poeticdesires

Category: Leather

  • 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.

  • Can’t Let Go

    ~a poem~

    There’s just something
    About the smell of his leathers,
    The engulfing aroma,
    When he is near,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    In his stare,
    His eyes fixed
    On me,
    Seeing me
    Through to my bones,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    In the way he squeezes
    My hips,
    Digging into my flesh,
    And the final
    Bite of his nails
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    In how he pulls my hair,
    Craning my neck back,
    Guiding me anywhere,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    In his worship of my ass,
    Caressing my cheeks,
    And the crack!
    Of his spanks,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    About when he fingers my clit,
    Teasing me mercilessly,
    Til I beg him for release,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    About when I ride him,
    My legs straddling his thighs,
    Feeling like I’m
    Being fucked
    Even when I’m
    On top,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something
    In his kisses,
    His raw, passionate,
    Yearning kisses,
    Enveloping, unrelenting,
    Never ending kisses,
    That I can’t let go.

    There’s just something about him,
    Dark dominant him,
    My Daddy,
    My Master,
    My love,
    That I can’t let go.

    And there’s just something about me,
    How I feel when I’m with him,
    Of him,
    For him,
    Only his,
    That I desperately can’t let him go.

  • Another Wet Dream

    What can I say (other than I’ve been quite horny lately)…

    I was visiting a friend, either in the mid-west or west coast. It may have been San Francisco. It may have been Chicago. The area was industrial, in the middle of a sprawling city.

    Three of us stood in a small side ballroom of a hotel/conference center.

    It was me, a guy friend, and a vampire.

    My friend wore leather boots, leather chaps, black cloth underwear, a black t-shirt, and a leather vest.

    The vampire looked like Spike from Buffy, but much younger, as if he were about 23. Also he had dark brown almost-black hair, and his skinned was a golden brown, tanned, which I thought was odd for a vampire. He donned a long leather trench coat, and lingered in the corner of the ballroom, smiling.

    There were road cases against the air-wall that separated our small room from the rather large ballroom next door, in which a fancy dinner was taking place.

    I began talking to my friend about my life at home.

    “Well, there is this boy…”
    “Take your clothes off.”

    I wore my black boots, a gray cotton stretch skirt, and a white collared shirt. When I heard his request, I immediately bent over, presenting my ass, as I slipped my underwear down my legs.

    When I stood up and turned back around, my friend was already naked, save for his boots.

    I then began unbuttoning my shirt, but took his order to mean only remove my underthings. I slipped my bra out from my sleeve. I kept my skirt, shirt, and boots on.

    As I continued to chat, I smoothly popped up on a roadcase. After years of practice, waiting for gigs to finish, the move had become second nature, giving the small leap a cat-like look and feel.

    As soon as my feet left the ground, my friend’s hands went for my hips, lifting my cunt to his lips. His tongue on my clit, I gasped, my right hand finding and gripping his hair. With my legs on his shoulders, I locked my ankles behind his back, the feel of soft leather-on-leather delicious against my skin.

    My left hand found the air-wall, but thought better of it. I placed it instead on the road case. Using the leverage to lift my hips more, I began fucking my friend’s face.

    Knowing there were people just behind the air-wall made the entire scene that much hotter. I bit my lower lip, trying not to scream, as an orgasm raced through me.

    Cuming hard, I laid back on the road case, the fabric of my shirt slipping away to reveal my breasts. My friend’s hands immediately went for my chest, pinching the nipples, gripping my flesh. His face followed, lips teasing, tongue tracing, mouth sucking, enjoying my cleavage happily.

    I could feel his quite hard cock so near my cunt. He kept it at bay, my hips trying so hard to encourage him into me. When I finally relented my efforts, no hands were required for him to drive his cock deep into my cunt.

    I couldn’t help but yell “Fuck!” as he entered me.

    At first he fucked me slowly, gently. My hands gripped the edge of the road case for purchase. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, more urgent. The case began to tip and tap against the air-wall. I bit my lip, but found it near impossible to not scream.

    I came again, my nails driving into the wood of the road case.

    His hands, his nails dug into my breasts as he came, driving deep into me.

    During our amorous interlude, the vampire had just stood in the corner, watching.

    Once, a group of people opened a door right next to him to peek in on the fun. He, smiling politely, bared his teeth and asked them to close the door. They did so quickly.

    My friends clothes back on, my underwear tucked away for his safe keeping, we three re-congregated. The vampire smiled still. I thanked him for his assistance.

    He looked on me with a grin that incited both fear and arousal. It was as if I could tell he was smelling the blood rushing through me, as if I could feel his lips on my pussy, ready to drink my blood mixed with my cunt juices.

    As we left the building, exiting through a back door, I wondered what other amorous activities I would be getting into that night.

