Hair Today, finished.

It is true, what I said earlier about not wanting to move when being shaved with a straight razor. No sooner do I begin to take the lather from the bone china shaving cup and begin to lather her thighs, she freezes in place. Not a freeze of fear, well maybe a little, but more calming as the bristles of my shaving brush float across the summit of her shin bones. Of course, a boars' hair bristle brush against her legs will illicit a giggle. Said giggle is quickly replaced with a sudden gasp as I place the blade of my razor against her skin and draw it, slowly, along the length of her long, firm legs.

The first thing I fell in love with about shaving with a straight razor? The sound the blade makes as it makes its way across taught skin. Press too hard and you can slice clean to the bone. Too Soft and your blade slips ineffectively past your target. Rather, there is a sweet spot, where your blade rests at the proper angle against the skin and the tension in your hand is firm, yet graceful. The sound of the blade as it effortlessly removes anything in it's path is a humming to the harmony of each strand of hair it removes. You will hear when you have your stroke down before you can see it.

Legs smooth and shimmering, I move to the nest under her arms. Her jaw clinches and I can see the outline of her jugular vein begin to throb as I prepare the area. The curve and shape of the armpit requires me to draw in close, inches from her skin I can smell the mix of sweat and shaving soap on her skin as, with a few percise strokes of the blade render her bare. Sweat forms between her breasts and gathers down the line of her flat stomach, pooling in ht well of her navel. All the while she remains, motionless, save for the rise and fall of her stomach as she breathes deep.

Stepping back to admire my work, I can't help but grin my huge, lopsided grin. Wiping the mixure of sweat, lather and hair from my hands and blade, I ask "ready for the main event?"
With out saying a word, she opens her legs to me. Exposing her most intimate self, a thick curly nest of fragrant black curls, hair that run in a thin line from her navel to a rich, sweet expanse of damp coils that almost, but not quite, hide her deep pink sex.

Soon, this too will be laid bare to me, exposed by my blade.

Making small circlies with my shaving brush, a small moan escapes her lips as I follow the whisper thin trail of hair on her taught tummy and work my way down. Where the thick lather of my shaving soap ends and the desire begins is lost as I carefully spread her skin flt and begin with my blade.

In this moment, my focus is complete, inches from her sex, one hand resting on her body while the other holds my blade like a concert violinist would hold his bow. Fingers firm, locked on the handle less it slips from the steamy damp, consciously relaxing the rest of my arm so that my movements are fluid, percise and free of any nervous energy. Here, shining blade mere milimiters from her clit, a nervous twitch or a moment's hesitation could spell disaster. Here I am so close to her body, here all mystery is stripped away as I pull apart her folds in order to gently take those few wisps of hair from inside her.

Stroke by stroke the thick sweet smelling curls are replaced with pale, sensitive skin. She gasps as I run my sticky fingertips along the now bare crest of her pelvis to inspect my work.

"Almost done," I tell her, "turn over please."
"Why?" she asks nervously then eyes growing wide with fear as she realizes what is next.
"just one small bit let"

Knees tucked under her body, she bends and offers herself up to me once again. This time it is her ass, soft and round that is exposed to me. Once again, I have to smile and do a little dance of evil glee at the sheer beauty of the site.

While I am not a fan of breath control play, I know I best work fast save that she pass out from holding her breath as my blade makes those few last strokes along the inner curves of her ass and thighs. Ok, maybe I linger just a wee bit longer than needed, but what sort of sadist would I be if I didn't enjoy the moment?

Done, she collapses on the table. Heaving for air and coverd in a mix of sweat, shave soap and fragments of hair.
"ya know," I say opening a Mexican beer, "the best way to get all that off is nice, warm shower..."

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Now I've said it before on many occasions here on this blog, I've got a soft spot in my kinky heart for a woman's pubic hair. While not a deal breaker or must have by any stretch of the imagination, rather I just get a secret (or not so secret) smile when I discover a woman who chooses not to follow the fashion of the day. As an aside, I would pin the blame for this particular kink of mine on this woman, but that is a tale for another day.

