poeticdesires

Category: Funny

  • Triple Booked

    Rushing to head back to the end of the Circus, I ran to my cabin, dropped off my rope equipment, picked up my bootblacking kit, and quickly made my way to the Barn.

    When I arrived, the event had already ended. I looked around but could not find Stefanos, who had emceed the Circus.

    I spoke with Big Bro, who said I should check his cabin. Taking his advice, I headed in that direction. When I finally found it, after some confusion as to exactly which cabin Stefanos & Chey stayed in, I inquired inside, but still did not find him. Instead I found another girl who said she had a playdate with him as well.

    With no other good idea coming to mind, we both headed back towards the Circus.

    As I again approached the Barn, we looked around for Stefanos. We eventually found him kissing yet another beautiful girl. This was getting interesting.

    As both myself and his cabinmate approached, Stefanos and the other beautiful girl stopped kissing. He took a moment, looked at all three of us, and suddenly realized his mistake.

    I, also realizing the situation, could not help but start giggling uncontrollably. It wasn’t the best time for one of my giggle fits, but it was definitely warranted.

    Stefanos asked for a moment to go grab his things to prepare for each of our scenes. The three of us sat, chatting, waiting for his return. A permanent smile was plastered on my face.

    When he came back, he brought Chey to meet us all. She recognized me instantly. After greeting us, she wished us each good scenes and headed on her way.

    Stefanos then asked our trio how we wanted to handle the confusion. I was first to offer an out. I could wait until late for his bootblacking.

    He wanted to know what I meant by late. Since I had my midnight playdate with D3, I offered 2:30am. He agreed, thanking me for my understanding.

    With now a few hours to kill, i decided to catch up on my journaling. I had the abduction, my bootblacking shift, and my rope time to chronicle.

    Slipping into the Barn, I sat on an empty massage table and pulled out my notebook. As I began writing, I heard some people enter behind me. When I looked back, I saw Stefanos and one of the ladies taking a spot on another free massage table. It seemed they would have their scene about twenty-five feet away from me.

    As much as I wanted to watch, and I wanted to watch, I made myself turn back around. I made myself write.

    As I continued to delve into my memory, the rest of the world melted away. I mined my mind’s caverns, trying to recall small details, memorable bits of dialogue, and multitudes of tiny moments of my adventures.

    Later, when someone asked if they could use my massage table for a scene, I quickly hopped off and transitioned to sitting on the stage. When I looked across the Barn, Stefanos and the beautiful girl were gone.

    Finished with my writing, I headed to the Dungeon. A cute boy was waiting for me.

  • Fate

    He looked surprised to see me.

    “Why are you here?  I thought you were going to Chey and Stefanos’ class.”
    “Well, I was going to go their class, but I’ve never been to this class. And the only reason why I was going to their class was because I thought they were hot and that didn’t seem like a good enough reason.”
    “It sounds like a good enough one to me.”

    Still, I hesitated.

    “Pick a number between one and a thousand.”
    “Twenty-five.”
    “That’s not it; go to the class.”
    “Zero.”
    “No. We can do this, but you’ll be here for a while.”

    I had another solution.

    “Does anyone have a quarter?”

    It was time for fate to decide. 

    One of Gray’s attendees didn’t have a quarter, but he had a coin.

    “Tails.”
    “What is it for?”
    “Just flip it.”
    “Okay, but you’ve made the decision.”

    He flipped his coin. It landed on tails.

    I started walking away.

    “Oh, I see how it is.”
    “But you told me to go.”
    “Yes, go. I mean nothing to you.”
    “You’re mean,” I whimpered.

    Gray smiled his wry knowing grin.

    I trudged off up the hill towards the Dungeon.

  • Round 4

    “I lost my earring.”
    “That wasn’t a euphomism for sex?”
    “No, I lost my earring, but we had sex after I found it.”

    I woke up on my own at 6:05am, quietly slipped out of bed, donned my clothes, and said a whispered bye to Pyro and Ron, neither of which heard me as they slept.

    Returning to my cabin, I took notes on my evening and snoozed a little before it was time to head back to work. However, when I made my way to the Barn, no one had arrived yet.