  • Warm Up

    ~erotica~

    He wore his riding boots, worn from age and experience, his chaps, laced up the sides and closed in the back with black parachord, his leather jacket, with snaps instead of a zipper, and his leather gloves, which more often than not massaged the back of my mouth. No other garment graced his frame.

    I, naturally, wore nothing.

    I knelt before him, arms behind my back, eyes down as instructed. I drunk in the image of his boots, the smell of his leathers wafting all around me. I resisted the urge to lick my lips, knowing soon I would have the pleasure of tasting his leathers.

    I heard the hard jangle, then saw in my periphery the small length of chain held in his hand. He stepped forward, bent over me, and secured my wrists behind my back with the click of the lock taken from his jacket pocket.

    As he worked, for less than a minute, I nuzzled his chaps with my cheek and felt his cock in my hair. It was well on its way to standing at attention.

    He stepped back, gripped my locks, and pulled my head up. I got to look into his eyes. Like his lips, his eyes were smiling widely.

    “What a naughty girl; I thought you were suppose to be my good girl.”

    I smiled back, then tried to kiss him. He, of course, pulled away. Then I pouted.

    He let go of my hair, flinging my head away, and stepped back. My gaze returned down, looking at, drinking in, his boots.

    “Stand up.”

    Rocking back on my heels, I ascended.

    “Turn around.” I did.

    “Spread your legs wide.” I did.

    “Bend over.” Uh oh. I did.

    I knew what was to come next.

    “Such a naughty girl deserves her spanking early.”

    Early spankings were hard spankings. Early spankings meant a red ass for days.

    I bent my knees slightly, rested my wrists on my lower back, and tried to relax yet brace myself for what was to come. He was going to wallop me but good.

    At first I felt the gentlest of caresses on my right cheek, soft and sensual, a mean tease. And then came the smack, the loud crack, the painful stingy blow. My body rocked forward, but I did not fall.

    “What number was that?”
    “One Daddy.”
    “Have you forgotten all your manners today?”
    “No Daddy.”

    A smack graced my left ass cheek.

    “Two Daddy. Thank you Daddy.”
    “Now that is my good girl.”

    All further hits would receive equal courtesies.

    “Three Daddy. Thank you Daddy. Four Daddy. Thank you Daddy.”

    Before hit five, he slipped his left arm across my chest, bracing my body. As I knew they would be, his hits grew harder.

    “Five Daddy. Thank you Daddy. Six Daddy. Thank you Daddy.”

    The tears came easily, sliding down my face and dotting the carpeted floor. My voice produced a lilt; I couldn’t stop my words from sounding stunted.

    “Se-ven Dad-dy. Tha-ank you Dad-dy. Ei-ight Dad-dy. Tha-ank you Dad-dy.”

    He took two steps, positioning his body in front of me. My shoulder rested against his hip. I leaned into his body. With both hands, as hard as he could, he smacked both of my cheeks at once.

    “Nine! Daddy. Thank you Daddy.”

    My voice was now a drawl-like wail. I sobbed as I leaned against him.

    I still had one more to go.

    Again, with both hands, his palms came down on my cheeks as hard as he could muster.

    “Ten! Dad-dee…” He dung his nails into my ass, scratching the raw flesh and elongating my speech. His nails ran up my back, up my arms, and dug into my shoulders. Gripping down, he lifted my frame back to standing up.

    Looking into his eyes, I finished.

    “Thank you Daddy.”
    “That’s my good girl.”

    He lightly kissed my forehead, my nose, and then my lips.

    My ass burned, sore and sensitive to the touch.
     
    I knew this was only our warm up.

  • Bound By Burn

    ~erotica~

    I knelt before him, clothed in only a tank top and panties. The wet grass under my knees and feet was cool, a small breeze giving a slight chill to the air.

    He sat on the stairs of his wooden deck, his right boot the closest part of his body to me. When I dared a glance down at his leather, his gloved hand caught my chin and pulled my face back up. He wanted my full attention.

    His eyes were filled with an intensity I had not seen before. Almost fearful, my eyes shot down to his chin, the first thing I could think to focus on.

    He liked preparing his own cigar, depriving me of the ritual I so loved. I knew he did this not just for his enjoyment in the preparation, but also by the slight torture of my lack of the privilege. It went hand-and-hand with not allowing me to look upon his boot. Our play was as much psychological as physical.

    He puffed eagerly on his stick, sending plumes of smoke into the air, a cloud he knew I wished to be surrounded in.

    Patience, I told myself.

    Gripping the cigar in his teeth, he freed up both his hands to ripe open the front of my shirt. Three quick tugs split the fabric down the center. My chest heaved slightly with each pull.

    “Stand up.”

    Rocking back on my heels, I extended my left leg forward, propelling myself up, bringing myself closer to him. We were now at eye level. I could almost feel the heat of his body. My cunt almost touched his knee.