No, today's story is all about the possession of body hair... and the removal of it at the edge of a straight razor.

"The black one", she says with a sigh, "the one you use every day"
She points to the row of razors, laid in single file before her, their blades gleaming with the promise of danger. Each blade has a story, a history to me. She listens wide eyed as I pick each one up, caress it like a lover, and share the blade's story.

"this one, this one I named Klaus", rolling the handle so that the dull gray of the blade explodes in the light before her, "hand made in Berlin before the war. Found it in a roadside antique store. This", picking up a simple black handled blade," this was given to me by a 70's porn goddess. She used it in a film that once scandalized the audiences of grind house theaters across the country. Took me months to return the blade to perfection. And this", pointing to a pearl and mahogany handle of another, " was a gift and may only be used on the skin of the woman who gave it to me..."

She is naked and the room is *just* cool enough to see the landscape of her skin explode in goose flesh. Maybe it is the temperature, or perhaps not, either way I can't help but smile at the way the hairs along her inner calf bristle and rise in anticipation of what comes next.

Tonight, tonight that hair will be mine. All of it.

Yes, unlike previous times when I have been so honored to have a woman offer me the hair between her legs, tonight I am being given a truly special and rare gift.

She is one of those funky neo hipster types. The kinda girl who only shops at second hand stores or street fairs and sports a look that is both chic and self assured. Lithe and tone, her dancer's body is before me. Tufts of thick, curly dark hair peek out from under her harms. The a gift on Christmas morning, a tiny red bow is tied into the thick curls of her pubic mound.

Next comes the strop, I run the blade along the long strip of leather in slow, even strokes. This is not so much to sharpen the blade, as that has been done with painstaking detail already, no this is more to prepare the blade and align the microscopic particles of metal along the razor's sharp edge so that there is nothing but pure, single minded, sharpened steel. All fixed upon one tasks.

As she lays back on the bondage table, trying to relax, she asks if I am going to restrain her... open.
"Oh no..." I say with a wicked laugh, "I assure you, you will be very motivated to stay very, very still for me"


Dammit, I've rambled too long and there are rope orders that must go out today. I'll pick this tale up again tomorrow.

I need to shed my skin for you

The beast that lives just beneath my skin needs out, I can feel it growling. Claws itching to be set free as it hungrily paces, back and forth, looking out at you from behind my eyes. It snarls and nips, a base creature driven by the most basic of needs. Hunger, hunger for you. It longs to be set free, to slink across the bed and sink its fangs into your warm, willing flesh. To feed, to consume your body. Muscles ache and fingers twitch as at the prospect of being set free upon your naked body.

That beast, the thought of loosing control of it frightens me, but not you. You welcome my snarls with open arms. The uglier, blind with lust and rage I become, the tighter you pull my thrusting hips to you. You do not fear what I can become, you invite it. Sinking fingernails into my skin you tug and pull, quickening the beast’s release.

Tonight the moon is full and must howl at it, to bare my fangs and sink them into you while we fuck. Please, dig your fingers into my skin and pull, free me from this skin suit and welcome my dark, animal soul out and into your bed.

8-Ball In The Corner Pocket

So lets talk about that giant ass hook I have been seen brandishing as of late. You know this one, the one with the amazing 2 inch wide ball on the end? The one that most folks look at and sorta wince? Well it would seem that a fine young lady of my acquaintance, upon experiencing said hook up close and in the flesh (as it were) expressed her disappointment with said ball. In fact she went as far as to say to me, “Ya know, I sorta thought it would be bigger”

Let me tell you, no man likes to hear those words, ever.

So while I made a mental note to request a 4 inch version, I had to do something to save face. Hence the threat, a quick laughing off the cuff sort of thing really, of stuffing multiple pool balls into her ass next time I got the chance. This, this dear reader was the wrong thing to say. See, the sexy woman in question is rather proud of her backside and it’s, how shall I delicately put it, capacity.

Her response was to laugh and tell me that if I can figure out how to do it with out the scene ending in an emergency room, I was more than welcome to have at it.

Can pause and I just say how much I love my life?

