poeticdesires

Wednesday October 10, 2013

It was cold enough that I slept with a hat on, my comforter draped over my face.

When I woke up, it was still chilly. I let myself snooze under my covers for a spell.

But then I remembered the book.

I’m reading an erotic novel for a book review to be published on this blog in one week. I won’t give anything away just yet. But what I will say is this: though I was worried I wouldn’t be able to finish reading it before the review was due, I was soon calmed. The pages are flying by.

“A friend sent me a package in the mail. It’s a piece a leather I’m dying for him.”
“That sounds nice. Where does he live?”

There’s a reason why that was the first question she asked me.

I recognize it. Shit, I’ve talked to Doc about it.

I’m really good at keeping people at arm’s length. At closing off myself. Part of my latest session with Doc centered around my caution to open up, my reluctance at letting people take care of me.

It’s easier in the short term to incite and nurture long distance relationships. If I don’t open up to someone, if I only give love but never expect it in return, my head thinks my heart is less likely to get to hurt.

But, over time, I’m left with an emptiness, a longing for a deeper connection than the long distant ones I find myself drawn towards currently.

As always, I’m working on it.

“I swear, if you get your exam back and it’s another 100, I’m gonna slap you right across your face.”

It’s happening again.

I’m taking a biology class as well as a chemistry class. Chem is at 5pm; Bio is at 6:30.

My chemistry class is a no credit refresher course for people who haven’t taken the subject in quite some time or are at a loss in general with chemistry.

I’m smart. I know I’m smart. My chemistry class at times is challenging, but not really. I read the material. I take notes, both from the book and in class. I study and do all the homework. I’m doing well.

My biology class is harder. It’s actually worth four credits.

I participate in a study group. Often my study buddies ask me questions in class or lab; I’m usually able to answer them. Even though it’s more challenging, I’m getting a 100% in biology currently.

We just had our first lab exam today. It was harder than I thought it would be. I know I stumbled on a few questions, but I anticipate I earned at least a B.

When I left the lab, I kept telling myself I’d be okay if I just got a B. I voiced this concern to my study buddies, who themselves were nervous about the test. And then one of them said that.

It’s not the first time someone has been almost hostile towards my intelligence.

I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does. I know he meant it jokingly, but it’s stuck with me for the past four hours.

Moments like that are why I’m hesitant to tell people how I did on a test. Why I don’t brag about my accomplishments. I feel like I need to lessen myself to make them feel comfortable.

But fuck that shit. Fuck him for saying it. Fuck anyone for being pissed that I did well. I put in the work, motherfuckers. I put in the work.

In just over two months, I won’t see any of them again. I’ll move on to the next science class, a new group of classmates.

How many of them will despise my intelligence? How many of them are gonna be dicks because I keep getting A’s? How many times am I going to have to deal with this shit?

I’ve got, at minimum, six more years of school. I guess now is as good a time as any to get used to the bullshit.

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Dark Love October 8, 2013

~ 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.

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Trust October 7, 2013

~ 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.

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Skipper October 4, 2013

~ a story ~

You can get so lost in what you’re doing, in whatever complication your life has churned up, that you don’t see something right in front of your face.

How many times had I sat on that hallway floor? How many days had I spent studying hard, my nose literally in my books? How many times had she passed me by before?

I’d never seen her in the building. She wasn’t in any of my classes. I never caught sight of this girl with the quirky clothing and the flash of a smile before today.

I don’t even know why I saw her this time, but I did. It was a moment, a genuine heartbeat in my existence that slapped me across the face.

She walked by, almost skipping. I caught the whiff of her body spray. I don’t know why, but I looked up.

Leopard print flats. Dark tight jeans. A light blue button down shirt tied at the end. Her hair in a messy bun. Thick black-rimmed glasses. A tight body and a beautiful face.

As she bent over, just slightly to walk up the ramp, it peeked out from the separation in her top and bottom. There was a tattoo there on her lower back.

Maybe I’m making all this up. Maybe she hasn’t passed me by every day that I’ve buried myself in facts and equations and diagrams and flashcards. Maybe this moment is a one off, the only time I’ll ever see her, the only moment we’ll ever share. As much as I hope it’s not, life is not always kind to me.

But I swear, I saw it. In that heartbeat. She turned her head back towards me. Looked over her glasses. And smirked, before skipping off to somewhere.

I hope my luck has changed. I hope I’ll see her again tomorrow.

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Voyeur October 2, 2013

I’ve always liked to watch.

When I first stepped out into the kink scene, I loomed on the edge of a bar taking in the sights: the people, the outfits, the pairings, the play. Especially the play.

And now, some eight years later, I still take pleasure in watching.

Once, when I arrived at an event late, about two o’clock in the morning, I didn’t want to just dump my things and go to bed. I threw on a dark hoodie and crept towards the play space.

Since it was late, most of the rooms were empty. But one wasn’t. An older woman and a younger man fucked hard on a bed. From my vanatge point, I could only see his back and her chest and face. I heard her moans. Saw his tight ass as he fucked her. I still bite my lip now as I think about it.

Once, my freshman year in college, before I realized I was kinky, it was a Friday night. I was not the social butterfly then, and found myself in my dorm room alone. As I lazed on my bed watching tv, I began hearing moans through the wall. There was fucking happening just on the other side of the concrete.

Hearing a hot girl we had nicknamed Navy fuck her latest dick of the week was enough to get me incredibly horny. I masturbated listening to her screams.

As a kinkster, I have many more opportunities now to watch people play and fuck. I’ve found I enjoy being a voyuer whether people know I’m watching or not. But, I must admit, I do love it more when they don’t know. It’s naughty; good girls don’t snoop. But sometimes I love not being a good girl.

Occasionally I enjoy mundane voyueristic activites. People watching at a mall or in the park. Seeing the handsome guy in the car to my left stretch his arms and resettle while we wait for the light to change.

But nothing is so thrilling as lurking on the edge of a dungeon waiting for scenes to unfold.

When watching, my thrill comes not only from seeing the hotness in front of me, but also imagining myself in one of the roles. I picture myself as the person being beat or the person being fucked. I take pleasure in the pain the person feels, reveling in their cries, their tears. My cunt warms when they gasp or scream during sex. Sounds, fuck I love sounds.

More than once I’ve watched a person play, hopefully without their knowing, and then approached them later on for fun myself. You can learn a lot about a person from how they play: the way they interact with their scene partner, what toys they use, or if they use any toys at all.

One might argue that a night without play was not as good as it could have been. I would say take a look around you. See what people are up to. I have had enjoyable experiences, titillating thrills, excruciating highs just from watching a scene unfold. And, if nothing else, some twisted fucked up ideas have been inspired from others play.

Happy watching.

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Deep Throating October 2, 2013

“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.

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Sunday Brunch Plans October 1, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Remembering You October 1, 2013

~ 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.

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