    In a moment of bravery, I dared a glance into his eyes. His stare burned back at me.

    In an instant, a hand was in my hair, wrenching my head back, my body bent. He pulled me in closer, my body against him now, my cunt on his leg, my face a breath away from his. I had no choice but to lock eyes with him.

    Taking up his cigar in his free hand, he expelled smoke directly into my face. I welcomed the cloud.

    Bringing the cigar to my cheek, the hot cherry was buried under maybe a half inch of ash. He held his cigar at an angle, lightly dragging it oh so close to my skin. I felt the heat, the threat of a burn, the singe of the delicate hairs by my ear.

    I tried not to tremble.

    Down my neck, he lingered on the sensitive skin. And then I felt it, the soft touch of him breaking off ash in the small crook of my neck. Returning his cigar to his mouth, he picked up the ash, breaking it apart in his hand.

    Raising up the flecks, he smeared the ash into my hair, dragged the line down my face, and kissed my cheek with his hand. Again and again he slapped me, small puffs of ash billowing into the air.

    Parting my lips, he shoved leathered fingers over my tongue to the top of my throat. I licked the treat as best I could.

    Retreating from my mouth, he again slapped me, now wetting the ash he had previously laid. He drew his finger down my cheek; I felt the line created by the gray concoction.

    “Pretty,” he said, with a grin made of desire and painful intent.

    Again taking up the cigar in his hand, his grip on my hair tightened. Pulling my face forward the few inches between us, in one long slow drag, he licked my face from chin to forehead.

    “Tasty too.”

    His lips were upon mine, forcefully invading my mouth with his tongue. My tongueddanced with his, my desire to lick the ash from his driving me farther than I would have dared gone before.

    My hips, without thought, began grinding my clit on his knee. My hands gripped the sides of my panties. I dreamed of touching him, but I wanted nothing more than to remain lost in his ash kiss.

    Wrenching my head back, he stared at me for what seemed like forever.

    “So, you want to be fucked.”

    He brought the cigar up to my eye line.

    “Here.”

    He held the cigar lightly, ash end away from us.

    “Fuck yourself.”

    My eyes drifted to, and then lingered on his stick. I licked my lips, the thought of the act wetting me yet further, even though my pussy was already beyond slick.

    “Oh, wait. You’re still wearing underwear. Let me help you with that.”

    Pulling my hair, he guided me over his knee, my back resting on the thigh I had previously humped. With his boot, he spread my legs open.  My hands continued to grip the sides of my panties.

    I felt the heat half a moment later. He held the cigar so near my clit, I wanted to scream, but I wouldn’t. I would never scream, not unless he wanted me to.

    As the heat grew, I grew fearful. It felt like… It felt like…

    Quicker than I could’ve believed, his cigar was back in his mouth and his knife was out, rushing towards my crotch. With two quick cuts, the fabric of my panties fell limp in my hands. My pussy lips felt hot, but not burned.

    His blade still in his hand, he lazily held it in the air, the point towards my body, dangling it over my abdomen. Reclined back over his lap, the shreds of my tank top had fallen aside, displaying my breasts before him. In the slightest of wisps, he barely touched my skin. Even still, I felt his knife was sharp. I worked to temper my breathing.

     “No, no, not yet. You wanted to be fucked.” Even through his clenched teeth holding his cigar, he sounded menacing.

    Putting his knife away, he again took up his cigar, the end wet with his saliva. He drew the moisture across my skin, slowly leading down to where I yearned for it to be.

    Finally, forever a long, he reached my clit. In small circles, he massaged the nub. My moans started low and slow. His grip lightened on my hair as my head reclined back from enjoyment.

    I whimpered my disappointment as he brought the cigar back to his lips, puffing again. His ash had grown once more. I did my best to look on him longingly, hopelessly begging with my eyes, hoping it would be enough.

    His hand rested on my abdomen as he lightly broke off his ash in my belly button. Returning the cigar to his lips, he crushed the ash with his hand and smeared a line down to my clit, once again circling the nub, but also using long languid strokes, parting my lips just so. My moans started anew. My hips rocked up to meet his hand.

    I wanted more. Oh, I wanted more. And he knew it. Patience was the last thing on my mind, yet still my desire for pleasure could not overcome my desire to please him.

    Retracing his path, his hand crawled up my body to my lips. I lapped up the mixture of ash and my juices.

    Once again with the cigar in his hand, he drifted to the one place I wanted him the most. Tracing my lips, he teased me mercilessly, the tension in my body growing with each passing second, until finally he slipped the end of his cigar into my pussy.

    I gasped, my legs wide, my hips sinking, trying desperately to have more of his tobacco in me. Much as before, his movement was slow, torturous. In and out, long languid thrusts. The heat inside of the cigar added to the tension in my body, the growing wave building up inside of me.

