May 232010

I’m on the morning of the last of my performances of the revival of 69Stories. Interestingly, this revival is a format somewhat different than previous iterations. More interactive. More real-time. Riskier-feeling for me, but it seems to work well.

The riskiness I experience is this: when I tell the stories, a part of me is there. I don’t mean that in some kinda actingy way. I mean I rewind to how that felt, and pick up where that left off. I have the capacity to do total physical and emotional recall, and this is a lot cooler and a lot more fucked-up than it sounds.

Especially when you’re recalling something that you…want.  And won’t ever have again.

I don’t mean this in some kinda sad-sack, bust out weeping violins way, I mean it in a grounded, realistic fashion. No experience is cell-for-cell repeatable.

For better and for worse.

When I tell the story of the first time I understood that submission wasn’t about brute force, that you could get there just from the whispered words of the right person? I won’t ever have precisely that experience again. But I can stand there, night after night, and replay that braintape. Down to what my feet felt like. Down to the light sheen of sweat on the small of my back. Down to the inexplicable (well, not really but at the time, sure.) arousal and physical manifestation of the same that I experiences, making me slippery and dazed for a long, long time afterward.

You’d think this is kind of cool, and it is. Don’t get me wrong. But there is a price to be paid, and when you unpack that shit, it sometimes doesn’t want to go back into the place you packed it. It comes out, stretches, yawns, looks you in the eye grinning toothily and says

OK, you invoked me. Here we are. How do I look to you now? Have I changed in the years since we danced in chronological “realtime?” Have you distorted me? AM I really real? Slippery mercurial memory…catch me if you can, baby…

I’ve been doing some unpacking and I can’t pretend it does not have resonance outside of a couple of hours onstage, because it does.

When I share about the events, people, sights and sounds that all add up to who I am today, and I have to look at it, objectively even, I feel an odd affection and detachment.  My life = entertainment and What The Fuck is THAT about?

I know it isn’t ONLY that. I know I am not only here to amuse and sing and dance.

At least I think I know that.

Sometimes I wonder, though. Is it REALLY better to have loved and lost than to never have loved? Because if you have never had that crazy-ass roller-coaster ride, you can’t know how it is, right? And then you won’t know how brutal the landing can be. And then you won’t have to see how the taproots into your id won’t ever ever be fully excisable.

Maybe that blissful ignorance at which I sneer, which I reject in favor of the beauty of The Experience, in fact carries its own intrinsic value?

Maybe. Maybe…but there is no story in that. And above all, I am here to tell.  To tell on and about myself.

To tell stories…to be the kinky griotte for those whose stories are rarely told.

SO yeah, it is better. And worse. And I’ll take it, thank you.

Mar 162009

Trusting myself enables me to do truly miraculous things…like trust others.

Trusting others enables us to do truly miraculous things, like make pain transcendent and find new ways to access our souls.

In addition to this past weekend being my second anniversary of being sober (whee!) I was in Chicago to talk about a play-style that many people consider to be pretty edgy, and one I am always walking into with part of my heart quailing apprehensively and shaking with fear.

But now in the fluorescent safety of the Monday morning workday, I think I feel safe in saying: “WIN.”

I’ve done the “Race Play” class a few times now, and even though I am nervous to sickness each and every fucking time I do it, the overwhelmingly positive feedback helps me to see this IS a valuable class for folks.

The GD2 crowd was comprised on a lot of new kinksters, as their outreach mission includes free (!!!!!!) classes with national presenters and so the place brings in people from all over to teach and present.

It was a FULL house, which was awesome. They said it was one of the more well-attended classes they’d hosted.

I initially wasn’t going to do a demo, but it seems the universe has smiled on me of late in that arena. Seems like my Homeboy, Ganesha, has been fucking up many, many obstacles on my behalf…even the ones I put in my own way.

Last I did the Race Play class, Minax was with me in the mix for The Exiles edition, and to all reports she survived it ;-)

Since I was gonna be traveling I wasn’t planning on doing a demo in Chicago but a new “Con-Acquaintance” friend of mine mentioned he was gonna be coming in to town for my GD2 class and would be happy to help if such help was needed.

OK, well…um…sure.

[More like “OMFG are you kidding??? HELLZ YEAH!!” but we wouldn’t want to overfeed his ego, would we?]

