poeticdesires

Category: D/s

  • Dark Love

    ~ erotica ~

     

    “Are you ready?”

    The room was loud, crowded.  People milled about taking in the various scenes in progress.

    We didn’t often venture out to parties.  Most of our scenes took place at his home in the basement.  His roommates didn’t mind so long as he let them know ahead of time.  He often suggested they play some music for the few hours I’d come over, in case they didn’t want to hear anything they might find disturbing.

    Now, with the throng of people pressing into the warehouse, the thump of the music, and the heat of bodies everywhere, our usual experience was anything but.

    We’d wanted something different, to try something new.  Tonight at Illicit was living up to our hopes.

    He pressed his hand against my chest.  I felt my heart beat against it.  As we took a moment, our breathing matched up.  Even with the distractions, I felt connected to him, in a place occupied by just the two of us.

    He asked his question.  I answered.

    “Yes, I’m ready.”

    I closed my eyes, pushed all other thoughts from my mind.

    I sensed his hand reach down to his pocket, pull out a hank of rope, and flick it open.  He drew the length across my chest before wrapping it around my body.  He looped above my breasts, under my arms, and knotted the even bands at the front.

    Another coil of rope from his pocket, he knelt down in front of me.  Tied a cuff just above my foot.  His hand grabbed my ankle, eased it up towards my thigh.  My leg pressed against his chest.  My hands found his suspension ring and held it for support.  His rope wrapped around my leg, securing calf to thigh and locking off tightly.

    He kissed my belly, flicked open another coil of rope, and wrapped it twice around my hips.  Adding another length, he pulled down and wound rope around my free thigh, knotting at my hip.

    It was time to fly.

    He first secured my bound leg to his ring, my limb twisting inwards.  His second line attached to my chest wraps.  His palm against my chest coaxed me to lean into the ropes.  His hand caressed my cheek right before he nudged my foot off the floor.  A few quick jolts and I felt my hip harness lifted.

    I let my arms dangle at my sides as I floated sideways above the world.

    He changed the position of his thigh tie, then lowered my chest down.  I went inverted.  My hair danced against the floor.  My fingertips barely grazed the ground below.  He lowered my hips.  All my weight rested on my thigh.

    The din of the room masked my screaming.  I sunk into the pain.

    I reached forward, grabbed my free thigh, and pulled my knee towards my forehead.  I reached back, grabbed my ankle and brought my foot into my hair.

    As I let myself wail, I felt his fingertips graze my thigh, my stomach, my cheek.  He kissed my neck, asked me how I was doing.

    “Swimming in a ocean of agony.  Riding the wave of the excruciating.  Letting myself feel the hurt.”

    “How long?”

    “One more minute.”

    I let my free leg go.  Let myself feel how much my weight pulled against his rope, how much the bindings squeezed into my leg, how much my body cried out for an end.

    I felt the first bump as he began to ease me down.  He craddled my head as my body landed on the ground.  I curled into a ball, melted into his arms, as we sat on the cold floor, our fuzzy blanket the only comfort from the concrete.

    He kissed away my tears.  Rocked me slowly.  I gripped his clothes, let my cry reverberate off his chest.

    As my wailing eased, I looked up at him, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

    He kissed me again, his lips soft against my mouth, an embrace fulling of knowing.  Understanding how much I needed to feel that pain.  Gratitude for allowing him to inflict it.  And an appreciation of our shared moment.

    We kissed with the sweetness of our shared dark love.

  • Trust

    ~ erotica ~

     

    “So, you like fear play.”

    His hand held my hair, pulling my head back towards him.  His lips grazed my ear.  I felt the heat of his breath as he spoke.  One of my hands had found his leg; the other, fingers splayed open, hung at my side.  He held his knife against my cheek.

    “And blades too, right?”

    It was sharp.  I could feel it.

    “Yes.”

    My one word sounded soft, was spoken with the knowledge of how things might play out in the next moments.

