the life and musings of a kinky slut
This is the first of three installments on my fun times at this year’s Shibaricon. Yup, you read that right. Three podcasts just on one event. Needless to say I had a lot of fun with a lot of friends. Happy 10th anniversary to Shibaricon, as well as second anniversary to RopenSpace at the event. Enjoy.
I was nervous to ask the question, but, like many things in my life, I did it anyway.
“Hey, you still need a bottom for your afternoon classes?”
The first class we attended was Newaza to Fly.
It was a large class. The instructors, the DV8 crew, encouraged people to double up on frames. What they were teaching wouldn’t be dynamic. We could get close.
And we did. We found a spot on the large wooden square frame, one of many pairs who chose the rig.
We laid out a sheet. I put my things aside. By the wall. Took off my shoes and jacket. Stretched. Dragon prepped his ropes.
The concept behind the class was simple: start from the floor and gradually ease your bottom into the air. Less risk. More control of tension. And less stress on the bottom (in case of nervousness).
Dragon threw a TK on my frame. As he wrapped his ropes around my torso, my nerves both remained and softened. I didn’t know how my body would react to being suspended. I hadn’t flown in quite some time. But the last person to lift me into the air was Dragon. I trusted him.
Yet, I didn’t completely trust my body. Didn’t trust the strength I had shown before. Didn’t trust that I would be able to live in rope again.
But as each moment passed by, jute tight against my skin, and more applied still, my body remembered how much I loved rope. Remembered the feel, the comfort. Remembered how soaring made me calm. Centered me. Engulfed me in a love of myself, pulsing in waves out to the world.
As he weaved his TK, I closed my eyes. As the instructor talked, I got lost in rope. I leaned against the floor. Dragon tied my left leg. Then my right, and my hips. He secured his lines. And, applying the central idea behind the class, he slowly lifted me. One section at a time. Checking tension on his lines. Raising me just inches off the ground.
Yet it felt like I soared.
I drifted in a bliss of comforting rope. My eyes closed. My being in my body. Floating high above the world.
When he lowered me, I laid on our sheet. Body pressed against the floor. No longer floating above it all. Still full of joy, and happiness. And I remembered why I loved to fly.
After Newaza to Fly, Dragon and I attended Thinking Rope. Wykd_Dave and Clover taught a class about breaking down your ties, finding the little habits we all have, and improving them to improve your technique and skill.
Dragon, for his tie, chose to put me in a TK, again. Over and over, he untied and tied a TK on my chest. I felt the ropes go on and the ropes come off from half a dozen to a dozen times.
As he worked, it felt like I worked to. I stretched in between ties. I relaxed my shoulders. Felt my hands and wrists. Felt in my body.
By the end of our two classes together, I had regained my courage. My conviction in the strength of my body. I felt like a badass rope bottom again, flying high.
The Cabaret had just ended. There was a crush of people in the hall. A slow lumbering line out of the main dungeon.
I was excited, anxious, at what awaited me.
He stood at the first aid table. When I arrived, he looked me up and down.
“Am I ripping that off of you?”
“Uh, no.”
Costume change. I took off my tight strapless black dress. Got naked in the hallway. Threw on a tank top and boxers.
He had a rig held for us. We walked back through the throng. Back into the dungeon. Back towards my fate.
His toy bag sat by a wooden double frame. Scenes were just starting up. We sat down our stuff. Laid down a sheet. Created our space.
He started pulling out all the items in his toy bag. Mean things. Horrible things. Rope-y things. Many many things.
He jumped up on the frame. Pulled up, testing the strength of the wood. He thought he might tie me at some point. He never did. But I didn’t care.
I was a ball of nerves. Jumpy. But also horny. He wore boots. His outfit looked vaguely military. This was going to be brutal.
Still, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I talked. Stammered a bit. Giggled a bit. He bought into the ruse. We both knew it was just a matter of moments, though, before I was on the floor.
In the blink of an eye, I was splayed out on the sheet, sobbing immediately. He went from zero to ten; no warm up. Pulled out his knife. Tore open my shirt. Slashed at my boxers.