    Wandering down to the Dining Hall and HeadQuarters, I found friends. I greeted N3rddom, who would run the cafe for the weekend, and sat with the head of the Non-Dungeon setup crew. She informed me we would start after breakfast, which would be served in about an hour.

    And then I absent-mindedly realized something: I was missing an earring. I texted Pyro, asking if he saw it. He replied, saying I should come look for it.

    Bruises from my previous evening showed the others all the fun I had had. My crew lead encouraged me to go “find my earring” and meet them for breakfast later.

    Walking up the hill, I again made my way to Sadists’ Lair. Ron was getting ready while Pyro laid in bed. After a few minutes, we magically found both my earring and it’s backing.

    With thirty minutes before breakfast would begin, I decided to snooze with Pyro. But just snooze. I kept my underwear on as insurance. Ron left out as I slipped back into Pyro’s bed.

    But then five minutes into being next to Pyro, his soft sleep breath in my ear, I realized I wanted to fuck more. I gently laid one of his hands over one of my breasts. He instinctively massaged and pinched my nipple. But then he drifted back to resting.

    Seeing that I needed to be bolder, I took his other hand, glided a finger into my mouth, and slipped his hand into my panties. He was now fully awake, rubbing my clit.

    I asked him to bite my neck. He obliged, gripping hard, pulling with his teeth and sucking. Again I fucked his hand hard. Again I screamed to my heart’s content. His teeth were all over my flesh. Pain mixed with pleasure.

    But we were seriously time limited. When my alarm went off, I knew we had to stop, even though I didn’t want to. I told him it was time to go.

    But as I began to get off his bed, with his fingers still inside me, he redirected my body. I was now sitting on his hand.

    “Cheater! You are such a cheater!”

    I rode his hand harder, came harder. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want his digits anywhere else but inside me.

    But then my second alarm went off. I really had to go.

    “Man, and now my panties are all wet.”

  • Torturous Rope

    “Little different from the last class.” – ORP
    “Yeah, but it’s still one rope.” – Veskrashen

    As I squirmed on the ground in excruciating pain, intermittently crying and laughing, Veskrashen, my current class partner, and my previous partner from the proceeding lesson, WykD_Dave & Clover’s One Rope, uttered that perfect exchange above.

    Yes, our current lesson was a little different, transitioning from simplicity, sensuality, and deep connection in One Rope to here’s some ways to easily fuck someone up in Scott Smith’s Torturous Rope.

    Note the name of the class: Torturous Rope. Apparently that part where it says Torturous kind of just went over my head as I encouraged my rather sadistic friend Veskrashen to attend the class with me and be my partner.

    We had shared a rather emotional lunch, talking about heady things in our lives, and frankly I wanted us to have some fun. I didn’t realize he’d attended WykD_Dave & Clover’s class too until the end; those ninety minutes were that intense. This little gem of a fact made the above comment all the more appropriate.

    The first thing Scott taught us was so very simple, yet so very effective. Larks head around the ankle, under hand knot around the pinkie toe, find a straight line, and pull. Forgetting my previous toe issues, I instantly screamed out in pain, cursing Veskrashen.

    “Our first motherfucker of the class,” exclaimed Scott. Apparently my pain pleased him. Oh, who am I kidding? Scott is a sadistic motherfucker; of course my pain pleased him.

    Scott’s next tie was so dubbed ‘The Tie That Made Bendy Puke.’ Yeah, I was really looking forward to this one.

    First you wrap your parachord around the ankle and secure it with a bowline on a bite in the front. Next you find a pressure point on the top of the foot, “the crunchy spot”, knot the rope just above it, split the lines, wrap around the foot, come back up and diamond through the two lines you’ve created. There was now a knot right over that pressure point making pain happen.

    Pulling up, you twist your two lines, and place them through the second and third toe (another pressure point). Next, split the lines and go around either side of the heel, catching the Achilles tendon, ending up back on the top of the foot. Run each line over to their far sides, catch the heel line, and pull back up to the top of the foot, applying pressure to the Achilles. To finish, over hand knot on top of your first knot.