    “There are so many things I love about knives.”

    I felt his lips part against my ear.  Felt the smile as it grew across his face whilst he spoke to me.

    “First off, the look is quite menacing.”

    He lifted his knife from my cheek, held it in front of my gaze.

    “You see something like this in someone’s hand, you know you’d better keep your shit together.  But beyond the instant fear, one has to also appreciate the beauty of good steel.  The shine and care of a knife is a litmus test for the barer of the blade.  And then there is the skill involved.”

    He brought his knife back towards my face.  Touched the tip to my cheek.  Danced the blade across delicate skin.

    “The ability to inflict fear, and pain, with something so small in relative terms.  And the trust.  Trust in my knowledge of how to wield my steel.  And trust that I won’t harm you.  Do you trust me?”

    My skin was on fire, the almost imperceptible graze of his steel drawing visceral lines across my face.  My heart pounded in my chest.  I kept my body still, kept my breath measured.  I would not allow myself to lie.

    “Yes, I trust you.”

    The tip of his knife stopped at my right temple.  Pressed in.  He held his blade perpendicular to the ground.  Kept pushing, pressure growing against my skin.  Pain came, a slow build up as the nerves on the side of my face started with a squeak and grew to a scream.

    Then, I felt it.  The slight release as just the tip of the blade pierced my flesh.  His pressure eased.  A lonely drop of blood formed, then trailed down my skin, stopping just above my chin.

    The wetness of his tongue made me gasp.  He licked up the trail my blood had formed.  Licked up til his tongue met his knife, then transferred to his steel, lapping up my blood from his blade before he put his knife away.

  • 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.

  • Remembering You

    ~ erotica ~

    My thoughts turn to you in the most mundane of moments.

    Rising from the sofa, arms extended, stretching my muscles.  My shirt lifts, air kissing my stomach, and I feel your hands on my sides.  Your lips on my belly button.  Your grip pulling my flesh closer to you.

    Driving on the highway, windows down, singing and smiling to my music.  The cool wind grazing my chest, my nipples, and suddenly your lips are there again.  Sucking, nipping at my breasts.  Without intention, I feel the same heat as that night, that moment, surging through my abdomen.

    Sitting on the sofa, watching whatever is on television.  Not too long ago, you sat in that same spot.  I knelt on the floor in front of you, eyes only on you.  A simple gesture and I crawled forward.  The tickle of my tail, a pretty butt plug you gifted me for my birthday, brought a devilish grin to my face.

    I wonder when thoughts of me meander into your mind.

    Do you remember my hands each time you shower?  The kneading of your flesh on stressful days.  The kisses on your neck that accompanied my touch.  My naked body’s occasional contact, the tease before our eventual release.

    Do you remember my voice?  My whispers into your ear as I grasped your body on top of mine.  My exhalations of affection, admiration, lust, and filthy fuckitude.  The aching as you teased me.  The breathless need as you entered me.  The hurried cadence as I came.

    Do you recall my scent?  Flowery and fruity.  The lotion I use, rubbed onto my arms and legs.  The cream I caress on my face.  The body spray across my chest, my shoulders, on my wrists, and one fun spray down low.  You always told me I smelled so good.

    When do you remember me, love?  Because I always remember you.

  • SEAF

    Daddy’s Baby Bitch

    It was a small sketch, easy to just pass over, easy to miss.  But, as I gazed upon it, blue ink on paper framed, just sitting on a wall, my eyes couldn’t look away.

    She sat on the floor, her head in his lap; her hair cascaded down her back.  It was as if she were holding onto him tight, finding comfort and protection with him there.

    You don’t see him; only his legs and hand are featured.  But you don’t need to.  You see her, her devotion to her Daddy.  It was a simple drawing, small and inconspicuous, but it was my favorite piece.

    Bootlicker

    Hot.  Just so simple, and yet so hot.