Though I haven’t spent much time with Graydancer, I thought him cool and I had one of those gut level things happen.

Non-crunchy people, avert your eyes…


You know you meet someone and just feel “OK, yeah, this is one of the Soul Family People, and it is great to have you come around again!” This was one of those. I meet hundreds of people a year and have feelings like that, of immediacy and comfort and such VERY rarely. I try to trust that feeling. It hasn’t yet been wrong.


OK, non-crunchy types, you can pick up here again.

So I said “OK, why not!

Mind, I’d only seen him do ropework, and hadn’t played with him before.

But for several reasons, I felt absolutely fine about saying yes.

I scraped together the gumption to send him some of the extra-flowery un-PC bodice ripping period pr0n I’d started writing for The Limey Who Shall Not Be Named back in the day.

Of course I was then all “Shit…he’s gonna hate it and be all “Ugh what is this corny ass shit?!” and then not want anything to do with me at all.”

But that didn’t happen either, so that was a relief.

The class went really really well.

It was one of those deals where I felt very much in touch with the people there, even the ones who were somewhat guarded. And even though the room was hot as FUCK and I was sweating with nerves and not at all sure what was going to happen, I took a deep breath and forged ahead.

If the class was good, the demo was fucking AWESOME.

Well, for me, anyway.


I’d had little clue that I was dealing with someone who was highly adept in role-playing but duh, shoulda known. He is a performer and an instructor, so there is gonna be that advantage.

Plus, he’d totally cheated and was sporting my very favourite style of boots. And he was wearing black leather gloves.

Evidently, this also…uh…works for me.

Who knew?

I honestly couldn’t even LOOK at his feet too long. I’d forgotten about my thing with the boots…how does one forget that objects can become so deeply imbued with their own life that the right person at the right place in the right time can bring that all back again…?

How is it I keep forgetting that I actually really am a pervert?

Gray managed to somehow pull together a scene from the story I’d written and make it work in the context of this demo.

 This is revelatory for me on several levels.

I’m still running through this so please, bear with me, I’m kind of scattered in my thinking. But the writing helps me get it out and hell, while I’m pulling apart this humming burning ball of energy, you might as well peek in :-)

I think it was really remarkable to be able to voice this very simple type of fantasy, not worry that other people would find it either “grindingly offensive ” or, worse yet, “too pedestrian and boring.” Let me say this (I know, kind of surprising) but I’d never even DONE a “Old School master / slave plantation thing” because, well, I know it is the obvious fucking thing to do and I have steered clear of it.

But I figure hey, I might as well have one of my fantasies addressed, yes?

And I am glad I did.

Um, so, the scene.

It was fantastic.

I’d inaccurately calibrated this man’s capacity for cold-bloodedness, so it was a bit of a genuine shock that he was SUCH a BASTARD!

Fucking awesome.

SO, yeah.

I think it is pretty much all I have to say about that right now. I might do a straight-up scene report one of these days, we’ll see how generous I’m feeling about that memory.

Yes, we did play later in the evening, and that was also rather phenomenal.

It is wondrous to me that, no matter how many years I do this, there is always something new that will sneak up on you and fuck your shit up so flawlessly, you can’t do anything except ride it.

I also newly re-discovered was something that I’d already had, but suffered the fate of being squashed down and buried for the past few years.

When I am single and feeling lonely MY default of late has been to walk away from those feelings of longing and let them do their own thing. I don’t want to try to suppress them, not anymore. But I do not want to dwell on what I do not have, because that sets me up in a poor place.

But for lots of reasons Gray was able to get in…just enough…to a few unused places and that lead me back to a simple sweet truth: I love “This.”

All the pain and beatings and bondage and all of that was compressed to one moment where I was prostrated with my cheek and lips against the warm instep of one of his boots, the other boot firmly on the back of my neck and his hand in my hair.

There was an absolutely clear moment of connectedness with the memory of the very first time I’d been in a place like that, almost eleven years ago.

And …sorry crunchy people, but it was one of those sacred moments where you get a revelation. it was this: despite all that had happened, that has happened to me in those years, all of the people that have come and gone, all that I thought I would have and all that I never expected, there IS a place where I can feel safe and even if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s safe space and even if it is just for RIGHT NOW, that is all any of us EVER have.

This moment.

So breathe it in.

It was SO. Huge.