    As many people cried out in pain multiple times during this process, including myself, Scott bemoaned, “I’ve so got to order some more pity. I’ve been out for years.” Yup, Scott; sadistic motherfucker.

    Scott’s third tie involved wrapping parachord around the face, catching the underside of the nose. I’m not even going there, though I will say it was my least torturous experience in the class. This is probably because some years ago a shoulder running by slammed into my face, centering on my nose. Nothing was broken, but it’s kind of hard to top that pain.

    Scott’s fourth and fifth ties were quite similar, involving the same technique: constricting muscles. Attacking now the calf, Scott explained how to larks head and use reverse tension to inflict your will, adding more constriction as you went. With one of his bottom’s calves tied tight like a baked ham, Scott decided to mix things up, massaging her leg.

    “They really like that sensual shit.”

    Yup, she didn’t.

    Of course Veskrashen, being Veskrashen, came up with the brilliant idea to tie the Bendy tie to the calf tie, creating new worlds of pain. Thankfully he only had one piece of borrowed parachord, saving me from such a fate.

    One of my funnier moments of the class occurred as I tried to keep up with Scott’s lessons. Even as Veskrashen incited screams of agony, I still took notes. After all, I was taking the class too and wanted to be able to recreate the ties as well. And, yah know, Teacher’s Pet.

    Once, as I was jotting down the steps, Veskrashen cinched his rope tight. I heaved in air, but still tried to keep writing, forcing myself to not focus on the pain. Then, of course, either Scott or Veskrashen (I can’t remember who because of how bad I was hurting) started taunting me, reminding me I needed to keep taking notes.

    A room full of sick motherfuckers and their willing victims. Yet another fun class for my Sunday.

  • Subtle Things

    “Gush, schwing, thump, ahh…”

    Of all the classes I attended, choosing to take Midori’s Best Kink Advice Nobody Told You was one of my favorites.

    However, since it was a last minute decision, I did not occupy my normal front row seat. Instead I found myself in the back next to the aisle. I did not, though, find myself in the class alone.

    “Do you want anything?” I thought and thought, with nothing coming to mind.

    “I took too long, so no.” Gray left, retrieving coffee for himself and Cherry_Doll, as well as water for Ummwhatever. He returned just in time for the start of class.

    Midori began her lesson with a simple fact: ask any group of people what a “true dominant/submissive/masochist/sadist” is and you will get a whole host of answers. We each define these words according to our lives, experiences, and communities.

    Instead of centering definitions around pain, Midori instead asked us to think about sensation. She proposed that a sadist is one who takes pleasure in causing intense sensations while a masochist is one who derives pleasure in experiencing intense sensations.

    When thinking about dominance and submission, Midori suggested we think in terms of the redistribution of authority, hierarchy and control. She suggested that a dominant is one who experiences arousal when, on a temporary basis, power is redistributed giving them control. For a submissive, their arousal comes from giving up control.

    As Midori imparted her knowledge (complete with a kinky sudoku chart), I kept biting my lip trying not to laugh. With Gray sitting right beside me, mild torments abounded.

    “It’s the subtle things I like.”

    First there was the introductory pen tip poke into my ribs, Gray’s way of saying Good morning. Then there was the tap of his coffee cup against the bottom of my water bottle. Just a few errant drops slipped from my lips as I tried not to laugh or choke. Of course there were the many comments, pinging off of Midori’s lesson.

    But the climax came in one small word.

    “Ash,” he whispered. I sighed and swooned. “Really?”

    Yes, really. Just the night before I had eaten ash from multiple different hands, and I could still smell the smoke in my hair. So, yup, really.

    To close her class, Midori talked about how people do not fit into one kinky sudoku box for a lifetime. Often we change, either because of the person, our mood, or the circumstances surrounding us.

    She likened a person’s predilections to a diner menu. Some items are available in the morning, in the evening, or all day. Others are daily or weekly specials.

    “But for you, my friend, any substitution.”

  • Roasted

    “I like the French. They taste like chicken.”

    “Don’t mind me; I’ll do this til I die.”

    “Oh honey, you’ll never fit in that.”