    Her eyes closed.  Her tongue sticking out.  Her hands holding up the boot she is licking.  All of her attention, her focus on this one act, for this one person.

    It reminded me of the times I licked boots, and did other things to leather.  As I stood in the gallery, staring at the drawing, all I could do was sigh and rest in my immediate and sustained arousal.

    Two Parts of a Threesome

    They stare out at you, one with his eyes and the other with his presence.  The two of them, both beautiful, staring at you.  Through the lens, they pull you in.  Through the photograph, they grab your eye, your attention, your desire.

    You know who the missing part of the threesome is.

    Burlesque Beauties

    As I strolled around the gallery, I happened upon prints for sale.  Most were out of my price range.

    But then I saw a pack of post cards.  The backgrounds were earth tones, a favorite color scheme of mine, and the small drawings were delightful.  A dozen lovely ladies in various burlesque performance attire.  From the subdued suits to the flashy feathers, each had its own personality and prowess.

    I bought the pack, knowing I wouldn’t ever mail the cards.  These images would be for my enjoyment, my own small pieces of art.

    Gym Socks

    Again, it was something so simple.  Black drawing on a white background.  Very little detail.  More of an outline than a solid sketch.  But the artist uses his sparse lines perfectly, indicating the curve of the body, the form, the nakedness.  Naked, save for the socks.

    Two pony tails fling out to the side and her body is twisted, indicating movement, as if she had just turn away in shyness or, more likely, in glee.  It is simple, yet brilliant.  As soon as I saw it, I thought Yup, that’s me.

    ~

    As I walked around the gallery, taking in the art, I looked down once and saw boots.  Doc Martens.  The signature yellow lacing.  They were immaculate leather, possibly worked on before the patron came out to the showing.

    Their owner was on the other side of the art wall, behind the paintings, drawings, and photos I wandered past.  I never saw who owned the boots, never saw the form above the knee.  Just those pair of boots tempting me behind the wall, whispering for me to get on all fours and lick them.

    ~

    There was art you could touch: a book with pages sown in, a block of ice melting with each new hand on it, a smooth stone with twisting folding forms.  There were performances; the one I happened to catch was of a woman in geisha attire dancing with a fan.  There were films playing on screens.  The one I will never forget involved giving fellatio to a pistol.

    The Seattle Erotic Arts Festival was much more than I expected.  Photographs, paintings, sculptures, films, and live performance pieces spread out over a space for people to mingle and muse as they wished.  I saw a few friends featured, which made me smile.  I was captured in moments, captivated by work that I am still in awe of.

    There are many reasons why I loved my time in Seattle.  SEAF was the icing on the cake.

  • Memories

    The first night of Rope Camp featured Midori’s Meat Market, a fun little event to introduce folks to one another and start the dialogue for play.

    After the get together concluded, I eased my way over to Rough.  He was showing off his Fat Ass Rope, and I wanted a taste of the experience.  I asked for the pleasure, and leaned myself over a nearby table.  Instead, Rough called me over to an open area.

    First he gave me a few whacks, which stung a bit and turned out were his warm up.  He then hit me hard on my back.  Then my ass.  Then my thighs.  And my chest.  I starting yelping and eventually wailing.  I fell to my knees.  In a moment of clarity, I took off my glasses and slid them across the floor towards a small group of friends.

    Rough continued to attack my back as I continued to cry.  He grabbed me, pulled me up to sitting, and wrapped the rope around my neck.  In a moment, his blood choke took hold.  I felt my muscles give way.  He released me before my eyes closed.  A bit of drool leaked from my lips.

    When I brought my head up, when he knew I was back, he began beating me again.  And blood choked me again.  And my muscles gave way again.

    He went for my inner thighs, one of my most sensitive spots.  He regretted not being able to hit my cunt.  His rope was natural fiber and I wasn’t wearing underwear.

    When he finished, I got up, thanked him, introduced him to NYRCherryBondage, and went back to chatting with friends.