I’m getting all crying and snuffly even as I try to write.

I have absolute faith in my ability to feel, to intuit, to trust when it is right to do so. And that is precious.

Um. Yeah.

Well, massive kudos to Gray, because he let me sob like a dork all over his boots for some amount of time. Dunno know long…you know how that goes.

And hands-down one of the most emotionally attentive people with whom I’ve had the honor to play.

Oh, yes, and *Squee*

Furthermore, my absolute embargo on facial hair has been conditionally lifted.

Of course, the next morning, part of my brain is all “OMG OMG yeah, yeah, OK, I know, I know…you’re not poly and LDRs never work and you DO NOT do LDR shit with D/s for chrissake but OMG this may be your last chance to ever and we are scared to be alone again and blah blah blah blah.”

Chittering. This is one of Bubbles’ excellent new voices. She does fear REALLY well.

But you know, something very different happened.

I was glad to feel that affection, and that openness to being submissive, and all those feelings. I didn’t criticise myself for having them, I tacked to the wind for the impact of sub-space and PMS**

And I enjoyed myself. It felt / feels great.

I’m not afraid. If anything, I am SO happy to have had that scene and those feelings because I haven’t had them in so long.

Rather than freaking out at the prospect of being alone, my thought this morning as I sort through e-mail and try to get to work is this:

These moments are a gift, precious precious precious and to try to shuffle my emotions to suit the external surroundings is hubris.

What is real emotionally is real emotionally.

Nothing less, and nothing more.

I CAN feel, even feel very profoundly, and enjoy that fully, and stand on my own feet afterward, and marvel at the magnificence of it.

I know that right now, I have to be present. By remaining present, I’ll be where I am supposed to be.

And this morning I love myself for that.







**Ladies: never, never EVER tell a sadist you are PMSing and that your boobs are sore. The likelihood that they will be compassionate and easier on them because of this is abysmally low. Just don’t mention it and hope for the best :-P

Oct 312008

OH MY GOD!! I got voted into Sugasm, y’all!!


I could hardly wait but I am trying to be all disciplined and shit about posting. SO, yay! Yay all Sugasm participants, and thanks for giving the nod to my “Tale from the vault.”

Sugasm #151

Sublime Nudes courtesy of Badgirls Hotbox.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #152? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Help, My Friend Says I Have an Ugly Vagina!
“Say no to vagina prejudice!”

“Kiss My Boots.”
“One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way.”

Yours, Sir
“I felt and then heard a low rumble of a slightly sadistic chuckle from him.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Sass And The Sadist

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Crying Game
Cute animals don’t belong in my pussy
HNT – Shaking that Arse
Searching for something as yet unknown
Shame on you, part 2 [podcasturbation]

Sex & Politics
But People Don’t See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?
Red is the New Black

BDSM & Fetish
BDSM, S&M and Sex And The City
Girl On Top
Got to Love Subby Friends
“He Calls me”SLUT”” ~I call him MASTER!
I know you
My Muse-15th entry
A Quiet Night In
Sweet VS Saucy
That’s a great way to spend an afternoon

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
HNT Lucky Heather 3
HNT: Shut me up…
Half-Nekkid Queyntes
New York Leather Weekend – Sunday
Sublime Nudes

Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews
A Cocktease Session with a Leg Harness and Dildo
FAQs on Jefferson’s Custody Case
Recession Sex Toys
Top Five Tuesday – Bisexual Movies
VibeReview Fantasy: Bendybeads

Sex Work
Humiliation with a Tiny-dicklet Caller
Sex Work And Compassion: I Show No Compassion

Erotic Writing and Experiences
14 Days, 14 Girls Part 4: Kim
Duties of The Admired Fuck
First Day on the Job
The First Squirt
Let me introduce you to my special talent….
Neighbor’s Hot Tub
Privacy Please
Rebel in the Wild
A Return to Form
Seductive Sin
She can take more.
Someplace I’ve never been, part 3
Stripper Academy
Thrill In The Woods – Chapter 2
Wanting to Be Wanted

Wet Spots

Oct 272008

My subconscious Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic was thrumming with memory and pulsing with perversion everywhere for me this weekend.

I had a lovely brunch with a dear friend on Sunday. He is, among many things, a sadist and of British extraction.

These things are, in my book, two of the the very Pillars of Win.