    “Our short sash marriage has included you judging me, and leaving me… and you didn’t even give me any flowers.”

    “Everyone knows International Mr. BootBlack is treated like the red headed step child.”

    “I listened again, and I heard some slight snoring. So much for my sex appeal, bitch.”

    “Jim is the best sort of sash husband. We shared everything, including play partners.”

    “Jim was the first bootblack I ever met…Not really.”

    “I take the appropriate amount of time for each pair of boots. If it doesn’t take me that long, I’m not into you.”

    “He’s cute. I wonder what he looks like when he stands up.”

    “Jim, yeah, I didn’t know he was funny.”

    Two amazing events occur in the same city at the same time every year: Shibaricon and International Mr. Leather. The two events draw an overlapping crowd, intertwining multiple cross sections of kink. For the crossovers among us, directions to get to IML, both with a vehicle and through public transit, were listed in my Shibaricon registration packet.

    I knew, even before I stepped foot in Illinois, that I would try to make it to IML. My friend Jim was stepping down as International Mr. Bootblack, and I wanted to go support him.

    Unfortunately his actual step down ceremony conflicted with Shibaricon obligations. However, Thursday night, before my Shibaricon officially started, there was the roast for the current IML and IMBB.

    So I found myself, right after the Meet&Greet, in a friend’s vehicle traveling to The Leather Archives and Museum to go see a roast.

    Our trio arrived just in time. Technically the festivities had begun, but the guests of honor were not yet called to the stage. We quickly slipped in and sat in the back as the various roasters were introduced, followed by IML 2011 Eric Guttierez & IMBB 2011 Jim Deuder.

    With their loins girded, the host brought forth the first speaker to the mic. It wasn’t long before I was bent over, laughing uncontrollably.

    Some of the best lines were sent from those not in attendance, as well as the current title holders’ rebuttals.

    When the laughing subsided, and the festivities ended, our little group made our way to the front. We greeted Jim, and were able to spend a little time chatting with him.

    “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what now?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What now that your year is over? What will you do?”
    “Go back to my life. I presented on leather and fetish before. I went to events before. Now I just don’t have to wear the sash.”

    Though my first experience with bootblacking was at FetFest, Jim taught the first class I took on the subject. Jim sold me my first kit. Jim was the first person to black my boots.

    If you’d asked me about bootblacking a year ago, I wouldn’t have had an interest. I would’ve acknowledged my love for boots, but not understand the service and the skill. Now, with Jim’s guidance and encouragement, as well as others, I feel like a different person, a fuller person. I am a bootblack.

    Even with this being the end of his time as IMBB, Jim was still busy. He had a car waiting for him even as we spoke. He was off, and then we were off.

    After a journey, with a detour to possible Mac & Cheese pizza (don’t do it) and a drive-by of Wrigley Field, we found ourselves at a 24hr diner in the queer crossroads of Chicago. Over steak and eggs, french toast, and the best veggie burger I’ve ever seen, we chatted, relaxed, happy to be among friends.

    We vented. We crushed. We hoped for what our weekends could be.

    And then we made our way back to our temporary home, excited for the yet more fun to come.

  • Location, Location, Location

    I work for about half a dozen different companies. However, there is one in particular I work for the most. They pay be more per hour and offer me more total hours than any of my other companies (score!).

    Still, there is one rather large downside to this particular arrangement: the location of the company’s warehouse.

    I function in multiple different capacities for this company: general production had, crew lead, occasional shop worker, and truck driver.

    On Wednesday night, as I drove the truck back to the shop, along with two other female coworkers in the cab, we all noticed something odd as I pulled into the lot: a man in his car, dome light on, alone and shirtless.

    Apparently I was the lucky one of our trio. Being that I was concentrating on driving, I did not notice the man was indeed completely naked and jerking off in his car…in front of our warehouse…with no one else in sight.

    One of my coworkers yelped and started laughing. I can’t remember what the other did. I kept driving the truck, past our warehouse entrance, further up the parking lot. I turned sideways, able to glimpse the man about one hundred feet away. Thankfully he quickly drove off.

    Both of my coworkers found the incident funny. I would have too, except a dark thought came over me.