He punched. Kicked a bit. And slapped. Fuck, he wouldn’t stop slapping me. My face. My arms. My back. My ass. That was the worst, at first. The stingy, unforgiving pain. And then gripping the surface he just assaulted. Rubbing in the hurt. Making it last that much longer. It was intense and almost overwhelming.
But then he started with his toys.
A small marble dagger-shaped paddle. Smacking my breasts. Attacking my nipples.
His bath brush, minus the loofah. Burning stings to my biceps, my thighs. It created impressive bruises from the start.
His cane struck all over me. He’d hit a spot. I’d curl in, trying to get away. But it just gave him something new to attack.
My hands flew out instinctively trying to stop the pain. He yelled at me for this. And then came the punishment for my infringement: my sternum.
He slapped my sternum. Hard. And then he told me what he was going to do. Told me he was going to punch my sternum. Told me, if my hands got in the way, he would punch me more than the two times he had planned. He asked me if I could take the two punches without blocking with my hands. Or did I want more?
He punched me once, twice. It hurt like a bitch. And yet, it was the kind of delicious pain I crave.
All during his tortures, he took moments to check in with me. Coming in close to my face. Whispering in my ear as I sobbed.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No,” I whimpered each time.
“Good girl. You are such a good girl.”
He took the remains of my clothes. Put them to my face. Wiped away my tears and the snot.
Once, in the middle of our scene, he asked me a question I suppose many wonder about.
“Why do you do this?”
Through snot and tears. Trying to more than mumble. Trying to speak so he could actually hear me, I answered him.
“Because it forces me to cry. The pain takes me to a place where I can’t ignore emotions. I like to cry. Love the release. And I like to know I can take it. I can take the pain. Even when it really hurts.”
But he wasn’t always sweet with his words. Wasn’t always kind. More often than not, he was just the opposite.
“You are in way over your head,” he said, many times, an evil laugh following.
During one check-in, my back on the floor, looking up at him, he asked me if I wanted to stop. I had no sense of time at that point, and I worried I would not have enough time for our aftercare, my blacking his boots.
“You are amazing. I’m beating your ass and you’re worried about my boots?”
He barked at me to kiss his boots. I got on my hands and knees. Planted my face at the toe of his boot. Kissed and licked up and down his leather. Felt the pain melt out of me. Felt the lust I’d had from before build again. My head went back and forth between his boots, loving his leather.
He moved away. I followed him around. He bent down. Grabbed his whip.
I felt the first pop on my ass. I shrieked, but kept kissing and licking his boots. Another pop. Another yelp. Another lick.
He moved about, whipping me. I tried cowering away. He yelled at me. I was to keep adoring his boots. I scrambled around. Towards his leather. Away from his blows.
He checked back in with me. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep pushing myself. But I also wanted to take care of his boots. So I stopped the scene, leather love more important than my tears.
~ a rant ~
I am not a morning person. My Mom loves to tell the story of me saying that to her one day in the car while driving me to middle school.
And it’s true.
I hate waking up early. Especially for work. Especially if I didn’t get enough sleep the night before.
On occasions where multiple days in a row I have not gotten enough sleep, I’ll slapped my smart phone’s alarm to snooze and yell, “I hate this shit” to no one in particular.
When I’m tired, I can go from zero to bitch in the blink of an eye. When I’m that exhausted, all I want is to be left alone. I can usually survive work if I’m given a task I can do by myself or if I’ve paired with someone or someones who don’t talk to me.
Seriously, don’t talk to me when I’m tired. I don’t have the patience to deal with people when I’m tired. If you must talk, keep it to short sentences. Trying to strike up a conversation with me will only issue evil thoughts about your torture and death.
The worst, and what I find happens most often when I’m tired, are the people (in particular men) who try to make me smile or laugh. Try to cheer me up.
When I’m tired, I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to be left the fuck alone. And I find it irritating when people try to foist their happiness on me. I’m allowed to feel like shit. I’m allowed to be moody, grumpy even.
My general disposition is no concern of yours. I don’t owe you a smile. I barely owe you acknowledgement. I don’t have to be happy. And when some random thinks he’s going to cheer up my day with his winning personality, all I want to do is shove his care and concern down his throat.