    But before I could ask, he slipped the cigar from my pussy and placed it back to his lips. He puffed and puffed, then returned the stick to this hand.

    “I’m going to give you a present.”

    I felt the bite of his knife simultaneously with the return of his tight grip on my hair. On my right thigh, I could not make out what he slowly, painfully, carved into me. The heat from the cigar he still held in his hand danced close to my skin, but never close enough to burn me.

    His etching complete, he brought the flat of the knife to his tongue and licked off the few drops of my blood gleaming the tip. His blade away, he broke off ash onto the top of my thigh, then smear it down my skin to his present, rubbing the flecks into the wound.

    “Now you are going to give me a gift.”

    His cigar had but a little ash built up. His stick in his mouth, he removed his leather gloves, setting them aside.

    Laying his hand flat on my stomach, palm up, he broke off not only the hot ash but a sizable portion of the cherry into his hand. I registered only the slightest of winces on his part.

    My hand moved towards his before he even grabbed my wrist. My left and his right closed onto each other, closed onto the heat.

    Reaching to his side, he produced a short strand of red rope, wrapping the binding around our hands. I had no intention of letting go. It seemed neither did he.

    As our hands burned, I felt bound to him; through the pain, through the searing struggle, I would never let him go.

  • Cigars

    My Last Night: Cigars

    As we adjourned to the back yard, I carried in tow my bootblacking kit, my cigar travel kit, one of my notebooks, some dark chocolate, and my water bottle. My haul was precarious, but I managed to balance my items in a tall tower and land the the structure gently on the ground.

    Inside the house, PrincessA retrieved a blanket for me to lie on. I scurried back inside to grab it.

    However, when I came back out, Scotty was in the midst of lighting his cigar. I, unfortunately, had forgotten to mention I would be providing cigar service that evening. As the other three settled in, we began.

    PrincessA handed me all three of her cigars. One by one, I prepped each for its smoker, removing the cellophane, the band, wetting the end, and cutting the tip. Because of the chill in the air, my lighter was not yet warm enough for use. Scotty allowed me to borrow his rather impressive torch, a large silver lighter about half the size of my hand with four powerful flames.

    With everyone puffing away, the group indulged me in my Teacher’s Pet fetish. I opened my notebook, found my notes from Edge’s cigar play class last June at Fusion, and began.

    As I spoke about the many uses of ash, smoke, and the heat of the cherry, PrincessA, Hautewerk, and Belarian listened intently. I knew, though, that Scotty was well versed in this area already. In fact, as I spoke, he gave his own tidbits.

    When I finished, Scotty explained he was developing his own cigar play presentation. He went on to explain a few different activities that I did not know about. For what Scotty called smoke shots, he blew a cloud into his whiskey glass and covered the rim. Scotty explained this would alter the flavor of the liquor. He then handed the glass to me to taste. The rest of the group tried this as well.

    Scotty spoke about purging the gas built up in the cigar by blowing out. This he used as an opportunity for sensation play. With one’s forefinger and thumb creating the space to play in, as well as acting as a safeguard against too much heat, Scotty demonstrated the technique on Belarian, using the back of his neck.

    PrincessA then requested to do the same to me. Holding my hair out of the way, and checking to make sure my tie would not be an issue, PrincessA blew the warmth onto the back of my neck. Later on in the evening, she again used this sensation play on my small amount of exposed cleavage.

    As I spoke about the many different ways to use ash, smoke, and heat, PrincessA asked to try the various techniques on me.

    One of my favorite parts of cigar play is eating ash out of people’s hands. PrincessA was the first to ask. After her, I ate ash out of Belarian’s hand, too. When I asked Scotty for permission, he at first politely declined. He later granted me the privilege once he finished his section of the cigar teach.

    A rather delightful part of cigar play for me is when people blow smoke into my hair. Though I cannot see the effect myself, I explained how others have said it looks like my head is on fire.

    PrincessA asked if she could blow smoke into my hair. I, of course, gave my consent. As she did, the group marveled at the effect. Scotty joined in, adding even more to the cloud. Later, all four participated, to my great glee.

    As part of the cigars experience, both Scotty and I had brought dark chocolate. I broke open one of his bars and passed pieces out. PrincessA rather liked holding a piece of chocolate with her teeth and having someone break off a chunk. She did this with both Hautewerk and myself. She also enjoyed it when I popped pieces of chocolate into her mouth.

    As our get together wore on, everyone became more relaxed, more brave.

    Scotty asked me to come close to him. With a cloud in his mouth, Scotty blew all over my shirt, the smoke sticking to the fabric and then rising towards my face. He blew smoke into his leather jacket and pulled my head into the cloud.

    PrincessA asked me if she could smear chocolate on my body, blow smoke on it, and then lick it off. I asked her what body part she wanted to use. PrincessA then bemoaned the fact that their backyard was exposed.