Being extremely well-hung and madly craving constant contact with my boobs are two more Pillars Of Win.

But I digress…

We’d played several weeks back, and due to myriad reasons (my insanity and odd life-processing methodology, for starters) had not really gone into depth about the scene.

It is easy to forget that sadistic people need love and reassurance too. It isn’t great to leave them hanging with questions like “OK, did they LIKE the scene? If they HATED it, was it the GOOD kind of hate (that makes you squirm and reluctantly crave more of the same treatment)? Or was it the BAD kind (which leads to flamewars and scorched earth blog-posts)?

In this case, I had the added bonus of this being the first scene I’d done in a long time. I had fears that my pain tolerance would be shot to hell.

It wasn’t.

I was nervous I’d be self-conscious about being butt-ass nekkid in the dungeon.

I wasn’t.

The wildcard, for me, in any scene is “The Wall”.

Most scenes for me have a moment of clarity where I realize that, on the face of it, this is insane, that I must be crazy, that the situation’s patently absurd.

I can’t ever predict when “The Wall” will be hit.

Andrew thought that the Extreme Clothes-pin-On-The-Nipple-Repositioning-Moment was the tense point for me.

And, fair game.

I did, if I recall correctly, unleash a top-o-the-lung stream of shrieked invective, invoking several deities, possible suggestions of incestuous relations with his Mother, and profane insistence that his derangement ought to be punished and that I would see to that personally.

Just as soon as I was released from the duct tape, plastic wrap ropes and cuffs.

But it was not the pain that was The Wall for me in that scene. It was the order to lick his boots.

A boot fetishist afraid of a little dirt? WHay that is as absurd as....

A boot fetishist afraid of a little dirt? Why, that is as absurd as....

Well, not just lick them.

Yeah, lick the sole.
Go ahead. Freak out.

I did.

But in that internal way that feels like a 45 minute debate with opening position statements, rebuttals, point and counterpoint, recess, concluding arguments, recess, voting, and presentation of the verdict.

All of this happens within about 27 seconds.

I am hardly a mysophobe. But I don’t make a practice of tonguing the fucking curb either.

After what felt like an eternity of emotional athetosis, I fucking licked the fucking boot.

Why? Because he wanted me to.

And because it gets me hot to do shit I absolutely do not want to do.

That is my simple core of submission. I feel like a million bucks when I can obey someone I trust.

I can fully expect to be doing a bit more of that, next we play, because one of the things that HE enjoys is having someone do something that is edgy for them, simply to please him.

Something else that works for me is being accountable. Te accountability problem is a big one in my life, as I tend to unravel in arenas of my personal space and maintenance thereof if I feel like “No one cares.”

“But do it for YOU!” some of you are shouting at your monitors “You’ll feel better if you keep yourself in a tidy space, sweep and dust and clean and all of those self care th—”


Technically, sure, maybe.

But it brings me no frisson of pleasure to do that shit “for myself”

Now, if I know I am accountable, that someone will be checking up on me, then it becomes far more likely I’ll do the thing.

I hate being responsible. I despise the thought of someone checking up on me. I bristle at the constant threat of being held to measure, being inspected, risking failure.

And because of that hatred, bristling, threatening energy, I love it I love it I love it.

Andrew’s casual aside about possibly inviting himself over for Tea so that he can make sure “everything is in order.” filed me with indignant dread and a smart ass retort and an absolute demurral.

Right. Thanks but no thanks.

And part of me just said

“Yes, please.”

Oct 242008

It looks as though one of San Francisco’s last public pansexual Sex Club and BDSM playspaces,The Power Exchange, is at risk.

Psst...wannna buy a sex club?

The owner of the building is selling, and the future of the place is uncertain. On those nights where the filthynastypiglut in you wants to be ogled and leered at and objectified by complete strangers who seem to often take a Mystery Science Theater 3000 approach to watching sex acts, there’s no place like the Power Exchange.

This is one of my favourite scene memories from PE.

I had zero expectation that Sir would actually say “Yes” when I suggested we stop in at Power Exchange in the waning hours of the evening. Dinner had been really great, and I expected to be dropped at my flat.

Turning onto Otis, the red lights framing PE were gleaming at the end of the block. I laughed after I suggested we stop….we had no toys, and were not in any sort of fetish wear. But there was a space right in front, and Sir was game…so in we went. The price was right, as it turned out: couples were free.