I’ve noticed how bad it can get lately. 6am Load Ins and 1am Load Outs will do that.
Unfortunately, no one wins when trying to catch me in a good mood. If I start my day early, I won’t be good til I’ve slept. And that means a nap. And naps for me happen as infrequently as you might have guessed.
There is only one exception to my tired grumpy self: events. At an event, I can run on three hours of sleep and be happy and chipper. I run off of adrenaline. What new thing will I learn about or see today? Events allow for naps. And orgasms. And a good beating or two. At an event, grumpy I almost never am.
But in real life. If I haven’t gotten enough sleep. If I’m over worker and under rested. It’s best to steer clear of me. Neither of us will like me when I’m grumpy.
It all started Saturday night…
“Move your hands. Move your fucking hands.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to punch you in your chest. Twice. If your hands get in the way, I will punch you more. If you take the two punches, that will be it for your sternum. Can you do that? Or do you want me to keep punching your sternum?”
“I can. I can do it.”
“Okay.”
I held his other arm. The one not going to punch me. The one resting on my chest. He reared back. Landed his blow. I sobbed, and prepared again.
“One more.”
He reared back. Struck harder. I sobbed harder.
“Good girl. Such a good girl.”
Then came Sunday morning…
“Go ahead and partner up if you want to practice this.”
I looked back at him. A few head nods later and I was on my back as he hovered over me. Scott went over how you would initially look for signs of injury in someone. The head. The spine. The chest.
As I laid there, I remembered FrozenMeursault already knew this stuff. It was a part of his job. As Scott continued to talk, my partner sat beside me, not taking any notes. Instead, he got comfortable, leaning his elbow onto my sternum and resting his head in his hand. I started to screeched.
“Sh, we’re in class.”
And then there was after lunch…
Dragon needed a partner for two classes. I wanted to be in rope. And he’d tied me before. So I volunteered to be his rope bottom.
Our first class was Newaza to Fly. I found my happy place in his ropes. Our second class was Thinking Rope. Dragon worked on breaking down his TK and figuring out all the ways to make his tie better.
Once, during a slight lull in the class, he remembered where I’d been attacked the night before. And that morning. And now, by him. He fashioned a different TK, with shoulder straps that crossed right over my sternum. The fit was tight. It hurt like a bitch. He smiled.
But wait; there’s more…
At the end of Thinking Rope, people gravitated either out of the class or towards WykdDave & Clover.
Rough happened to look back on me as I was chatting about my day.
“People keep attacking my sternum. Every time I mention that I was hurt or show off my bruises, my friends, who are Sadists… Want. To. Hurt. Me. Why did I open my mouth?”
I saw the look in his eyes. The devilish glee. He crept towards me. I knew what was about to happen.
“Shit.”
One hand went to my hair. The other formed a fist. Went for my chest. Burried his knuckles into my sternum. I wiggled. I tried to get away. I screamed.
“Why are you screaming,” he whispered into my ear. “We are in class.”
“I couldn’t help it. My lizard brain kicked in.”
“We are humans. You can overcome your lizard brain. Be a big girl and not scream.”
He dug his hand in again. I didn’t wriggled this time. I took his pain. My muscles convulsed. My mouth stretched open. My eyes pursed shut. But I didn’t scream.
“Now that’s a big girl.”
I heard the evil grin in his voice.
Not done yet…
“How are you doing?”
“I can’t tell you because you’ll hurt me.”
I was walking from class. It wasn’t five minutes later. I was going to meet up with people for pizza. I thought I was safe.
But then, somehow, Gray and Spicey were in front of me. And Gray asked that question. And I can’t lie to him.
They both stopped. My arms instinctively crossed in front of my chest.
“Everytime I tell people about how my sternum keeps getting targeted, they all hurt me.”
I whimpered my explanation. I’m sure it was like evil candy to his sadistic ears.
“Put your arms down,” said Gray. I did.
“Open your jacket.” I parted the fabric. My chest was on full display.
I saw his hand come close. I prepared for the blow. I flinched as he only slightly tapped my sternum.
“What’s been happening to her?” asked Spicey.
“People have been giving her sternal rubs.”
“Where’s the sternum?”