    ~

    “Ha ha, I made you have feelings.” – an attendee at Midori’s Negotiations class

    ~

    Sometimes I like to fly under the radar.  I know intrinsically that’s not what’s happening, but in my sub-y mind that’s how it feels.

    Wednesday night a few of us had gathered on a porch for cigars and libations.  I sat in front of Gray and Rough as they smoked and talked.

    Rough’s feet rested on my right leg; Gray’s feet rested on my left.  I always had my torch at the ready, as well as a selection of cutters, boxes of wood matches, and a punch.

    They told stories.  Gray taught MissAmyRed about cigar service.  I sat and listened, content, the occasional small sip of strong Japanese whiskey on my lips.

    ~

    “I am the Dom and you will brush your teeth with your left hand this week.  Ha ha ha.” – Rough, during is D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday it rained.  And rained.  And rained.

    I’d wanted to wear my new red leather shoes, but I couldn’t abide getting them muddy.  I opted for my boots instead, which completely changed my outfit for the day.

    As the afternoon came, I decided to do something different.  I grabbed my newly purchased camp chair, took it outside under the pop-up, and pulled out my new voice recorder.

    In the rain, with the pitter patter of droplets above, I recorded a Fusion podcast.

    There was a breeze that made the day cool, blowing the chill of the rain towards me, under my cover.  Because the pop-up had been erected before the turn in the weather, the ground wasn’t muddy in my sitting spot.  I couldn’t help but be happy and bubbly, even as the drops continued to come down.

    ~

    “His desires are my priority and he is where I point my devotion.
    “I am his treasure and I am to be taken care of.
    “He is my King… my dragon.” – MissAmyRed, during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Ropetastic had pimped himself, as well as his two partners, during Midori’s Meat Market.  As per his name, I knew he was into rope.  And I wanted a rope scene.

    I happened upon him in the Barn.  Originally I was chatting with my friend Nomad.  She started spinning my LED poi to make herself feel better, so I took the opportunity to speak to a rope guy.

    As we conversed, I realized we were compatible for a scene.  Since we both had time at that very moment, we headed up to the Dungeon immediately.

    We chose a semi-private spot, what seemed to be a lounge room with a few couches but enough open space for us to work.  I stripped down to my underwear, as did he.

    I explained how I liked to be challenged, how I wanted something different besides normal rope forms.  He expressed a desire to explore ichinawa, which I was all for.  We began.

    He wrapped rope around me in asymmetrical patterns, twisting my body this way and that.  He did not make it pretty, but I loved the pain all the same.  He, at times, pulled on my hair, ran a shrimp deveiner over my skin, sucked on my nipples, and tickled my feet.  He rolled my body this way and that, changed his tie multiple times, added a second length of rope, and always kept me guessing.

    We only played for about thirty minutes, but when all was said and done, I felt high, full of erotic and emotional pleasure from being in his binds.

    ~

    “The greasy basement slave…the dirty basement whore.” – a talk on fantasy versus reality during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday night we pushed all three of our beds together.  Saturday morning I awoke to dragon cuddles before breakfast.

    ~

    “I want to be treated like a pile of gold.”
    “You want to be a heavy currency?”
    “I am valuable and worthy of protecting.” – an exchange between myself and Dov after a late night run to Waffle House

    ~

    I felt like a voyeur.  No, worse than a voyeur.  I felt like I was intruding.

    It was obvious there was a connection, a slow building of energy as they writhed on the mats.

    I hadn’t witnessed it all.  At times, I was lost in scritches, lost to the rest of the world.  Pulsing pleasure from my scalp kept my eyes closed, my head bobbing about, speech all but impossible.

    But when I came back, I saw them.  Saw the looks in their eyes.  Heard the yelp, the growl.

    I wanted to sit and watch more.  I didn’t want to look away.  That energy.  That pure energy beamed from the two of them.  And I was only, maybe, five feet away.  Had been there the whole time.

