to miss it): At The Moment…]

  • Interrogation part 4

    Let’s review.

    It was a dripping-sweat-hot Thursday night.

    I had invited Gray to have an interrogation scene.

    For my trouble, I found myself tied tight in 4mm hojo rope, partially suspended with only my left leg for support. I wore heels and stood on two overlapping matts, both contributing to my general lack of stability.

    My arms were behind my back, my right thigh up in the air. My clothes were cut and riped off of me through his chest tie. There was a metal ass hook in my rear attached to my hair.

    A piece riped off from my outfit served as a gag. In that gag sat a habenero pepper, which I was instructed to not drop. If I did, there stood a threat of mean pincers or large gauge needles to keep it in.

    Nipple clamps dangled from my chest, their chain looped through my gag. If I bent my head forward, I pulled on the ass hook. If I bent my head back, I pulled on my nipples.

    Oh, and in the process of Gray’s layering of stimuli, I had been paddled, caned, kicked, slapped, and punched.

    All this, and Gray hadn’t even gotten to his inquiry yet.

    Pulling up a metal folding chair, Gray sat down just on the outside of the blue matts. He opened up his Mac and went to my blog, this blog.

    He then went to the blogger home page, typed in one of my email addresses, and asked one simple question, “What’s your password?”

    I stayed silent.

    Gray reassured me I would know exactly what he would post. He pulled up WordPad and began writing his diatribe.

    It was mean, calling out multiple riggers I knew, including him, and saying many not nice things, mentioning how I didn’t need them anymore since for this event I was now rigging others myself.

    Gray was especially hurtful towards himself, mocking his personality and his physical features, specifically his stomach.

    He said he was going to post that on my blog. All he needed was my password.

    Finished typing, he looked up at me and again asked for the information.

    In many things I am open. I write a lot about my life, both kinky and not, on this blog. But somethings I am protective of, one of them being my passwords. I use upper and lowercase letters, numbers, symbols, and I throw in a word. I like knowing and feeling secure about my Internet privacy.

    But here Gray was, sitting on a metal folding chair, Blogger up, wanting to know information I have never told anyone, ever.

    I hesitated. Looking at the email address he listed, I realized it was the wrong one for my blog. He had typed my kinky email address, which I’d acquired after I’d begun the blog.

    I didn’t want to give away more than I had to, and if I’d given up the password to the wrong address, that probably would’ve incurred yet more wrath from my captor.

    Through the gag, I was able to spell out the correct email address. But Gray still needed the password. Again, I hesitated.

    Sensing my unwillingness, even strung up and over stimulated as I was, Gray upped the ante. Using his blade, he cut off the tip of the pepper and made a small V.

    “This can easily go on your clit. What’s the password?”

    Reluctantly I said the first few characters, but then stopped. Angered, Gray put the tip of the pepper on my right nipple. Crying still more, I coughed up the rest of the information.

    But it didn’t work.

    Gray asked for it again. I spat it out through the gag, but it still didn’t work. He typed it over and over.

    I suspected he had one of those programs that blocks a site from loading, just another layer of mindfuck. He typed out the password, showed it to me, and submitted once more; nothing.

    He thought I was fucking with him. He thought I was misdirecting. He thought I was lying. I swore to him that I wasn’t lying, swore to him that I didn’t know what was going on.

    In the swirl of emotions, the pepper top dropped. Gray picked up the piece, rubbed its juices on his hand, and massaged my clit. The burning was immediate, as were my sobs.

    I didn’t understand why it wasn’t working. I told him that was the correct password.

    But then, in a flash, it occurred to me: maybe I wasn’t remembering it all. I use a mnemonic device to recall the intricacies of my passwords. Maybe I skipped something or used a number instead of a letter. Maybe I genuinely got it wrong.

    I asked him to switch a number and a letter; nothing. I asked him to try a different variation; zilch.

    Finally we’d tried enough times to enter a password that Blogger asked a security question. This, thankfully, I did remember. I gave him the answer and he was in.

    He closed his Mac, stood up, and began letting me down. He removed the pepper and the gag. He slowly lowered my right leg, which had gone numb. I cautiously put weight on it. He released my chest tie from the arch and slowly helped me to the ground.

    Unclamping my left nipple, I screamed; intense pain surged in my breast.

    “The right’s going to be worse.”
    “I know; just do it!”

    Again my cries filled the tent, echoing out over the lawn.

    “You know, my nipples, they never went numb.”

    He unwound his rope, my arms and hands numbed as well. Finished, he sat back in his metal chair. He instructed me to come and put my head on his boot.