    There have been times when I’ve been alone at the warehouse, returning the truck, no one else with me. There were times when not only did I return the gear, I also offloaded the cases by myself. This has not happened in quite some time, but it bothered me all the same.

    This most recent happening is not the first incident to occur in the industrial complex we house. Twice I’ve seen men in their cars, enjoying the services of a prostitute.

    Once I happened to drive past an SUV, my lights washing the vehicle, and a lady’s headed pop up from the distraction. For some reason, I distinctly remember there being a handicapped tag on the rear view mirror.

    During the other sighting, I drove by and saw a man standing by the back driver-side door. It seemed like his pants were down. As I kept going, it finally clicked what he was doing.

    Amorous dealings aside, other not-so-amusing activities have also peppered the area. Drag racing down a long stretch of road leading up to and past our building. Multiple car fires, the exact number of which I’m not quite sure.

    And then there was this morning.

    Today I woke up at 7am to make it to the warehouse by 8:30am to pick up the truck for our gig. As I pulled into a 7-11 near the warehouse, hoping to grab breakfast before work, three cop cars sat in the parking lot, one specifically blocking a vehicle entrance. I popped a U-turned and instead got food from a small Mom&Pop eatery.

    When I parked at the warehouse, I popped my trunk and put on my work shoes. As I sat, tying my laces, I heard a vehicle pass by, blaring Latin music. I didn’t think much of this, except it kept playing rather loudly. The person had not turned their car off.

    One of the company trucks blocked my view of the vehicle, so I walked past the truck and into the line of sight. I saw a man’s back. He stood near a bush. I did not see his actual anatomy, but understood he was relieving himself about seventy-five feet away.

    I turned and walked towards the office door. As I entered, a second vehicle passed by. This was turning out to be a busy morning.

    Inside I grabbed my truck keys, the pertinent paperwork for today’s event, and departed.

    As I walked towards my truck, parked all the way at the end of the lot, I saw that there were now about three or four men standing around. I kept my head down, and gave myself about twenty feet of cushion between myself and the small crowd.

    When I passed them, no one followed. No one said anything to me, in fact. I opened my truck, got inside, locked the door, and drove off.

    I’m not sure what to make of the situation. I love this job, and do not plan on leaving anytime soon. And seeing as they comprise about 60% of my income, I make far too much money to not work for them.

    Still, it would be nice to not show up to the warehouse wondering what new story I will have to impart about my job.

  • Narnia

    Narnia.

    They made me scream Narnia instead of their names or any preferred curse word while I came.

    Narnia.

    PrudeNate had his fist inside me as N3rddom held a Hitachi Magic Wand to my clit, and all the while I am screaming.

    Narnia. Seriously.

    Would this be an example of humiliation play?

    Friday night was an April birthdays celebration, filled with beatings and bitches and sex sex sex. So basically a good time.

    My evening really kicked into high gear when I spied a gentleman wearing a glove with a chain wrapped around his hand. With slight prodding from my friends, I got up and introduced myself. About fifteen seconds later I was bent over the arm of the couch enduring a taste of his blows. Talk about thuddy.

    Then somehow BlackBeard (the host for evening) and the chain-gloved gentleman were both hitting me at the same time, their punches landing on opposite sides. Aiming for the meat of my ass and the sides of my thighs, I fell with each blow.

    BlackBeard kept yelling for me to stand back up, which I did happily, until what became the final blows, when my body buckled and I collapsed into the couch, landing on my ass. The sides of my thighs still ache from that experience, which maybe lasted two minutes.

    My body warmed up, I slouched on the couch, smiling and happy.

    With the complaint of those in attendance concerning the high quantity of clothing and the low quantity of nudity, clothes soon came off. I, however, was not one to just disrobe. I had to give a show.

    When the moment presented itself, I cued up my usual song, and placed myself in an opportune viewing area. Of course, most everyone turned to watch.

    This ended up being a blessing and a curse. It fed my need to be watched, admired, my secret narcissism, but these were not quiet folk. For the first time, as I stripped, I was heckled.

    “I’d better read about this is your blog.”

    Request granted.