Anyways, I had not put much thought into that exchange until last week when a box arrived for me at the Abbey. Inside, a brand new set of regulation pool balls with a little note that read, “The ball(s) in your court”. Yes, dear readers, the gauntlet had been thrown and my ego (and libido) were now firmly committed to the idea of taking her up on her most generous offer, of course the responsible top that I am still had yet to first answer some very important safety questions. I needed to consult an expert, namely a gay friend of mine who “flagged red”, if anyone knew the ins and outs of extreme anal play it would be him.

We discussed the various options for just how to secure said balls so that they could be safely retrieved and not run afoul of any of the delicate tissues and, most importantly, not send the girl into the hospital with a perforated colon. So after much conversation and weighing of the all the safety factors to be considered, he paused and asked one very probing question that I had yet factor into my planning.
“It would seem to me,” He said thoughtfully stroking his goatee,”that you have yet to answer one very important question.”
“Well… I thought I had the major ones down, but what am I missing?” I ask with concern.
“Stripes or solids?” He chuckles, “I mean are you playing 8-ball? Cut throat? What happens when you sink the cue ball?”

This gives the whole “Ball in hand” rule a whole new twist now don’t it?

Caroline

The sweat ran down Caroline’s breast in rivulets as I dragged her head back by the hair and pressed the keen point of the knife to her nipple.

“This is why you’re here, isn’t it?” I whispered, my mouth close to her ear as I watched the blade press against her flesh. “This is what you need from me.”

“Yes,” she moaned, and pressed her breast up to meet steel.

Her first email had been tentative, even shy. One of my regular clients was a friend of hers, she explained in carefully worded, polite phrases, and they’d got to talking one evening over a bottle of wine, as girlfriends do. And well, she thought she might be interested in engaging my services.

Over dinner in a quiet little bistro she explained in halting tones what she wanted from our time together. Her husband was a wonderful man, she explained. A loving father to their two young children, supportive of her choice to go back to school and get her nursing degree. She loved him, she told me as she pushed a dark curl behind her ear in what I would come to recognize as a nervous gesture, and would never consider leaving him. But there were things – dark desires and forbidden needs – that she could not ask him for.

That’s where I come in.

I dragged the dull edge of the blade along the plump curve of her breast, careful to keep from marking her milk pale skin. She trusted me not to leave marks, as they would invite questions from friends and family she wasn’t prepared to answer, so I had to offer the pain and humiliation she craved without violating that trust.

I tossed the knife aside, the clatter of steel on the concrete floor making her jump, then squeal when she came up short against my fist in her hair.

“What do you need from me, Caroline?” I whispered.

“You know,” she whined, then gasped as I gripped her hair harder.

“You have to tell me,” I reminded her, and allowed myself a small, fierce grin as she writhed in discomfort at the thought. “You have to tell me or I’ll have to draw my own conclusions.”

I pressed against her, pushing her body down into the floor even as I dragged her head up, my free hand coming up to loosely circle her throat. I felt her swallow convulsively against my palm, felt her strain to push her neck in to my hold.

“Do you want me to make love to you, Caroline?” I whispered. “To caress you gently, kiss you softly? Do you want me to sing you romantic songs, spread rose petals at your feet?”
Her eyes were open now, shock and dismay reflected in their amber depths as she listened. “No,” she moaned, shaking her head reflexively despite my hold on her hair.

“No?” I asked. “Then why are you here? Tell me why you’re here, Caroline.”

She wet her lips. “I need you to hurt me.”

“Very good,” I said, and twisted my fist harder in her hair as a reward. “What else?” I asked over the echo of her grateful moan.

The words came faster now, all but spilling out of her. “Abuse me, humiliate me, make me your slut.”

“Is that what you want to be, Caroline?” I asked, and pressed on her throat with the slightest of pressure.

She nodded. “Yes, yes,” she panted, her eyes now heavy with desire and anticipated satisfaction. “Yes, please, make me your slut, your whore. I’ll do anything,” she promised.

“Yes,” I told her, “you will.”