    She suggested either my neck or my thigh. I, being brave, asked Scotty if I could sit on his lap. With his permission, I rested on Scotty’s legs as PrincessA began smearing her chocolate. Meanwhile Scotty gripped my hair, pushing it away from my neck, using his smoke as sensation play while PrincessA prepped her treat. As she licked chocolate off of my thigh, I leaned my body into Scotty’s chest. I felt rather spoiled at that moment.

    For almost the entirety of our time outside, I worked hard on not being distracted. Scotty wore a pair of lovely mid-calf black boots. Each time he relaxed, stretching his leg out, his boot sat just inches from me.

    Once Scotty presented his boot to me with some ash flecks on it, which he pointed out. I politely asked if I might clean his boots. He said yes. On my hands and knees, I kissed away the ash. Later I noticed some inadvertent ash again. Once more he allowed me to kiss his boots.

    With my bootblack kit right beside me, I wanted to love his leather. However, it was getting rather chilly and the Sun was going down. We retired back inside the house, the night nowhere near ending.

  • Poetic’s Spring Break

    I’m taking a vacation.

    I’d planned for this year to be amazing: lots of events, traveling all over. Though Winter Fire was my first event this year, it feels like my real adventure is just about to start.

    At 6am on Sunday, I’ll be flying on my first plane in eleven years.

    First I’m visiting PrincessA in Minnesota. Though she has work, because who besides me wouldn’t be working Sunday through Wednesday, I’m bringing many things to entertain myself when we cannot hang out.

    It’s my plan to finish Sticky and start some edits. I also want to write some rough ideas for another short story I’m submitting to an anthology. PrincessA wants to act out a one act play for her roommates, so there will be lines to memorize. And there is always crocheting. A friend at work has asked for a blanket and accepted my $50 price tag. I will have lots of fun things to do.

    I suspect my time with PrincessA and her roomies will be relaxing and refreshing, just what I need to rejuvenate me for the rest of my trip.

    Thursday I hop on a plane and head out to San Francisco to attend IMsL, International Ms. Leather. I am greatly looking forward to attending the convention, being a joyous spectator to the competition, as well as learning a few things from the International Ms. Boot Black contestants.

    In addition to the event, I will also be touring the San Francisco Armoury, home of Kink.com, as well as visiting Wicked Grounds and Mr. S Leather. Many people have suggested places for me to see, restaurants to eat at, and other tourist attractions I just have to experience. I’m saving those for August, when I hope I will again visit San Francisco to attend Midori’s Rope Dojo (fingers crossed).

    Monday is a travel day, bringing me back to my fair east coast. Tuesday I will performing my civic duty, once again election judging. Wednesday is a free day, though I suspect I will sneak in some time with my friends, as well as prep for the last leg of my trip.

    Thursday Big Sis and I pack into her car and drive down to Atlanta for Frolicon. I will be spending the weekend immersed in geeky kinky fun. I will, of course, sport my Hogwarts uniform at least once. There will be Invader Zim fashions. And, possibly, some Hello Kitty action as well.

    Monday is another travel day, bringing me back home. Tuesday is a recovery day. Wednesday may vary well have me back at work.

    While away, I will be TwitPic-ing, FourSquare-ing, bringing my dictaphone, and blogging, if I can muster it, chronicling my super fun times.

    I don’t know if this is fool-hearty or awesome or both. I do know this is happening.

    My first time in Minnesota. My first time on the left coast. My first time in Atlanta.

    My first IMsL. My first Frolicon.

    An amazing kinky adventure.

  • Quotable

    “You’re suppose to be working on my leathers. Setup your kit.”

    Like our previous leather scene at Tied Down, I worked on Gray’s chaps and vest. Also like Tied Down, Gray put me in a restrictive harness which, of course, included a crotch rope. He used my same raw hemp, and I had, in fact, saved the happy knot from the previous scene, able to incorporate it into my rope work since then. Instead Gray took out the knot and create a new one, longer and thicker (but, of course, size isn’t everything).

    “Now you can play.”

    During our scene, Gray again instructed me on deep throating techniques. He had me practice holding his cock in my throat for a few seconds at a time and then relaxing. He held his finger on his cock where I last had my nose and encouraged my quarter-inch-by-quarter-inch progress down his shaft. But, after the lesson, he allowed me to just have fun with his cock. I licked and sucked playfully, smiling, my reward for such hard work and effort.

    “There’s cold water dripping down my ass.” – Gray
    “I am desperately trying to not get my ass beat again.” – me

    Unlike the harness at Tied Down, I was able to move more freely while blacking Gray’s leathers. However, I was also under a time constraint. Gray encouraged me to finish up by a certain hour and I did not want to make him late. However, in the future, I will be carrying two towels in my kit to avoid, um, leakage issues.