    But I did walk away.  Because I wanted them to have their moment.  Without an audience.

    ~

    “You have a natural ability for connection…You seek out people you can connect with.” – Delano, to me, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    He held the balloon away from my body.  I was dirty, filthy from the grim on the stage.  I don’t like stingy, but I take it for the person I’m playing with.  I take it.  And there was the balloon, tied around my chest, and stretched taunt, ready to snap against my skin.

    He held it.  And held it.  And brought it back without snapping it.

    “Really!?”

    He pulled it out again.  I cringed again.  This time would be for real, I just knew it.  This time the pain would come.  And then he brought it back.

    I laughed and hated him at the same time.

    He used a pretty pink dildo on me.  He beat me with a pretty pink dildo, which stung like hell.  He used a collapsible baton and a plastic rod, too.  He punched me and wrestled me about on the dirty stage floor, attacking my thighs.  But it’s the balloon I remember the worst.

    Talk about sadistic.

    ~

    “If you are open to learning, you are open to deeper experiences.” – Delano, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    I spun my poi in the dark.  Spun my poi away from the group sitting in camp chairs out in the chilly night air.

    I stood in the middle of the road.  A cart came by once; I moved.

    I spun my poi and soothed myself.  I accepted my feelings, accepted that was how I felt.  Acknowledged the sad little girl inside me.  Acknowledged what little power I had over the situation except what I did in that moment.

    I spun my poi.

    Then we went to Waffle House, I ate some food, and went to bed.

  • DGG #19 Fusion 2013 pt 5

    The final installment of my Fusion adventure.

    Picture Links

    Pose #1
    Pose #2

    Time Jumps

    1:40 Tradition
    2:24 Uncensored Improv Games
    3:26 Kinky Life Drawing
    6:00 Humiliation
    8:17 Bare Stories
    10:37 Back Patch
    11:27 CBC
    13:40 In Demand
    15:27 Stefanos
    16:44 Another Rain Check
    18:10 Wrap Up

     

     

    listen to ‘019_DGG Fusion 2013 pt 5’ on Audioboo

  • Big R

    “How many of you are in a D/s relationship?”

    I watched as the people around the circle raised their hands.  Rough’s gaze ran counterclockwise until his stare landed on me.  My hand was halfway up.

    “Well, it depends.  What is your definition of a D/s relationship?”
    “That’s a good question, poetic.  We’ll start with you.  What’s your definition of a D/s relationship?”

    I was suddenly a bit flustered.

    “A D/s relationship is when one person consensually gives up control to another, and the other person consensually receives said control.  But there are big R relationships and little r relationships, and I’m kind of in a medium R relationship.  Gray is my Teacher, my Sempai, and I’m his student, his kohai.  I’m submissive to him, but he’s not in charge of me.  There is no veto power.  We play with whoever we want.  We’re friends and we fuck and play, but he said he didn’t want to do an LDR, so we’re something.”

    I took a sip of my water, trying to hide for a breath.

    As I did, I looked left and saw two people coming up the walk.  Life has a way of having perfect timing.

    Gray, accompanied by MissAmyRed, who was in service to him for Rope Camp, made their way up the lane and towards the class.  The two of them sat down and Rough, thankfully, moved on to the next person in the circle.

    Where Gray and Amy were positioned, I had only to wait for two people to describe their D/s before Gray gave his answer.

    Gray, without hesitation, stated he was in a D/s relationship with me as his student and that Amy was on loan, as it were, to him for the event.

    Hearing Gray’s answer made my heart both sink and soar.  He had just given acknowledgement of our dynamic in front of a few of our friends and had called it a relationship.

    Looking at our pre-existing situation, there are places where Gray had already acknowledged what we have.  There was the status on Fetlife.  There were the times we’d spent together, both at events and not.  He’d spoken about me as his student before both among friends and at the Grue Pitt.