For the next hour I set about destroying Caroline the wife, mother, nursing student and dutiful daughter of doting parents. Gone was the dark glossy hair, perfectly coiffed and pulled neatly back into a curly pony tail. Gone was the make-up meticulously applied, the expensive perfume’s subtle scent, the prim and proper slacks and blouse she arrived in.

In her place I built a pain slut, a wanton mass of sweaty, quivering flesh sprawled naked on a concrete floor. A woman reduced to the flesh between her legs, the needs that screamed through her body, needs she’d do anything to fulfill.

And fulfill them I did. When Caroline walked out of my office and back into her life, her hair and makeup were perfect, her perfume reapplied, her slacks and blouse in the same meticulous condition as they were when she arrived a scant few hours before.

And if she walked a little slower, and winced a bit when brushing her hair that night, only she and I knew the reason why.

The wrong side of the tracks

“shh, you hear that? Is that someone coming?” I whisper in her ear.
The light rain pattering off the hulking steel of the train cars makes it hard to tell if the sound is actually feet, crunching along the rail line or just a trick of the night. Either way, the warning worked. Her body stiffens and lets out in voluntary shudder as she does her best to stifle her moans.

Danger, especially the danger of getting caught can be a powerful aphrodisiac.

Me? Me I’m wondering to myself, “I certainly hope that I got the right set of rail cars and picked the two that are on the unused line…”

It all started with a request, she loves the thrill that one gets when there is a potential for discovery, that danger that spurs your adrenaline on. “Some place in the open, someplace dirty” was what she said. Good thing the neighborhood surrounding the Abbey becomes an industrial wasteland after dark, perfect for what I had in mind.

The first problem when planning a good scene is location. Much like real estate, it is all about the location. Where you play impacts how you play. A seedy motel room sets a far different tone than the loft over a painter’s studio. While I have a number of secret hot spots that I can draw from when planning a scene, outdoor and industrial takes a bit more planning. One has to factor in not only the obvious danger, getting caught, but also the dangers inherent to life in the industrial district. Are the people living in the abandoned warehouse you are planning on using? Is the property you are on owned by the port authority and patrolled by homeland security?

This and more went through my brain as I cruised the back streets and rail spurs late one night looking for the perfect location. I eventually found it, a storage spur once used by a sugar refinery to fill tanker cars, now abandoned, save a string of storage cars. Their giant rusting hulks would provide excellent cover as well as hard points for what I had in mind.

Yes, I said hard points. If you are gonna do a scene, go big or go home. My victim would be suspended between said rail cars.

Next problem, the bottom. Take care of, she sought me out and saw to it that I would be well rewarded for the application of my devious talents.

Then there came the problem of the actual tying. While I am known for the speed at which I tie, suspension bondage is a time consuming thing and something that requires a focus and attention to detail if one wishes to not hurt their partner (in the non-planned way that is). Now I knew we would not have a ton of time to play, the part of the rush of public play is the pace, that frenetic “OMG what if we get caught” feeling. Add the chill of the night air against naked skin and even the most flushed of souls won’t last long.

Nope this would require pre-rigging.

I have a special fondness for tying rope against skin and then dressing the person up and taking them out into public. There is something delightfully devious about sitting back and watching your bottom smile and squirm as they sip their coffee, all the while a tell tale strap of hemp peeks out from the neckline of their clothes.

I would take this premise a step further and tie a set of thigh harnesses into a corset tie.


On the night in question, the rain had just paused as we pulled up to the spot. Killing my headlights before rolling to a stop, I look over at her. Under her trench coat she wore the rope harness and nothing else, save a few objects that I, being the gentleman that I am, won’t divulge save that they made her eyes cross every time the car hit a bump along the drive.

Taking her hand, we strolled casually along the tracks as they lead in between the massive warehouses, our feet crunching along the gravel that fills the track lines. Once at our destination, I set to work. In the bulging pocket of my BDU pants are several lengths of rope. I pull one after the other and begin to secure her in between the massive, rusting cars. Just as I pull her last foot up off the ground and secure it, the rain starts again. Cold and spattering it echoes off the rail cars and streaks her flesh. Coat open to the elements, there she hangs. Legs spread wide and trussed up between the cars. Open and ready for the entire world to admire.

