What I felt when I saw Steampunk Guy come up the stairs was what I always suspected I would: pure joy and the hope that he was as happy to see me. He looked at me like I was up to no good and then we both smiled big. I kinda flung myself into his arms and oh sweet halleluiah, he hugged me ass-first, one check in each big strong hand, squeezing hard. He was, in the traditional sense, happy to see me, huge and hard against my front. My arms around him tight, I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in, felt a kiss on the back of my head, on my neck, hands in my hair and ohpalthisisdefinitelyhappening looked into his face, grabbed the back of his hair and kissed him hard, two months worth of kiss, all the things we didn’t get to do yet in a moment of forgetting my friends were there, that the party was there and we were in fact blocking the only way in.
I pulled away laughing and said “That’s not how I thought that would go…”
I got his rope out of my purse and explained that I’d sort of seen it as a gesture of closure. He ran his hand over my bra, pressing my nipple and squeezing hard like he owned the place. I closed my eyes and felt happy and dizzy and wet and then we made out some more.
“So much closure…” he said in a faux-wistful voice.
“Oh, I know, I’m totally moving on,” I said, while basically devouring his face.
“Should we do some stuff?” I asked.
“…Maybe…” He has this romance-novel-character way of being charmingly noncommittal, even when he’s clearly excited.
There’s a half-walled area near the bar where the fireplay usually takes place- spectators can lean on the wall and look in. He went over there, found an empty spot behind a suspension rig, and casually watched the fire while I made my way over.
“Just hanging out, mingling…”
I looked around and said “Eh, I know enough of these people,” and turned to face him, stepping up onto the base of the rig so that I was taller than him in my heels (The pretty shoes are the real heroes of this story, I think. I just love them so.) and kissed him some more. I felt like a sex goddess movie star, all gorgeous and happy (I keep saying happy) and climbing all over this beautiful friend who was for some reason letting me have my way with him. I felt like I’d won the play-party lottery.
We joked (Well, I was joking) about the possibility of fucking:
“I do have a car, I’m just sayin…’”
“You suuuure do!”
“And we never got to that whole anal thing…”
“I know! That is the part that needs the most closure!”
But this isn’t that kind of story.
He said some incorrigible thing and I smacked him across the face, inspiring him to grab one of my pigtails hard and yank my head all the way to the side, then grab hold of the other one and kiss me while my head couldn’t move. Did I already use the word happy too many times? It just felt so good. He yanked me toward the floor until I was crouched at his feet. His hand went up my neck and over my mouth and he left it there, soft and warm and where I’d wanted it to be since July.
There’s never been a lot of subspace going on when I play with him—it’s always been more of a sex-friendship than a power exchange—but there at his feet with his hand over my mouth I felt a deep calm, a quiet descended over me. It was an oasis, a break from every single thing. I felt safe and adored and adorable and childlike, at peace. I kissed his hand and rested there, content.
He yanked me back up, losing a button from his jeans in the process—“Must be all the closure!” I said.
I turned around and stuck my ass out for him, leaned my hands against the rig. He smacked and squeezed, smacked and squeezed, and of course I wished his fingers could go all the way in everywhere. So little of this was about pain, it was the opposite of my last awesome trip to the dungeon. He plays more like a lover than like a Dom, it’s about pleasure much more than sadism (except for always wanting to be rough on the boobs, grrr) so I was cooing rather than screaming, and there would be absolutely no emotional hangover the next day.
Next: Ropes! And the girl with the “Awesome” tattoo.