    Yet, I had been hesitant to call what we have a relationship in deference to what I viewed as his preference to our interactions.  I had previously brought up the idea of an LDR, which he did not want.  I had mentioned the thought of moving closer to him, which he discouraged.  In my mind, I didn’t want to give too much weight to what we have believing the sentiment was not shared.  But it was Gray who called our dynamic a relationship.

    I ended up having a lengthy conversation with Doc about this moment.  The conclusion we ended at revolved around my self worth issues.  It is much easier for me to remember the negative.  I took the decline from Gray for both an LDR and the move as indicators that our dynamic was not worthy of the label of relationship.  Instead of noting all the positive aspects of what we’ve shared, instead of using our past emotional and kink interactions as a basis for my answer to Rough’s question, I went with the less-than-pleasant-ness I remembered, the things I didn’t want to hear but had still resounded like church bells.

    After class, I felt the need to tell Gray my response to the question.  Many thanks to Doc for the lessons in being emotionally honest.  I also asked Gray for an explanation of his answer.  He explained, when given the choice between big R and little r, a relationship or none whatsoever, of course we were a big R.  We were not just friends.

    As our Rope Camp continued, our interactions did not seem effected by our discussion.  And, as we spent another day with each other after the event, we were as we were before.

    Now, with time between that class and some life lived, I have had the chance to tell people over and over again that Gray is my Teacher, my mentor, my Sempai.  That I am in a D/s dynamic with him.  Each time I’ve said it, there was a smile on my face and less worry passing over my lips.

    Whether we are Big R or medium R, we are something.  And that’s enough for me.

  • Hot Ash

    My hands shook as I held the match box.  I could feel all the eyes in the Barn on me.  Could hear my breathing loud as thunder.

    I struck the match against the box; no light.  Struck again; no light.  On the third try, it lit.  I warmed the cigar with the match.  Once it burned out, I used another still to warm the tobacco.  With the third match, I placed the cigar to my lips, held the match by the tobacco’s end, and puffed.

    Gray informed me of the Hot Ash competition about a week or two before Rope Camp.  I remember standing by the door of the Craft Room, the words “Hot Ash” coming out of his mouth, and immediately banging my head against the wall.

    I was already going to be in the Roperlesque for two acts.  I suspected I would also be bootblacking.  And now I knew I would be in the competition as well, held in between the acts.  Just one more thing to add to my crowded plate for that evening.

    When Friday night came, so too did the heavens.  All day it rained, in fact.  The weather woke me in the morning, kept me in bed through the first class session, invited a friend under my covers for snuggles and dragon cuddles, and permeated the camp’s mood.

    I intentionally left all my things in the Pavilion for Roperlesque (rope, my bootblack kit, supplies for the fantasy, and cigar accoutrement) during the early afternoon.  As the hour of the event approached, I headed down the hill to help setup for the festivities.  When I arrived, Gray turned me away.  The event was being moved to the Barn.  He walked my luggage across the river of mud in front of the Pavilion, and asked that I spread the word to whomever I passed.

    As people hustled to stage the event in the new space, I helped move tables, arranged a few chairs, and generally pitched in as we brought everything together.

    Roperlesque was low key, as Gray had intended, with shared alcohol, cigar smoking a plenty, a game of poker in one corner, a rig for the performances in the middle of the room, and one chair on the stage for my bootblacking.  It seemed almost the entire camp came out to relax and enjoy the evening.

    Just about every bit of my night was unnerving.  I performed an ichinawa scene with NYRCherryBondage, an act we had never practiced.  I re-created my Dirty Pig fantasy with assistance from Roughinamorato and NYRCherryBondage, another time in front of the crowd.  However my heart beat hardest during Hot Ash.

    I was the first called upon to demonstrate my service.  I had my kit prepared, a towel for my knees, and I exuded calm as best I could.