Of course there were no footsteps, no errant homeless soul about to wander into the scene. Of course this did not stop the actor in me from suggesting that it could happen at any moment, Noting any sound and whispering just how dire her plight would be if someone were to find us and how I would have to offer her up in hopes of us both avoiding incarceration should we get caught.

Yeah, I’m a bastard.

When the rest of the game played its course and the time came to bring her down, I quickly cut away the lines that connected her to rail car and wrapped her shivering body in to the thick blanket I brought along and gently guided her back to the warmth of the car.

Days later I would return to the site in hopes of recovering the bits of rope I left tied to the rail cars only to find them gone. Not the rope, mind you, the cars themselves. Somewhere out there is a pair of tankers with several pieces of hemp rope dangling from them.

Location, location, location


A change of location can dramatically change the tone of a scene. While my loft office in the Abbey has been home to so many great memories, sometimes familiarity is not what you want. Tucked away in a dark corner of the building that I share space in, deep in the recesses where tenants are forbidden to go, I have a secret spot. A down a blind passage and behind a fake wall lays a forgotten room. My boot prints are the only thing to mark the layer of dust that covers the bare wood floors. The place would seem untouched it if were not for the shiny re-enforced hard points sunk into the two-foot thick beams that span the ceiling.

This is where I like to go when I want to shake things up. While the “what” I plan to do to her will be the same, my rope and hands crisscrossing her body. The mood will shift dramatically. What was met last time with giggles and squeals will be result in gasps and moans. My body language shifts from warm familiarity to a more aggressive stance as I pace around her naked, suspended form. The smell of her fear and sex will fill the enclosed space and when it is all said and done we will both emerge from the space, caked with dust and smiling.

No worse for wear at the end, save some lovely rope marks on her body, returning to the real world once again.

In praise of the round bottom

There is something uniquely beautiful about a girl about to be spanked. The site of her bent over at the waist, smooth round ass presented high in the air, face pressed down in a mix of anticipation and fear. I spied such a site the other night while at a party, her pale round bottom perfectly framed in lace panties. I just had to sit back and enjoy the show. She would squirm and moan with each strike of his hand. Her once pale ass, slowly turning a bright red, tomorrow she may have a healthy bruise but for tonight her soft flesh is flush and scarlet. She ducks her head in mock shame as he scolds her for flinching and trying to get away from his blows. Properly chastised she raises her ass again and wiggles it with a devilish grin.

A charming thing, a spanking. They can be so many things, an intimate act of someone laying across your lap and pressing themselves into you as your hand cups the curves of their bottom. Playful as you scold them for being “a bad little boy/girl/botanist/chartered accountant/ whatever” or punishing as those once gentle blows are replaced with long, powerful swings.

Alas, I don’t get to give many spankings these days. Those who seek out my hands, ask me to use them clenched in a fist or grabbing them tightly with my (in)famous rope maker’s grip. However these hands are well suited for the task, should the opportunity present itself, long muscular fingers and a wide firm palm.

My rough, calloused pads resting against the soft, smooth arch of a woman’s round ass, feeling the warmth as it radiated off her flushed skin…. What a charming mental image that does make.

Back in the Saddle

“Lead with the left and brace the right” kept ringing in my brain as I climbed the ladder to inspect the hard point. Just shy of 6 weeks have past since the accident and this would be my first return to throwing a public rope scene. The grind last night was packed as we started to lay out the ropes and gear. Curious onlookers, eager for the spectacle, started to gather around the perimeter as well as a few concerned friends, their brows furrowed with a “should he be doing this yet?” look on their faces.

Should I? Good question. Truth be told I was probably more nervous than Alex as we stretched and centered ourselves. Its just rope you say, how hard can it be? Besides, you’re the top you are the one dealing out the damage, not the other way around, you are probably saying to yourself right now. No, dear readers not the case. Anyone who has seen my play knows that I am VERY physical when I play, throwing my partner about, using my mass and muscle to deliver an exhausting experience for us both.

