candle – Ivy

Recently, the Redhead, Craftsmate and I were at an event with some readily available candles. We were all sort of goofing around about it, but we each wound up taking some afterwards for “personal use”. The shifty glances the three of us were giving each other were kind of priceless.

As the evening wound down, I shoved a bunch into Craftsmate’s shoulderbag.

“Did you take any for yourself?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t have my backpack, where would I put them?”

He smirked, “I have a few ideas where you can put them.”

Currently, they reside in the top lefthand drawer of my desk.

It’s been almost a year now since the last time I tried waxplay.

The last time, I had to perform it on myself while the thief watched. There’s something a lot more daunting about doing it that way. You would think that being in relative control of the candle would make the experience a little less intimidating, but you tend to actually have a lot less control over the candle when your hand is shaking than you’d like.

We started with it over my breasts, on my nipples. I shivered when started to drip onto my thighs. I protested when he suggested I put it on my clit. I had never done that before or had anyone put the wax there. When I finally agreed, I swear I saw white the moment the wax made contact with my clit. I cried out, my body shook, and I wound up spilling more wax on my thigh and over my slit.

“I’m proud,” the thief said, “and, damn, that looks awesome.” He gestured to the wax that covered my body. I blushed and chuckled.

I think I am way overdue for another experience like that.

What if she just gave you everything? If she allowed you inside of her in a way in which the metaphor is even stronger than the physical manifestation. If she just showed you every point of fragility, every joint worn weak, every bone turned brittle.

It’s often hard to be bare, even though we’re born it. We deviate from so many of our initial notions in an attempt at maturity, such as demanding care with such unabashed fervor that it seems to be nurtured is an essential part of being human. Yet, vulnerability will be difficult for her. To become oneself seemed to mean to build up walls not solely to keep invasion out but to deter those sincerest, most intimate forms of care as well, all for the sake of some structure to lean upon.

But, what if she could break down some of those walls? And she followed your lead, arms out, palms wide, fingers trembling with an almost rudimentary trepidation.

“In one way or another I’ve always suffered. I didn’t know why exactly. But I do know that I’m not so scared of suffering now. I feel more than I’ve ever felt and I’ve found someone to feel with. To play with. To love in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers too. And that I want to love him.” – from the film Secretary.

“I’ll be anything you want,” she said, “so long as I’m useful.”

She hated when people like them got over the top. She hated the pushcarts and the pony play and the ornate arrangements of flesh made to be something of use. She wanted to be used simply, to be reduced to function and not form.

And so he turned off the fuse box and blamed the storm. And she went to get a book of matches.

The Winter Formal, Part 5

At this point, Blue’s boyfriend comes over. Yes, boyfriend. We’re going to call him Byron. Because of alliteration and also because he’s the sort of romantic hero-looking fellow that Byron would write about. Maybe. It’s been a long time since I read Byron.

“So, you look hot,” Byron announced when he saw me, “like, really though.” I laughed and rolled my eyes. I’m not the best at taking compliments.

He took a seat and pulled me into his lap while Blue set to talking to someone else. I started fiddling with a candle on the table and was warned about getting wax on myself. To demonstrate my bravado, I blew out the candle and dumped a fair amount of wax on my wrist. The joys of being a masochist.

Blue put his wrist out and I waited for the wax to cool a bit more before pouring some onto him. “Christ, that hurts,” he muttered.

We were all, vaguely, flirting from there. There was talk about hitting the dance floor. I rose up from Byron’s lap and gestured the group on. Blue wrapped an arm around me as we walked. "That’s it,“ declared Blue with a grin, "we’re going to have a threesome.”

“Oh, shut it.”

“Nope,” Blue insisted playfully, “we’re having a threesome.”

I shook my head. “Okay, dear.”

Just was alerted that I got a new email. It was from a certain tumblrer who I admire very, very much. And who clearly knows me very, very well.

quickienewyork:

©2011 The Dirty Gentleman (#251)

Cool weather means more candle rights?

Try as she may, she simply could not recreate the fun she had at Camp Climax. Oh, how she missed it so. He was kind enough to try to help her, but she was kind enough not to tell him that she knew exactly what was missing.

The temptation to make a “burning the candle at both ends” joke is almost too great.

There’s this really weird stereotype that floats around about kink people always being the kind of people who wear chains, bondage pants, the like in public. Or, they have mildly fetishistic apparel that they incorporate into their outfits. They’re typically portrayed as kind of creepy and really dark. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that stereotypical portrayals of kink people are usually that they have very clearly and very obviously ostracized themselves from general society.

And, then you’ve got the basement kinksters. Yes, I’m looking at you and that little stunt you pulled in Pulp Fiction, Tarantino. I’m talking about the idea that they all have dungeons in their basement lit by candles with chains hanging for the ceiling. When they come up from said basement dungeons, they’re key members of society and only then do they blend in. But, a-ha! They’re still portrayed as creepy.

I’d like to imagine I’m not a creepy person. I mean, my dorm room doesn’t have a trap door that leads to some ornate, medieval dungeon. And, hey, there’s nothing wrong with people who’ve got it. I just think the huge underrepresentation of people from the other end of the kink spectrum is a little bit upsetting. The BDSM community is this really diverse group of people. Yet, we’re almost always symbolized by the creeper with the basement dungeon, the gimp, or the femme fatale dominatrix.

But, hey, if the lady in the photograph wants to control me in whatever candlelit dungeonesque room she’s posing in, I’m game.