    When Gray called my name, a hush settled in the Barn.  I stepped to the middle of the room, laid down my towel, sunk to my knees, and became focused on my demo top.  I offered them a selection of a few different cigars.  I offered various ways of cutting the cigar.  Did they want it warmed?  Did they wish for me to wet the end or would they prefer to do it themselves?  Butane lighter or wood matches?  I specifically catered what I had available to their desires.

    When the cigar was prepped and ready, I handed it to the demo top, thanked them, rose, and stepped away.

    As the evening grew later, after my Dirty Pig reprisal, Gray called all four Hot Ash competitors to the center of the Barn.  Lochai took the microphone in hand, then distributed the inaugural Hot Ash certificates to the participants.

    For Most Entertaining Service: NYRCherryBondage.

    For Sexiest Service: EmberBliss.

    For Best Mashturbation: Roughinamorato.

    And the inaugural Hot Ash: poeticdesires.

    I smiled, sunk to my knees, and accepted my certificate.  I turned and stood before Gray could instruct me to not rise.  To my right was MissAmyRed.  In her hands was a piece of rope with a cutter attached on the end.  She draped the rope around my neck, my Hot Ash medal.

    I still have the rope.  The cutter is in my cigar kit, but the rope is my new favorite necklace.  It is a reminder of that night, of those people, of those moments I will not soon forget.

    And, as Gray put it, I am now a dual title holder.

    I am, indeed, a hot piece of ash.

  • Care

    ~ a story ~

     

    Something wasn’t right.  She knew as soon as she opened the door.

    It was the quiet.  It was never quiet when she arrived.  He always played music, usually something classical, though occasionally jazz piped through his sound system.

    And the smell was wrong.  He’d always have dinner almost ready.  There would be enough time for a drink.  Long enough for her to relax, ease herself back into their way.  Yes, she served him, but he knew how to take care of her: a warm dinner, a cool drink, and time at his knee to bring her back, bring them both back, to normal.  Their normal.  Their way.

    She gazed right.  The table by the door held his keys, tossed onto the wood instead of hung up on its hook.  His briefcase and jacket were thrown on the floor.  Something was very wrong.

    Then, she heard it.  His grunts.  But not in passion.  Not the way he grunted when he punched her, kicked her, or fucked her.  His breath carried no pleasure.  There was exertion without enjoyment.  And she heard another sound, a cushioned thumping sound.

    She sat her bag in the living room, as she always did.  Took off her coat, as she always did.  Put his keys on the hook.  Picked up his jacket and briefcase.  Walked to his study.  Laid the jacket across his chair, the briefcase on the desk.

    She followed the noise.  It came from the garage.

    And then she remembered.

    The garage held boxes, tools, and old gym equipment.  She grabbed a towel from the hall linen closet.  Walked through the silent scentless kitchen.  Acquired a bottle of water.  Opened the door to the garage.

    There he was.  Sweaty.  Angry.  Pummeling the punching bag.  It was red, old, taped over on parts.  Had lost some of its original cylindrical shape.  His hands were wrapped, at least.  He was mad, but not angry enough to hurt himself.  He wore his running shorts and tennis shoes.

    He was focus, hyper-focused, so much so that he didn’t notice her until he heard the sound of the door close.

    He looked up.  She saw the change in the muscles of his frame, on his face.

    “Oh, fuck.  What time is it?”

    “7:30, Sir.”  She walked towards him.  With grace, dropped to her knees.  Presented the towel and the water.  His shoulders slumped as he accepted them and sank into a nearby camp chair.

    “I’m so…”

    “It’s okay, Sir.”

    “I just.  Don’t.”  He protested as she crawled towards him, dust and dirt all over the floor.  She placed her head against his knee.

    “It’s okay, Sir.”  She closed her eyes.  Encircled her arms around his calf, her legs around his foot.  Her temple tickled with his sweat.  She scooted her crotch to his heel.  She nuzzled her head against his knee.

    And then she felt the familiar brush of his hand on her head.  And heard his sigh.

    It was her turn to take care of him.