    “You should call yourself a Leather Bitch and Cock Bitch.” – Gray
    “What about Leather Slut and Cock Slut?” – me
    “No, you need to have Bitch in there. Implies you’ll do anything for cock. Your mouth. Your pussy. Your ass.”

    With my WinterFire fun-ness as example, I can’t really argue with his assessment. And I do already have a title with “Bitch” in it.

    “You love sucking my cock.” – Gray
    “Mmm hmm.” – me
    “I think you enjoy sucking my cock above all other cock.”
    “Mmm hmm.”

    Do I need to add anything to this quote?

    “Just so you know, I’ve gotten about a dozen thumbs up and way to goes.”

    There was a lot of activity in the Dungeon that night, including a scene with my Big Sis right behind me that I saw nothing of. In fact, I didn’t take note of anyone watching us unless Gray pointed them out (RopeBoi’s Phone-A-Friend; elbow count guy).

    Gray utilized my harness for torturing me in multiple lovely ways. Of course there was the obvious yanking. Like before, he pulled on the rope, driving the chord against my clit, pussy lips, and ass crack. God, the pressure on my ass crack.

    Second, Gray slipped his cane into the back of my harness and twisted, constricting the rope around me further, pulling everywhere, cinching it tight.

    As I worked on Gray’s vest, I often bent down to dip my dobber in my saddle soap. Each time I presented my ass. Actually, for the entirety of the scene, if it was applicable, I presented my ass.

    I did this for a few reasons. I knew Gray liked to look at it. I liked the idea of Gray looking at my ass. But, to be fair, I did want more impact attention. Gray eventually caught on, or gave in, smacking my ass.

    And then, magically, Gray started smacking my pussy lips. Over and over, smack after smack hit stingy and hard on my crotch, and I loved it. For some reason, I absolutely adore being hit in the crotch. It is the one type of stingy pain I can take and take much longer than on any other part of my body.

    Even though I love slaps to my pussy, love them, like all pain my body eventually makes me stop it. After what could have easily been a few solid minutes of nonstop slaps, I had to curl away from his hand. Pleasure ended, I went back to work.

    “My cock is nowhere near hard. Best way to get me hard fast is to stroke it with your mouth. Can you feel it growing inside you?”

    Gray’s rule for my orgasms during the leather portion of our scene was simple: when I felt it coming, I had to jam his cock down my throat. However, for that to happen, I needed to encourage him as much as he had encouraged me.

    When I finished his vest, standing in front of him, happy with my work, Gray rewarded my efforts with a quick succession of hard yanks to my harness. And quickly I was ready to cum, which then meant I had to drop to my knees and get his cock hard and down my throat.

    It was so nice to feel appreciated.

    “Look at you, showing off.” – Gray
    “I like rising to challenges.” – me

    By the end of our scene, after much practice and hard work, I was able to deep throat Gray’s cock far enough to have my nose touching his pelvis, just the way he had wanted, the way he had described as he started giving that scene’s lesson.

    “How can you do this? Writhing should make it less symmetrical, not more.” – Gray
    “I’m quirky?” – me

    Gray bound his harness on me intentionally a-symmetrical. He thought this would irk me, seeing as I tend to like things ordered. What he didn’t count on was my squirming from his manipulations throughout the scene ended up righting the orientation of the rope.

    Also, since I was so into making sure his leathers were treated properly, I actually barely took note of the tie, instead allowing myself to enjoy the feel rather than be nagged by the work.

    “Do you have a cigar?”

    Also like Tied Down, Gray spent the majority of the blacking with a cigar in his mouth. This time, however, at the end of the scene the cigar was returned to me with an urging, “Smoke this when you are feeling down or want to treat yourself.” I imagine, when that moment comes, my mind will float back to our time in the Dungeon.

    “We should say our goodbyes now.” – me
    “Yeah, should’ve said those goodbyes.” – Gray, about fifteen minutes later

    As Gray and I finished up, I felt I should get my goodbye in then. I had breakdown duties in the morning and suspected I would not see him before he left.

    As we gathered our things, Stefanos, Nerine, and a lovely bottom ended up claiming our equipment for their scene. Gray commented to Stefanos about our inspiration for our play from the class that morning. We then left so that they could have their fun.

    I drifted over to speak to a friend, but then ended up right back next to Gray as he spoke to Chey about our scene as well. Gray left, I gave Chey a hug, and set off to find a friend or two.

    In the hallway, Gray had been stopped by a woman who complimented him on our scene. I ran into the two of them and expressed my happiness that she enjoyed watching us.

    Once again, we drifted apart. I went to the water station, which was empty.  I found another, which had just enough to fill my water bottle half way. Gray approached me from behind, looking for hydration as well. I gave him half my haul.

