poeticdesires

Category: Clash

  • Deep Throating

    “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.

  • Sunday Brunch Plans

    The buzz of the house built as the perscribed time crept closer.  Metkat stood at the stove cooking his famous meat.  Clash prepped the coffee.   Amy took care of french toast, hot chocolate, and busciuts.

    Watching the bustle of the homemates around me, I felt the need to assist.  Amy put me in charge of pretty.  As things finished cooking/baking/brewing, I sat them out on the tables in a neat and logical order.

    Our first arrival was Kilawama; he brought fruit.  A lot of fruit: multiple melons and bunches of berries.  They were washed off, placed in bowls, and I found a spot for each sweet treat amongst the spread.

    Next was a friend with cookies.  And then a few more people, a few more food items, and a few more names.  Within an hour, the house swelled from four to a dozen, everyone hungry for food and company.

    We ate Metkat’s meat.  We drank Amy’s hot chocolate and Clash’s coffee.  We sat and chatted.  Eventually, the suggestion was made to transition out onto the back porch.  Also the not-at-all-subtle hint was dropped by Amy that she wanted to watch me give cigar service.  I ran up to my borrowed room, grabbed my kit, and scurried back to the group.

    Out on the porch, we settled into chairs in an amorphic circle.  I sat between Kilawama and Clash, with Keet, a late arrival, on Clash’s lap.

    Now, with everyone newly assembled, there was the question of who.  To whom would I provide cigar service?  To be honest, I sat in between three people I found highly attractive.  Luckily, one of them was chosen.

    I stood up, took off my jacket, and laid it at Kilawama’s feet.  Cigar kit in my hands, I knealt down and presented my selection of tobacco for his chosing.

    As he looked through the few sticks I had, we made a fun discovery.  NYRCherryBoundage had previously mistakenly purchased a cigar with the note Habe en Cuba on it.  It turned out, she had not purchased one of those cigars, but two.  This was the cigar Kilawama chose.

    I prepped the stick using my Hot Ash cutter and presented the tobacco to him.  As he smoked and I served, I introduced a few nuggets of information for his knowledge.  I spoke about ashing into one’s hand or into another’s mouth.  I suggested blowing smoke into my hair, one of my favorite activites in cigar play.  He gave me the privelage of both eating ash out of his hand and feeling his smoke in my strands.  People delighted in the display.

    As conversation picked back up, Paradise was on everyone’s mind.  Paradise is a local camping event held every year in Seattle as a fund raiser for the Center for Sex Positive Culture.  Most of the people sitting on the porch were going to the event.

    It was my plan to day pass on Tuesday and Wednesday.  Seeing as I had no place to lay my head, I was going to drive out both days and come back to the city each night.

    My plan was altered by two gracious gestures.  Kilawama owned a rather large tent and an extra air mattress.  He offered up his space for me to sleep.  Keet planned to leave for the event on Tuesday morning; she offered me a ride to the camp grounds.

    Amy, the person whose car I was going to borrow, had no problem with me borrowing her car less.  She would pick me up for the airport for my flight home Wednesday night.

    The plan was set.  I was going to spend a day and a half in Paradise.

  • Grind

    The music pounded.  Lights danced through the air.  I sat on the other side of the room and watched as people let their bodies move.

    Metkat, one of Amy’s partners and one of her housemates, stood behind his laptop dictating the playlist for this part of the evening.  MissAmyRed was one of the persons dancing.  Occasionally Metkat set a song to play and himself joined the folks moving as their bodies wished.

    I sat in a chair, nerves taking hold.  Even though I knew that’s where I wanted to be, on that dance floor, even though I knew how good it would feel to let go, I felt tied to my seat.

    I looked around the room, taking in the play.

    As I gazed left, I glimpsed a suspension in progress.  The rigger was an attractive man, tall and broad, strong.  The bottom was a beautiful woman.  I let my eyes drift between the bodies on the dance floor and the pair in their scene.  Later I learned the rigger was Kilawama, one of the people Gray and Amy mentioned in our conversation in the Barn at Rope Camp.

    With a bit of voyeurism under my belt, I relaxed somewhat.  I stood up from my chair, let myself walk the corridor to the more lounge-like area before walking back towards the dancing.

    As I strolled for a spell, I saw Clash.  I’d met him earlier that day, too; he was Amy’s other housemate.  For the week, I was staying in the house’s spare bedroom on the third floor, the same floor as Clash’s room.  We attempted to chat over the din of the music before he had to go back to his rounds.  That night he was acting as a monitor for the event.