    Because my act involved audience participation, and I wore a different outfit than usual, my dance was more playful, more creative. I took risks, and was rewarded for my efforts. Dollar bills found their way into my bra. And BlackBeard, ever the gentleman, made it rain for me.

    Of course everyone loved my signature move (my booty pop, with my fingers pointing to my ass for added emphasis).

    Soon after my dance I found myself on the floor with PrudeNate, N3rddom, and CandleLover all tormenting me. Sometimes I get spoiled.

    We didn’t count my cums, even though there was mention of my all time record, accomplished with PrudeNate about a year ago (42 orgasms in one hour and forty-five minutes).

    Instead there were mental torments, giggles, and vibrator & fist induced glee.

    At one point, it was so good I wanted to call out to my (as yet non-existent) Daddy, thanking him for my pleasure. Thankfully I was cognisant enough to know screaming “Daddy” rather loudly would’ve been odd and inappropriate to say the least.

    After my fisting, most of us transitioned downstairs to BlackBeard’s dungeon. There was an energetic threesome involving two lovely women, BlackBeard, a spanking bench, and a strap-on. PrudeNate, N3rddom, CandleLover spent some quality time of their own on the soft carpeted floor. I leaned against the wall and enjoyed the dual views.

    Later that night, I was given the privilege of blacking BlackBeard’s boots again, buffing them to a high shine.

    My night ended with the sounds of singing and guitar playing as BlackBeard and an impromptu chorus of kinky folk sang songs as varied as those in attendance.

    A good night, I hope, was had by all.

  • Flagging Starfucker

    I was given one star for every orgasm. To be fair, I had not kept count, guessing the number at above twelve but below thirty. Truth be told, it could’ve been over thirty considering how long we’d camped out in the swing, but eh… Our scene was about the fun of predicament bondage, fisting, vibrators, and good conversation.  The shiny stuff was just extra.

    I greatly enjoy rising to challenges, so getting up into a sex swing with both my legs frogged, one arm chicken winged, my wrists connected, and a tight chest harness around my torso was just the recipe for great fun.

    This was to be my reward for finding “the spot”. Crawling around on the carpeted floor, my knees and one elbow ached, searching for some unknown place. Still, it was amusing, figuring out how my body would work caught up in my bindings.

    When first tasked with my ascent, I asked for assistance from a friend. Once they heard what my reward would be, they said I had to earn my fisting. I attempted to do it myself.

    Thankfully, a small metal piece of play equipment sat in front of the swing. First I hooked my shoulders in the basket. Leaning against it, I got my feet up on the equipment and began wiggling myself up and into the swing. I managed to get myself half way in, to just above my hips. But with my legs still bound, it was becoming obvious that though I had performed particularly amazing considering the predicament, I was not going to make it all the way in. Anatomy and all.

    With my legs released, I slithered the rest of the way up. With some assistance from our audience, we got a chuck (a safer sex disposable blanket, for those not up on scene lingo).

    Time for the screaming.

    “May I cum?”
    “Yes, you don’t have to ask permission.”

    “You look really pretty. Well, you always look pretty, but especially now with the rope and your tears.”
    “Thank you.”

    My first few orgasms were just from fisting. And then I was asked if I liked vibrators. Hmm, do I like vibrators?

    My wrists still connected, once up in the sling they were secured to a small length of chain hanging from the top bracing. With some effort, I discovered I was able to hold the vibrator with my fingertips if I had one arm up and one arm down.

    And then the orgasms started rolling, one after the other. A hand inside me pounding. A Wahl vibrator going. I screamed. I cried. I cursed. I whimpered. It was marvelous.

    I’m not quite sure how we started our conversation. I know I mentioned how I had, during previous fistings, been asked to count back from one hundred by sevens, recite a poem, etc. So we started talking, with a fist still in my cunt.

    I love ligature marks. LOVE THEM. But during our chatting about “experimental” video games, I asked for my wrists to be released. I had already rotated them twice and could feel it was time for me to stop tormenting them. I didn’t want to completely take off the rope, though. My right wrist still held onto its cuff.

    “I could feel that, when you coughed, and now that you’re laughing.”