“This. See this. Right here.”
“That?”
“Yes, that. That is the sternum. That right there.”
They both jammed their fingers into the center of my chest. I whimpered through my pain.
Spicey’s anatomy lesson done, we headed upstairs.
“My friends keep hurting me.”
“You know, if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t happen.”
“I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”
Yup, again…
I sat on the couch, waiting for people to show up for pizza. Nomad sat beside me. I was happy she was there.
“I keep getting hurt. People keep attacking my chest. It’s been, like, six people now.”
I looked to my right.
“Shit. Ava. I forgot. You’re a switch.”
I saw the look in her eye. Knew what was in store for me.
She scooted closer. Pushed her fingers into my sternum.
It was the lobby. There is no play in the lobby. My face contorted. My body shook. But I didn’t scream.
“If you’ll let me make you shiver and shake like that, I’ll fuck you.”
My chest was given a reprieve for the evening, but not for the rest of my visit…
It was time to go. The Closing Ceremony had ended. Rope given away. Money donated to charity. Time for the goodbyes.
I spoke to Dov, who I’d barely seen during my weekend. I started bragging about my bruises. After he said he wouldn’t hurt me.
I showed him my thighs. My arms. And then, my sternum.
“You have no idea how hard it is for me to not hurt you right now. Just give me one.”
“Oh, okay. Since you asked.”
I braced myself. He held his hand flat, parrallel to my chest. He bent his middle finger. Readying the knuckle. He swung back. Then forward. Connecting in the center of my chest.
“And, because it’s the sternum, I don’t have to hit you again for symmertry.”
Thankfully.
And now, the last…
Our gradual exit from the ballroom crept like a snail up a tree.
Rough looked at me. And remembered. And stuck out his pinky finger.
“Oh god.”
“It’s just my pinky.”
“Yes, but your pinky is mighty.”
He came in close. Leaned forward. Drove his nail into my chest. Twisted one way. Then the other.
I scrunched my face. Splayed open my mouth. But again, I didn’t scream.
“Good girl,” he said, putting his digital weapon away.
He hugged me bye, one of many that afternoon.
I took a picture of my chest the morning after I got home. The bruise, because I proved that yes you can get a bruise on your sternum, looked kind of like a heart. Sweet, and fitting, for my Shibaricon adventure.
Text me, don’t knock.
I took my things upstairs. Dumped my kit just inside the door. Then walked across the hotel. Made my way up to the suite.
Here.
A few breaths later, the door opened. The room was dark. I stepped inside. Saw shoes by the front. Thought, to be polite, I should take off my boots.
I sat my jacket and water bottle on a table. Bent down. Went for a lace.
He grabbed me by my hair. Pulled me into his room. Closed the door. Threw me against the bed. I stumbled, knees on the floor, leaning against the mattress.
“Now you can take off your boots.”
I stood. Leaned against the tall bed. Reached down. Unlaced my first boot. Tugged it off. Threw it and my sock aside. Repeated. My lacing, intricate, takes time to unwind.
He sat on a comfy chair in the corner. I took off my badge. Put it on a table. Rested my glasses next to it.
I sat on the floor at the corner of the bed. Faced him. Had one knee up. Pulled my legs in tight. Looked at him as he read.
“Why are you wearing your dress?”
I turned around. Stood up on my knees. Reached down. Pulled my gray mesh dress off. Made sure to wiggle my ass. Unhooked my bra. Flung my clothes in the pile with my boots.
“How many RopenSpace tattoos do you have?”
“Not many. Just four.”
I smiled. One of the of temporary tattoos sat just above my ass crack. His comment reminded me.
“Take off my boots.”
I crawled over to him. Went for his left foot first. Rolled his pant leg up. Unlaced his leather. Spread the two sides. Worked the laces loose. Rested my head on the toe. My hands held his heal. He pulled his foot out. I set his boot to my right. Worked on his right. Put it by its mate.
“Would you like to taste my cock?”
I reached up. Unbuttoned his pants. Pulled out his cock. Took him into my mouth. Licked his balls. Enjoyed it all. I’d missed the taste and feel of him.
He stood up. Pushed down his slacks. They landed in a puddle by his ankles.
