Godzilla 1, Tokyo 0
The problem with writing about the aftermath of a kink convention like Kinkfest
is really where to start. The sheer quantity of interesting events and cool people to talk about tends to make one feel a bit overwhelmed when they set about to tell the tale. I fear that I undoubtedly forget someone in the retelling of the tale so sometimes I think that the best route would be to just not even attempt the telling at all. However if I did that, this would not nearly be as much fun to read, no?
Here is a fun tale from the weekend I want to share.
The event organizers came up with this great idea. They printed up a set of stickers that read “I’m a TOP looking to play tonight” or “I’m a BOTTOM looking to play tonight”. They were brightly colored (and in different colors) so that from across the room you could spot them and if the person struck your fancy… well then you now had an excuse to start up a conversation with them. Tambo was to be off doing her amazing facial bondage on Peanut for the first part of the evening and I found myself with an open slot on my dance card for Saturday night. I was wearing one of these shirts
so I grabbed a spare “I’m a TOP” stickers and placed it right next to the image of Abigail (our company logo).
Tambo would tease me for the rest of the day, “Why don’t you just put a tag under Abigail that reads, ‘This could be you, ask me how’
Its late Saturday afternoon and I’m doing my thing at the booth. Pressing rope into the hands of all who come by and tying up as many smiling bodies as possible. Of all the demos I teach, my favorite is a limb/chest bind I learned from Berlin performance rigger. The tie is all about speed and motion and makes a dramatic demo, often leaving the recipient slightly wobbly and giddy with surprise. The girl, a raven-haired beauty from NYC with rich almond eyes and firm skin that screamed to be bound, was unsure about the whole rope thing. She knew she wanted rope, knew that she liked the idea of rope play, but had no idea of what to get or how much. After running though a bunch of ties on her limbs, I finished with the chest tie. Now the final move of the tie is to take the knot in the back, tug it tight and give the whole harness a good firm shake (and if they are cute, pull them backward in close to my body).
It was when I finished that move that she looked up at me though her disheveled hair and asked, “Is that sticker you are wearing correct?”
“I have a sticker around here somewhere too…”, she said making a nodding motion with her chin towards the pile of belongings she set down next to the table. The bright pink “I’m a BOTTOM.” Sticker was easily visible.
“Oh yes, I see you do have a sticker? And what does that mean to me.”
“Please time me up again and throw me around like this tonight, but I fucking wanna be naked for it!”
“Tell you what, you pick out the ropes you like and I’ll tie you up in them tonight. Deal?”
And so the date was set, she would meet me at the play space at 8 with her new rope.
I just love doing very rough, physical rope play. There is something very powerful and sexy about getting right up close to a person and binding them. I tried to describe this sort of play once as, “I just want to be Godzilla to her Tokyo and knock shit over.” Wrapping their limbs in hemp and tossing their giggling/screaming/cumming form about is just a delight.
Finding a nicely padded space to work, she was barely out of her clothes before I leapt upon her naked form. Part take down, part hog tie and all fun. That was the order of business tonight. Limbs were bound, legs spread, pressure points were tormented, breasts were punched and tormented, and was rope passed though wet pink places. I think it was an hour or two later when we came up for air. Her naked body now covered in rope marks and bruises and mine, while still clothed, was covered in sweat. (Hey, it takes a lot of work to lift up a girl in a hog tie and carry her across the room while she screams, “I’M A LITTLE FUCK BALL!” for you.)
The next morning she returned to the booth, still bearing the smile she wore when I kissed her forehead and sent her on her way the previous night.
“I think I need more rope. I kinda got some of my new rope… um… dirty last night” she said with a slight blush.
“Yeah, crotch ropes will do that,” I responded, “You can wash them you know?”
“You have got to be kidding! I want to save that rope just for me.”
Somewhere on the isle of Manhattan, dear readers, there is a girl with a bruise on her left shoulder that is a PERFECT imprint of a man’s size 11 Converse All-Stars (red).