    Even though I’d grown more comfortable in the space, I had yet to do what I’d wanted to do all night.  I took my spot in the chair again.

    As I went back to watching, I saw Tandava and Amy setup for a scene.  Also, to my right, I saw a hot fisting scene on a nearby couch.

    I also got into a conversation with a guy who took the chair next to me.  I forget what we talked about though, because of the song that played next.

    I recognized the beat as it began, recognized the music and the voice.

    “I’m sorry, but I know this song.  I have to dance.”

    I excused myself from the conversation, stood up, and walked towards the dance floor.

    Still, I couldn’t step on it, not yet.  There was a column just off the wood.  I leaned against it, moving my head back and forth and swaying my hips.

    She Wants Revenge blasted about me, their song Out Of Control, one of my favorites.

    As the half way mark came in the song, I started mentally pushing myself.  It’s just a few more feet.  No one will notice.  No one will judge you.  No one will care.  Do what you always do.  Close your eyes.  Let the music take you.

    I took a step.  And then another.  And then another.

    I let my hips sway, let my arms move.  I found an open area on the dance floor and closed my eyes.  I felt the music in my flesh, in my bones.  I let my body do what it wanted.  I let myself dance.

    I stayed on the dance floor for a few more songs.  I let myself be in this tiny world.  Just the back of my lids, or my feet, or the lights filled my field of vision.  I let my body do its thing.  I let go.

    I felt happy, truly happy, to be in Seattle.  And I realized why they named this party Grind.

  • The Hard Sell

    “I just came back from my trip to Seattle.”
    My friend pat me on my back.
    “Well, it was nice knowing you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Almost every single person I know who visited Seattle moved there.”

    ~

    “I’m going to keep poking and prodding because you’re awesome and we want you here.” – Clash

    ~

    @poeticdesires
    – Maybe I should just stay here. #iWish

    @Graydancer
    – @poeticdesires toldjaso.

     

    I doubted them.  I seriously doubted them.

    It was the night of the Roperlesque at Rope Camp.  The festivities had ended.  Everything was winding down.

    I found myself in conversation with MissAmyRed and Gray about Seattle.  Amy had previously mentioned having a spare room in her house in case I ever wanted to visit.  But as I sat on the bench in the Barn, Amy and Gray began suggesting a little more insistently that I take the trip.

    They talked about the Center for Sex Positive Culture.  They spoke about how there is a party there every night of the week, different groups all converged in this one building.

    They spouted names of people I should meet, how I needed to talk to them about leather or bootblacking or rope.

    I happened to mention SEAF, the Seattle Erotica Arts Festival.  It was being held the first weekend of August.  As I weighed my options, stay or go, taking the leap or letting the moment pass, I just knew I was going to buy a plane ticket once I got home.

    Amy and Gray spoke so highly of the city.  Yet still I thought there was no way it would seduce me as it had them.  Not that fast.  Not in one trip.

    One week.  I landed last Thursday morning.  I returned home this morning.

    I spent seven days meeting people, going to parties, and experiencing the life and culture of a wonderful city.

    All too often, I realized how much I loved being in Seattle.  How much I loved the people I met, the community that welcomed me, and the moments, both big and small, that defined my trip to the northwest.

    Not only did I quickly grow to love Seattle, the people around me seemed to quite quickly grow fond of me.

    There was my new title, The Bane of Pants, so dubbed by Amy because I keep charming them off of people.

    There was the Sunday brunch on Amy’s deck, where Clash first asked if I thought about moving to the city.  My response:  “I can’t answer that question.”

    It had only been four days, yet I was already feeling the pull of the people around me, the pull of the community, the allure of the city.

    The whole group chimed in.  Half a dozen people who had just become a part of my life wanted me to stick around.  They knew I had to go, but they didn’t want me to leave.

    There were my last moments at Paradise, a local camping event.  The goodbyes before my departure.  And the gentle needling, the suggestions, and dare I say hopes, that I’ll make my way back to them.

    As I sat in the airport, I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t want to get on my plane with screaming babies and an aisle seat where almost everyone on the plane bumped into me.  I didn’t want to deal with grumpy flight attendants and a sore neck.  But, most of all, I didn’t want to acknowledge how sad I was that I had to travel away from what felt like a new home to me.

    I don’t know what my life will be like next year.  Or the year after that.  Or the year after that.  But I know Seattle is there, looming in the back of my mind, a mistress I cannot deny.  Her fingers somehow wound their way around my heart.  Only time will tell if her hold grows stronger or gently eases.