    Drifting apart again, I found Big Sis and chatted with her. Thankfully, during our conversation, the water stations were refilled. As we chatted, Gray reached over, took my water bottle, and refilled it. He made his way back into the Dungeon area as I stood with Amethyst a little longer.

    But soon I, too, headed back towards the Dungeon. I had made a mental note, as Stefanos and Nerine began their scene, that I would come back to watch them. And, of course, I bumped into Gray again. That was when he made his comment. And, of course, that was the last time I saw him at WinterFire.

  • The First

    I woke up to the smoke alarm around noon as SkinnyBitch and DeepEnd prepared food for the kids. I couldn’t go back to sleep.

    I hung out with the roommates and the little ones before they had to depart. One child, as I stood in the kitchen drinking fruit juice, wrote me a note: “I Love you crustin”. I helped the tiny humans pack up their things, hugged them all goodbye, and teared up a little as the car drove away. The house was quiet and empty without them, but only for a few hours.

    SkinnyBitch started cooking for our dinner that night. I ran to the grocery store to pick up the supplies she still needed. When I came back, Alice laid on one of the sofas. I ordered her to not get up. I grabbed a blanket, covered her, closed the curtains, and turned off the lights. She said she didn’t think she could close her eyes. She slept until our friends started arriving.

    As SkinnyBitch cooked, I cleaned and helped setup tables and chairs. When we were to a point that I could steal away, I went upstairs to take a shower. While getting ready, I had my first transportation text of the evening. I shuttled three people from public transportation hubs back to the house. I also fit in a quick run to pick up mixers for our bar.

    When I did begin to settle into the party, I found myself at the bar pouring people drinks. This was when we realized we needed ice. I made one last run to the grocery store and parked in such a way that I would not be blocked in; I didn’t want to risk having to go out again.

    When I returned, 16lbs of chill in tow, all of our guests had arrived and most everyone was eating. DeepEnd, thankfully, had whipped up a batch of his Long Island Ice Teas and set it aside for me on the bar. I poured a glass and tried to calm myself back down.

    People chatted; I poured more drinks. Eventually I got food, but ended up eating it in fits and starts. DeepEnd & SkinnyBitch, in their dual Dexter shirts, carved the two chickens SkinnyBitch had roasted while I took pictures and feasted on the skin. People mixed and mingled. For some unknown reason, it took me a long time to get into the flow of things.

    Eventually, around 9:30pm, folks said they were ready for cigars. I brought down my kit, graciously suggested those who did not want to be caught in the haze should depart, and finally started to feel at ease. Stripping down, I found myself in the middle of everyone, my bootblacking kit set up and my humidor ready to serve.

    Four men, including DeepEnd, ManKraken!, and ThreeWay elected to enjoy tobacco that evening. I let each choose his taste. I then unwrapped, wet, cut, and lit all four cigars.

    Once everyone was puffing away, I turned to DeepEnd’s boots. I gave them a thorough cleaning before getting on my knees and loving on his leather. As I kissed and caressed, he reached down, massaged my head, and scratched my back. As a friend watched on, she asked why he was using his hand as an ashtray. “Just give her a few minutes. Then you’ll see why the little bit of pain is worth it.”

    Once I completed my worship, DeepEnd presented my treat. I ate the ash from his hand. Occasionally he blew smoke into my curls. (I had, in fact, washed my hair to remove the straight locks just in case cigar service was on the menu for the evening.) As has become our way, we ended our moment with a small kiss.

    I completed his blacking with a thorough treatment of the leather with shoe grease. As I worked, DeepEnd mentioned he read yesterday’s blog, and said the party sounded fun. Once again, I forgot people, including individuals I know, read what I happen to share with the world in this forum.

    When I finished with DeepEnd’s boots, he informed me ManKraken! was waiting for me. I turned around and saw ManKraken! had a hand full of ash. I ate the morsels from his palm. To his right, ThreeWay was also ready. I licked up the flecks from his hand as he quietly moaned.

    ThreeWay commented on how much he enjoyed my work to his fellow cigar smokers. DeepEnd also complimented my skills. ManKraken! said my eating of ash felt like getting a blow job on his hand. “Yeah, it’s like getting a handy, literally.”

    With the cigar service mostly ended, I gave quick bootblacking service to two other individuals whose leathers needed work. I remained on the floor, naked, taking in the party, finally relaxed.

    The 1st is RockStarIsis’s birthday. A round of birthday spankings broke forth. As she was bent over a chair, taking her licks, I whispered to DeepEnd “hockey stick.” He asked SkinnyBitch to retrieve the implement. DeepEnd traded all 27 of his licks for one swing of his hockey stick. RockStarIsis took her blow, cursing for some seconds afterwards. I softly rubbed her ass to soothe her.