“Take off my pants.”
I pulled them from his feet. Put the fabric by his boots.
He grabbed my hair. Fucked my face. I sat on my feet. Rested my hands on the small of my back. Took him as he wished.
“You make it so hard to just read and go to bed.”
After 69 and 96. After fisting and rimming. Titty fucking and cuming. Passed out. Slept. And the next morning I did the walk of pride, happiness, and enjoyment back to my hotel room.
The 1st
“Poetic, would you like some ash?”
She looked over at me, huge smile on her face, a two inch head standing vertical on her cigar.
“Oh God, yes,” I said, my submissive voice squeaking out. “I’ve cried each time ash was flicked into the tray.”
On my hands and knees, I crawled towards her. Stopped. Sat on my feet. Opened my mouth wide and put out my tongue.
She rolled the ash into my mouth. I held the lump for her and the rest near her to see. I looked at her. I smiled with my eyes. Made a small connection.
“Thank you,” she said. “You can swallow.”
I closed my mouth and grinned. Then crawled away, happy.
The 2nd
“Poetic?”
He had a pretty head of ash ready for my mouth. I extracted myself from my corner. Bodies squeezed together to fight off the chill in the air and the wind that assaulted us on the balcony.
I crawled towards him, head bent. Rested my hands on his knees to keep balance. As I was about to sit on my feet, his hand found the back of my head. Gently petted my hair. I stayed as I was. Head bent. Forehead near his crotch. A feeling of connection being built. I nuzzled a little. Purred a bit. Felt warmth even though it was so cold.
A small touch on my chin signaled for my head to rise. I looked into his dark eyes. Saw him, and his ash.
“Open your mouth. Wider.”
I did as he told. Tilted my head back. He rolled his ash into my mouth. I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened again. Looked into his eyes once more. Our gaze locked. I felt transfixed.
He brought his cigar to the side of my face. I felt the heat near my skin. Heard the burning of my hair. Didn’t move because he didn’t want me to.
A caress of my chin closed my mouth. His fingers traced across my cheek and back down. I closed my eyes. Leaned my head into his touch. Let myself get lost in our shared moment.
His hand stilled. I opened my eyes again.
He thanked me. I thanked him. And then crawled back to my spot.
The 3rd
He looked over at me, a knowing grin on his face.
“Poetic?”
He was only two seats away, yet he was the hardest to get to. We’d all huddled in close, trying desperately to fight nature. I backed out, swiveled around, and meeped as I sat in place in front of him.
His eyes were intense. His small smile almost mischievous. His hand reached behind me. Grabbed my hair. Controlled my head. Brought it forward.
I opened my mouth. Stuck out my tongue. He rolled his ash. I felt the heat of the cherry near me. He kept his eyes on mine. Saw his control over me. My submission to him. Had me close my mouth. Thanked me in his quiet yet strong voice.
I smiled and thanked him as well.
Crawled away. Found my spot. Snuggled up to those beside me. Happy to be around people I don’t see nearly enough.
The second half of my fun times while attending the Grue Pitt 3.
~ a story ~
“I’m not going back to him.”
“That’s not why I’m here, Ma’am.”
“No, you’re hear because he asked for you.”
“Yes, Ma’am. He has that right. So I’m here.”
“I’m not going back to him.”
“I’m not here for him. I’m here for the both of you. For what you shared.”
“Huh? What we shared? That’s over.”
“Yes, Ma’am. It is. But still, I’m here to honor it. Please, tell me how it began.”
“Didn’t he already tell you?”
“Yes, Ma’am, he did, but he was not the only person in love. How did you meet him?”
“You know how I met him. You know it all.”
“Ma’am, I know a lot. But I only know his perspective. His side of your love. I need to hear you tell it. I need to hear your experience. I need to add your voice to the story. Please, give me these few minutes. Then I’ll leave. You don’t even have to show up for the storytelling. But I need to hear all sides before I can speak for the love. So, please, how did you meet him?”
She took a deep breath. I could see she was thinking, weighing how much she hated being here over how much I was trying to make it better. Did she want to give me more shit, or just let it out? Finally let it go.
She settled in her seat the way they all do, the way I’ve seen them all shift right before they begin.