My motto, It is not a good scene till I’m also drenched in sweat and panting.

Thing is, six weeks with no play. No rope running between fingers, six weeks of not getting to hear the exited yelp of my bottom as I pull their feet from underneath them and let them dangle, safely encased in my ropes. That is torture, dear readers. Sheer and pure hell.

And so, last night… After swearing to both my partners that I would be very mindful of my recently broken bone and reassuring my boy that at the moment my shoulder started to even begin to hint at being done, I would call the scene, I set out to have some fun with my favorite boy. Alex greedily took all the punishment I could deliver and like the little rock star he is, begged for more.

While my flow was a bit off, having to pause here and there to switch hands so my stronger, more flexible, left could tie off a line or to re-adjust the figure 8 brace so that it kept things solid and in place as I set about to devour my prey.

And devour I did.

At one point, as my sweet Alex hung from the ropes like some kinky marionette, limbs akimbo and legs bound open, clothing in tatters from my blade and howling in that mix of glee and terror that makes my heart sing with affection of the boy, and the jodhpurs of my now sweat soaked uniform uncomfortable with desire. I gave out a healthy roar of approval and laughed, “Having fun boy? Daddy sure as hell is!”

Eventually the shoulder (and Alex’s gasping form) would inform me that perhaps we had reached our limit for one night. Yes, the greedy side of me would have loved to keep going, but a promise is a promise. This morning, aside from the usual, damn I stayed up too late last night feeling, the shoulder feels great.

Lock up your daughters (and select sons) America, Monk is back in action.

The "Pancake-O-Meter" of good play

I was in my early teens before I discovered the joys of central heating. See, back on the farm I grew up on we only used a mammoth wood stove to heat our home. I must have been 12 or 13 before I discovered that other people had these funny little boxes on the wall that you turned the dial and it got warmer. Back in those days, when my grandfather would come to visit, he would always make a huge fire. Overloaded with freshly split hunks of pine, the great wrought iron beast would roar till the top was just shy of glowing. In protest, we would always have to open the front door of the house to let in some cold air, save we all wither from the heat… or spontaneously burst into flame. My granddad always laughed at this, calling the front door, “the only measure of a good fire that really mattered”. Meaning that in his mind, it just was not a really good fire till you had to open the front door.

What the hell does this have to do with pancakes? Good question. A top can throw a good scene and enjoy the response they get from their bottom. Sure, you can enjoy the effect of whatever devious delight you are subjecting them to, but the really good scenes are the ones that when it is all said and done, when they are starting at you with a sort of dazed expression and a slightly off kilter smile, and they announce “god damn do I want pancakes now!”

That, that dear reader is the mark of true success.

Diner booths make for some excellent post care, sipping coffee and enjoying the late night feast of food that you would never think of eating when the sun was up. That stack of pancakes with a side of hash browns so large it threatens to engulf most of plate, is the best damn tasting food in the world. Smirk if you will, but there is something really gratifying about watching someone you just played with devour a meal with gusto and genuine hunger. Reminds you that what we do is physically intense and when done right, the hours feel like minutes and you end up throwing your entire self into the play till you are near exhaustion.

Of course you could say that this is just the ramblings of an egotistical top, smug in the knowledge that they wore their partner out.

This could be the case, if I did not know the power of pancakes first hand. See, I do switch on occasion. Recently during a much-needed lost weekend with my lover, Matisse, I returned to the land of bottoming after what had been a long, long time. Why so long you ask? A million reasons, none of them worth going into, but suffice to say I really, really needed to get my ass full and righteously kicked, hard. And kick it she did.

In the pre-dawn hours as we wandered into her kitchen, I was more stumbling in a daze really while she waltzed about with a wickedly satisfied grin, in search of post play nourishment. Sure we could go out, find some all night diner, maybe even a late night pizza.
“Pancakes, dude I must have pancakes..” Was all I could say.
Rifling through the cupboards till we found all the required components, even peanut butter (yes I am weird like that). I set about to make breakfast.