    As we chatted, I was sparring with the vibrator, though I did orgasm thrice while we spoke. Even so, I kept engaged in the conversation. It would’ve been rude to do otherwise.

    “How long do you want to go?”
    “That is a loaded question. I’ve gone as long at an hour and forty five minutes before, so however long is fine with me.”
    “Okay good, cause I’m not done yet.”

    Smoothly we transitioned from talking to fist fucking again. I came some more, screamed some more, and yelled their name over and over. I really like doing that, broadcasting to the world who is making me cum. I find it pleasurable as an expression of my ecstasy and whomever I happen to be playing with seems to enjoy it as well.  At least, I’ve had no complaint.

    I only had to ask for a slowdown once, a testament to the abilities of the person I played with.

    “Tell me if this hurts. I want this to be enjoyable for you.”

    And it was.

    Once we did finish, and cleaned up our area, the stars came out. Super glued to my upper right arm. And one on my right temple.

    “You’re flagging starfucker right now.”
    “That’s okay. You’re a star in my world.”

    Yes, there is room for cheesy-ness in the dungeon.

    I wanted to take a photo. But I no longer had underwear. I had worn a pair of black boxer shorts. However, once I voiced a reminder that said boxers were destroyable, a knife soon ripped them apart, after grazing all over my skin. And slapping my clit. And lightly fucking me.

    “You should save them, use them for your bootblacking kit.”

    I love mixing my fetishes.

    Taking my Zim jacket, I zipped it up over my legs and tied the arms around my hips.

    “Hey, great. That looks like a cool skirt.”

    Heading to the bathroom, I asked if someone would take my picture. Instead I was informed of the photo shoot happening in the ballroom next door. Rushing inside, I begged profusely and, in doing so, I earned the last spot.

    So there is a chance that next IMsL I will be in the program (or, dare I say it, on the front cover) flagging starfucker.

  • Going To The Well

    Sometimes I’m lost for what to say. Sometimes I go to the well and it’s like, “Um, what do you want? I’ve given you plenty. Leave me alone.” Sometimes I’ve just got nothing.

    When that has happened in the past, I’ll end up writing a piece of erotica. Frankly, for me, it’s easy. I think of a character, what that character finds sexy, and craft a story around that. It can be long. It could be just a page. But leaning back on erotica is easy.

    Today I wanted to write something profound. I wanted to express a sweet sorrow of some sort.

    All I’ve got to talk about, though, is allergies. (Yeah, not so sexy today folks.)

    As an adult, this year is the first where my body has decided to attack itself. For the past week my head has felt like cotton balls have been shoved up my nose, lubricated but the abundance of snot dripping out.

    I’ve sneezed more in the past seven days than I may have in the previous seven years. I set a new record for how many sneezes I expelled in a row: five.

    Random Fact: I love to sneeze. Love the build up, the anticipation of the release, and then finally the massive gush of air as my body convulses and I let go. A wave of relief passes over me. My skin is tingly sweet. I feel almost high.  (Bet you didn’t know sneezing could be so sexy.)  This experience, however, has almost dampened my love of the act.

    I know things change. Our bodies are constantly changing, no matter how much we try to stop it. As an adult, I’ve recently found a love of physical activity on a semi-regular basis. (Translation: I’m exercising, and I kinda like it.) I feel better. Others have said I look better. Overall, it’s pretty fucking awesome.

    And, funny enough, physical activity did help, somewhat, in the relief of my allergy symptoms. It’s funny, a good friend of mine recently mentioned how, when she is sick, if she has sex the symptoms ease during the act and for a time after.

    Today I can’t give all the credit to my yoga DVD. I took a Claritin at 8:30am. It’s currently 8pm. I feel much better, less like I want to kill everyone and everything. I seriously hope this shit doesn’t come back, but I know it will. Thankfully, I bought a five pack, so at least I’m good until I fly away for a week.

    And yeah, really excited for my trip. And scared shitless. And wondering if I’m crazy. Or whimsical. Or adventurous. Or super naive. Or optimistic beyond belief. I guess I’m a little bit of everything.

    Left coast, I will see you in nine days.

    Allergies: GO AWAY!