The lounge area upstairs seemed to have been remodeled: vending machines had replaced the snack bar. The usual lookyloos skirted the fringes, watching for something to watch. We strolled through the mostly empty rooms…not too thrilled with the new chain-spider web now clogging up the perfectly good suspension beam. Sir theorized it was an attempt to get people to actually use the equipment: probably not too many people doing suspensions from the beam. Too sad, that!

Wandering downstairs, we toured the place; almost totally empty, save for the quiet observers. I was rather surprised at the way they moved…unobtrusive, and rather subtle, until there was some action. Then they became voracious consumers, absorbing all they could of the energy of the sex happening near them. A fascinating dynamic. We paused in a room with an exam table and a rubber sheeted bed. Somewhere, a hidden camera filmed the goings-on in this room. We were alone at first, but within moments of Sir reaching into my shirt and pulling on my nipple, partly exposing my breast, the hungry watchers materialized to see.

Strolling through the main play area, surrounded by the fencing, we checked out all of the side rooms, peeked in on the wankers in the TV room, and wound up in the ‘bullpen’ area. After securing a chain across the break in the fence, Sir turned to me, flipped me around and up against the cross. I was giggling a bit, as I thought this would be light and easy. We had no toys or the usual accoutrements of BDSM along for the ride: how far could it go?

Pressed against the cross, my forehead against the cool wood, I felt his fingers fasten on to my breasts, the nipple trapped again between his fingers. And he began pinching. Several seconds went by as I realized the pressure he was applying was indeed becoming extremely painful…my head was swimming and tears blurred my eyes. I wriggled, trying to escape. That bought be several hard slaps to my ass and another shove against the cross. More wriggling, more shoving. Those hands, capable of inflicting a bruising pinch strayed not far from my breasts for some time. Turning me around, he pulled my breasts away from my chest, stretching them painfully. I panted, trying to breather more deeply. He smiled. How is it that a smile can warm and chill me simultaneously?

Pulling me towards him by the tips of my breasts, he leaned down to kiss me, breath smoky and sweet from the Havana cigar and port he’d consumed after dinner. I was pushed roughly against the cross again, as he pondered what to do with me….slapping the insides of my thighs was the next place he went. Loud resounding slaps were followed by my yowls and moans. The flesh was immediately sensitized, and it was all I could do to stand and take the next slap.

Soon, it was too much and my legs reflexively closed.

“Spread your legs.”

I shook my head and squeezed them even more tightly together. Grabbing a handful of the hair on my labia, he pulled and twisted till I screamed.

“Spread your legs.” He repeated, and I did so with alacrity.

Slapping my thighs again, I was heaving with the intensity of the stinging blows. My legs shook, and his hand between them was not helping.

“Look at you…your pussy is wet already.”

Of course it was.

He turned me around even more roughly, and then something occurred to him

“Oh…but I do have a toy.” I heard metal strike metal, and a slipping sound, then a loud “pop”. His belt: 2” wide and heavy, it makes a formidable toy indeed. Quick strikes all over my ass convinced me that this was indeed to be taken seriously. Even more so when he began to whip me with it.

If it can be cracked, he can crack it, and crack it he did.

The first whip-like crack lit up my nerves and skin instantaneously. I whirled around, moaning.


“Up against the cross.” He said.

I complied.


Pop, Pop, Pop, three more cracks exploded against my skin, and I was unable to remain in position. Pushing myself away from the cross I was immediately met with a hand on my head yanking me around. I was stuttering; a first indicator that I was slipping away.


Oh the luxury of being able to plead for mercy and knowing that there is none coming…

Facing him, I could watch the curve and arc of the belt as the looped end leaped from his hand and contacted my reddened thighs. “Please!” I wailed “Sir…..oh god….” I instinctively threw up my hands to ward off further blows, my head shaking from side to side. He was not to be deterred, the blows came faster; legs, thighs, breasts, belly, arms, a hip exposed as I tried to turn away, all of these were targets for the terribly delicious belt.

From the corner of my eye I could see the denizens of the dark corners watching, sometimes there would be no one there, then the next moment a crowd of twenty would assemble, and then drift away like living fogbanks.