Let me just say, dear reader, that those were the best-damned tasting pancakes I have ever eaten. If god himself were to come down on high with a golden spatula and used unicorn milk in the batter, they would not come close. Yes, pancakes the perfect post scene food and the mark of really good play. How good you ask?
Well no sooner were the plates cleared when I, looking a bit more like a human, said to my lover, “You know that one thing you did with the thing…”
“Oh yeah, that was fun!” She responds with a wicked laugh.
“Let’s do that again.”
“Sure lover, anytime”
“How about now?”
“Oh really?”, she says raising an eyebrow, “perhaps we should leave the pancake mix out for later… just in case.”

Behold the power of pancakes, the only measure of a good scene that really matters.

Broken PT2

Critical hardware failure is not a pretty thing, experienced players do everything in their power to plan for such things. However a brand new piece of equipment breaking on the very first night of play? Well that just sucked out loud. Now I would like to take credit as an experienced top and skillfully getting my bottom down and free from the failed frame before anything bad happened, but it was Ayem who calmly stated to me, after said crack, “Um, that’s not good. Shall I come down now?”

Thankfully, we were using a minimal amount of rope, so he was free and clear in a matter of seconds.
Upon inspection of the frame, it was obvious that we had in fact broken the main support struts and damaged it beyond repair. I may have lasted another 10 minutes, 20 tops, but for certain this unit was down for the remainder of the convention. Way to go Monk, the event sponsor kills a hard point on the first night.
Despondent, Ayem looked at me with a large pouting lip and hung dog expression. “Great, I broke the new toy, now I won’t get to play anymore.”
“Fuck that, I aint done with you!”
Tossing him to the ground and firmly tying him into a small, laughing ball. I set about to find something suitable to use to continue the scene. All the suspension frames were in use and I was not about to go and see if I could break another one. Then, inspiration hit. Strewn on the floor of the play space were a number of small tie down mats. These are basically large padded seats with tie points bolted into the sides; they would make an excellent tool.

I was not planning on tying him to said bondage furniture; no I was planning on hitting him with it.

The foam padded seat made an excellent impact toy as I wielded it above my head and brought it down on his ass. A satisfying “whump” sound really. Followed of course by howls of laughter. That sick monkey was enjoying this way too much. Time to show him exactly what tea bagging was.

Rolling our victim up into a sitting position, I grab the back of his head and straddle up close. “See buddy, its like this” I say with a much malice as I can muster between giggles, “Tea bagging is when you take your junk and rub them on someone’s head, like so…” pulling his shaved dome closer, I make exaggerated thrusting motions with my hips and rub the crotch of my jeans into his forehead.

“But why is it called tea bagging if you are just rubbing your jeans against me?” He asks in his goading way.

Let me pause for just a moment, over the course of the last 3 years, it has become a sort of tradition that I end up naked in public. Well not naked really, just my junk. Yep, for whatever reason it is just not a Shibaricon with out Monk pulling out his genitals and doing something silly with them. I blame my buddy Scott for this, but that is another story.

Shrug, what can I do? He had me there. Un buttoning the front of my pants, I pull out my boy bits and comically slap them against the top of his head. Laughter erupts from over my shoulder. Seems that folks were watching things unfold and the sudden flash of skin caught them, shall we say off guard? No, lets not. The truth of the matter was that there was a line of girls watching two hot, sweaty boys wrestle around and now they were laughing their asses off as I comically used my good friend’s shaved head to scratch a non existent itch on my balls.

You would think that getting tied up in hot pink rope and having a dude rest his junk on your head would be enough for somebody, but no. This just made the crazy fucker laugh louder.

It took me doing (post pants re-zipping mind you) one-handed push-ups, fist resting squarely in the meat of his pectoral muscle, for him to finally tap out. Of course I made the mistake of gloating after we were done, proud in the fact that I had made Ayem, a notoriously energetic soul, exhausted. “Oh yeah, I broke the energizer bunny” I think was what I said… and what happens, like the terminator, he somehow reassembles his bruised self and bounces back up and smiles that silly grin of his at me.

Un freaking believable.

Later that night he would take part in a group suspension and single tailing at the hands of my lover, Matisse.