“It was a nice Spring day. The first for the season. So I thought I would go for a walk. Maybe run a bit, too. I had my ear buds in. I was listening to some up beat poppy music. I was happy, smiling, breathing in the fresh air. And not paying attention to the neighborhood. To cars passing by.
“He didn’t see me. He was looking for a friend’s home, searching for the street numbers on the houses. He came around the bend, an almost blind turn. I didn’t hear his approach. Was oblivious to anything behind me.
“He clipped my hip. I tumbled into the grass down by the side of a creek that ran through my neighborhood. He wasn’t going fast, and the soft earth cushioned my fall. But he freaked out all the same, worried he’d maimed me or something.
“To get him to stop panicking and to not worry, I let him drive me home. I made him some tea to calm his nerves. We talked by the picture window in my kitchen.
“He has these beautiful blue eyes. Like the water we swam in during our honeymoon.”
~
Alec and Anna were like oil and vinegar. Smashed together by chance. Blending in a way that didn’t make chemical sense.
There was always a push and pull to their relationship. Neither knew who would be on top any given day.
But from their passion came a strong bond, a love that saw them through ten years together. Through displacement by a natural catastrophe. Through monetary hardships. And through shared unbelievable heartache.
Their love bore a child who gave them three years of life before succumbing to a disease laced with their sorrow.
Neither Alec nor Anna will deny the pain the death of their child caused them. And that it was this blow that created the first crack, which turned into a valley of separation, ultimately causing their parting.
Nor will Alec and Anna deny the love and passion that still exists between them. They will forever be a wondrous mixture that never smoothly blends.
Their love was spectacular in its life.
But now their love has ended.
~ erotica ~
A hand over my mouth startled me awake. My eyes shot open. My shriek came out as a mumble into a hand. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. To recognize Dirk as the body that rested over mine.
When he saw the realization, he eased up his hand.
“What are you?”
His hand returned to my mouth. He shook his head no. My eyes slanted towards him. What was going on?
And then his lips replaced his hand. And we were kissing. In my bed. In the middle of the night. In the house we shared with four of our friends, who were all sleeping.
I had work in the morning. A long day, in fact, full of people I didn’t like and assignments I barely cared about. I needed my rest.
But he was kissing me. And I didn’t want him to stop kissing me. Ever.
I felt his body adjust to one side. Felt his arm run down my front. Felt his hand slip under my pajama pants. Felt his fingertips find my clit.
I moaned into his mouth, his lips muffling my sounds. I tilted my hips up, up. Trying to feel more of his hand against me.
Through his boxers, I knew how much he wanted this. How hard he was. How much he wanted me.
My left hand reached over to my end table. Blindly opened a drawer. Palmed a condom. I ran my hand down his arm until I found his free hand. He grabbed the condom. Held it in between his fingers. Then covered my mouth with his hand again.
He ripped off my pants. Dove his face down in between my legs. Got off the bed. Stood against the edge to be able to reach. My hands ambled around for something, anything, to cover my mouth. I found my stuffed bear, Honey. Crushed her against my lips. I hoped she didn’t mind seeing me like this.
He climbed back onto the bed. Lifted my hips to his mouth. I could still feel the condom in his hand as he ignored it. Concentrated on licking. Flicking. Sucking. Enjoying my pussy.
I was happy I’d found Honey. My moans grew louder, but she muffled my noises. My body writhed. The tension grew. Built. Until I came against his tongue. Came squeezing my thighs around his face. Came screaming his name into my stuffed bear’s belly.
He licked me once. Twice. Lapping up the mess. Before setting my hips back down on my bed. Before dropping the condom back in the drawer. Before slipping my pajama pants back on me. Before kissing my forehead and quietly slipping out of my bedroom.
The next evening, after a dull day. After people I didn’t care much for and work I was barely able to stand, I came home. Kicked off my shoes. Dropped my things by the door. Heard no one else in the house. Checked my mail. And found a note in my box.
You taste delicious.
I ran upstairs and masturbated, staring at that piece of paper.
That night, and every night since, I leave my bedroom door cracked open, for the next time Dirk has a craving for a midnight snack.