His black bandanna came from his back left pocket and blindfolded me, and he brutally shoved me against the cross I was while my back and ass were covered, inch by inch, with lashes from the belt.

The pain was fantastical, I was unable to speak coherently, and I was in heaven.

Through the haze I hear the jingling of metal…suddenly the jagged edges of house keys are biting my hot skin, the ends catching on fresh welts, the teeth leaving long scratches and I twist about, trying to escape the inescapable.

How long I gratefully reveled in the sweet agony he provided, I can’t say. He reached around my body… pinching hard on my pussy; I struggled again as the shimmery orgasm pillaged my thoughts, leaving me light and hot. Slowly my breathing began to normalise, the shaking ebbing.

“Did I tell you to stop coming?” He coldly inquired.

As though I had been plugged into a direct current, the enervating jolt sent me over the edge again and again…I was babbling and purring and crying all at once. After many long minutes, he pulled back my head.

“Good girl.

Now kiss my boots.”

Sinking to the concrete floor, the floor that I would never, under normal circumstances, dream of sitting down on even fully dressed, but on which I now prostrated myself without hesitation, my lips caress the leather, warm to the touch and so wonderful.

He strokes my hair as I kneel up. I could stay there at his feet all night.

Sounds began to filter back in; the raucous music, the murmurs from another room, the squawk of the security guard who, we discover later, was there because some patrons had been a bit…concerned…by the woman screaming “No! Stop!” in the downstairs. He seemed to possess the good sense to know a solid scene when he saw one, and remained to keep an eye on things. A hearty thank you to the PE security guy with the big old earlobes!

We stuck around a bit more, as I tried to reach coherency, and we replenished ourselves with water and juice. It was well after midnight now; we’d been there for almost two hours….where had the time gone? I was drained yet energized, tired and awake, exhausted but completely content.

Oct 162008

I often hear people talk about pivotal moments in their lives with longing regret: wishing they’d known then how critical a moment this fleeting juncture would be. I have had the pleasure / terror of Total In-The-Moment-Surety that something was going to be a life altering event even as it happened.

The unifying theme is choice.

When I decided to say “Yes” to my boyfriend J.P. and move from The City to Los Angeles. When I decided to attend NYU instead of Carnegie-Mellon. When I said “Yes, OK.” and invited a Certain British Musician to sit at my table and change the face of my core sexuality within a scant 17 days…all of these were moments where I made a deliberate choice and knew that the ripples would lap at the shores of my internal ocean for the rest of my life.

One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way. Imagine my surprise when the gossamer web of control and submission made itself known to me in the context of a children’s game. Which is bizarrely fitting. So much of what we do in BDSM is freeing our selves and rewinding, emotionally, to a trusting, open and daring and, dare I say, child-like psychology.

When I first took my steps into the Leather Community here in San Francisco, I was fortunate to be taken under the wings of some wonderful people, many of whom I am proud to call my friends to this day.

After attending and meeting some of the Big Kids at a Munch, I was invited to a kinky Truth or Dare party.

I was a little apprehensive. See, I had still never attended a play party, let alone done a scene, but I thought I could handle this sort of event. It is a game night, right? What could possibly happen?

The event was casual, in a private residence, with snacks and people sitting in a living room chatting and schmoozing. The game was played in the standard way. People are called out around the circle, and are able to choose whether or not they wish to reveal a personal truth, or take a dare.

Not really knowing what to expect, I stuck to “Truths” for the first round. My query was along the lines of “When did you have your first SM experience?” Since I had nothing else to go on, I replied by telling about The Musician, and our stunning affair, and how that altered my perception of what I needed from a relationship.

In theory, at least.

Come over here, and kneel, and kiss my boots.At the end of the round, there was only one person left. He was an imposing looking man, who I didn’t know personally but had seen at a Munch once. He was quite clearly a top. From his cool blue…or…grey…eyes (I couldn’t maintain eye contact for a sufficient duration to ascertain the precise shade) to his black leather vest to the buckle on his engineers boots, he was totally intimidating me.

Which was unnerving. He hardly seemed to blink.

He sat quietly, arms folded, through the entire round. Seemed No one wanted to truth OR dare him.

So who gets stuck with the last query? Of course, it was I.

“So, d’ya want a Truth or a Dare?”

He smiled, a small and enigmatic curl of the lip and said

“I’ll take a dare, please.”

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