    I don’t know who opened the first bottle of champagne, but I will gladly take credit for how most of us drank it. I asked to partake of my share of champagne in the hip hop video fashion. I tilted back my head and waited for the liquid to be poured into my mouth. It dripped down my face and onto my chest, but also into my eyes. I shut my lids and calmly asked for a napkin to save my eye sight for the evening. Many people after me enjoyed the beverage in this way. I loved inspiring fun for others.

    I stayed naked until it was time to give the last rides home. For the majority of the rest of the evening, most of us congregated in the living room and talked, or surrounded all the food on the dining room table and ate. The festivities ended around 2:30am.

    Now that was a fantastic way to start a new year.

  • Moments

    My New Year’s Eve, in moments.

    – I sat on the floor of my room, naked, talking to SkinnyBitch as I straightened my hair for the Dark Odyssey New Year’s Eve party. SkinnyBitch laid on my bed, unable to sleep; it was her intention to take a nap, but it just was not happening.

    After watching me struggle with my inferior flat iron, she finally asked, well pleaded, to let her finish the work. I sat, cross legged, grateful for the aid and the time I got to spend with her as she hovered above me helping me get ready.

    – “Are there any cop cars around?”
    “No, I don’t see any.” I flung a banana peel out my window onto a median full of grass.
    “Why exactly were you concerned about the cops being around? What would they have charged you with?”
    “Um, littering?”
    “Littering. Yes, littering while in the operation of a vehicle.”

    – It is a blessedly wonderful moment when suddenly you are the soft squishy center of a sandwich. No matter how brief, the encounter is always delightful, especially with good friends as the bread.

    – After she’d tied me up, beat me, fucked and fisted me. After I came a few times, and we giggled while we cleaned up. After our night had truly begun, Slut and I stopped for a moment, hugged each other, and said how happy we were to see the other again.

    – Standing by the kitchen island in just a tie, my necklace, and my school girl shoes, I asked, “Should I put my clothes back on?”
    “I think you look wonderful in what you’re wearing now.”

    – [Text messages]
    “Happy New Year!” – me
    “HAPPY NEW YEARS MY SWEETHEART. JUST GETTING OUT OF CHURCH. BE BLESSED.” – Mom

    “Happy New Year!” – me
    “Happy ya know, thing” – DeepEnd

    – As I prepped my bootblacking kit to work on N3rddom’s boots, the handle for my saddle soap broke off. I was so baffled, I didn’t quite understand what had happened. Not a moment later, MrBlackBeard stepped over, took the saddle soap from my hands, and, with his muscular arms, pried the can open. “Gotta use these arms for something.”

    – “I have never had my boots blacked before. There was no one else I wanted to do it other than poeticdesires.”

    – As I laid on the floor, loving on N3rddom’s boots, I felt a caress down my back. His hands ended on my ass, punctuating their arrival with a loud smack. He warmed each cheek multiple times. Then he began punching my back.

    Just as I was about finished loving on his leather, with the new coil of rope he had just purchased from Twisted Monk, he hit all over my back, multiple tendrils of stingy pain shooting across my skin.

    – He handed me the half finished cigar. “I want you to save this as a promise for us to finish it later.”

    – “Are you sure I’m suppose to be turning left? This seems like we’re going back the way we came.”
    “It’s the internet. The internet is not wrong.”
    “And that’s the house. Yup, we have gone in a circle.”

    – “Why are there so many people in this IHOP?”
    “It’s New Year’s.”
    “They all look like they just came from church.”
    “They probably did. It’s called a watch service. Just in case of the rapture.”
    “Yup, and none of us look like we’re saved.”

    – Around 4am I happened to check my Twitter feed, beyond just posting the hilarious tidbits of our IHOP conversation. It seems me mentioning one little dream involving cigars and a beautiful woman sparked an entire conversation I completely missed, to my great disappointment.

    And yes, we shopped at BJ’s. I agree, because it is me, this was quite funny.

    – “Did you see her, the girl in the pink dress? It was not a dress. I swear it was a shirt and she just kept pulling it down.”

    – “I finished the book.”
    “Really? How did you like it?”
    “It was okay. The secondary characters weren’t developed well and the ending was abrupt, but I liked the main characters. The thing that bugged me though was the sex. You read a thousand pages, a thousand pages to finally, finally get to the sex, and you basically get a brush off. I wanted more sex, dammit.”
    “Yeah, that book is basically just an excuse for rape.”
    “Oh my god, yes. Ten pages, rape. Ten pages, rape. And the one time when she was like, ‘It’s not spine-y?’”

    – “How’s it going lately in the house?”
    “It’s been good.”
    “Good. Yeah, you are now in the community.”
    “I was in the community before.”
    “No, you were in the sex and fun and play time and now I’m going to my home alone and getting some sleep space. Now you’re in it, you’re all up in the community.”
    “Yeah. Well, even with the aggravation, the trade off is worth it.”

    Bedtime: 7am