Camp: Fire Play

It’s dark in the dungeon, as j assists Me onto the special table. I am face up. Naked. Entirely comfortable, remarkably unconcerned. And happy to have him with Me. Here. Now. Just as I commanded. Closing My eyes helps Me drift and relax into what comes next. Opening them, My executive function instantly engages in risk management. Closed I am in his Presence. he whom I adore, he whom I trust with this. The danger has never really occurred to Me. Such is the level of My trust in j that I have not viscerally questioned his ability to keep My body physically safe, though I do intellectually notice he is doing everything with due regard for safety. Reducing Me to charcoal is nothing compared to what I trust him with, the vulnerability, the gift of letting him make Me squirm when I let no one make Me squirm, the vulnerability of feeling kittenish, of coming off the table horny and needing his cock in a way I don’t often allow Myself to need.

What I will remember, what I deeply-deeply wish I could have as a physical picture, to hang above the bed in My granny pod one day far off, to provoke scandalized conversations of My well-lived middle age, is this moment of Me on the massage table, him leaning over My upper torso. The dungeon beyond is shadow and does not exist. There is nothing but him. Looking up, I see the gentle rise of My breasts at the bottom of the picture frame. On the left side is his strong, paw-like hand holding the fire wand -- lit and flaming up -- its light falling on his tanned face, throwing it into a relief of deep copper planes and shadows.  Allowing Me to see his soft eyes, to lock into his gaze each time he checks in.  Allowing Me to see the exquisite focus and concentration on his face, as he does his damnedest to fulfill My wish, the best way he knows how. I know him deeply, until the moments I have absolutely no idea who he is, and touch the universal mystery. 

On the right side of this picture is his head, bent intently to the task. His sexy, scruffy face flickering in the light of the wand.  His rectangular glasses reflecting the vaporous blue and yellow, as he swirls and dabs and sets. My. breasts. on. fire. I float a hundred feet down in the sea of copper light and shiver. No thought. No time. And I invite him in, over and over, to paint me with light. With a final flourish he finishes, the flame swirls across the surface of My nipples, and across his lenses, and then the gaze beyond captures Me once more. Lights me up.

I find I cannot write much about him. I can only write My experience of him. Who he is, and who he is to Me, has from the beginning resisted language. Perhaps because we have only such a narrow slice of time and space together, just at these big events, just when he is allowed. I am. He is. We are. And in between, we are not. It is intimate anarchy.

He assists Me to upright on the table, swaddles Me, cradles Me, and waits for the shivering to stop. I am fine. When he steps away, releases his grip, I am still completely fine as the rest of the world tilts. He brings Me back to vertical and expresses concern. Still fine, just in a place of ecstatic alteration, just like I wanted. Then serious and smiling he asks:

Do You want to get fucked?

he says it that way because he knows it is exactly what I have commanded, and he is such a very good boy. he knows I like having My hunger named. In the cabin under the covers, I slap his face to make him hard and he slides into a connoisseur’s position, the one I want. He is in Me and we hold hands and he gives Me everything I want until My thirst is quenched. And his is not. And it is wonderful. Then we fade into a rich and joyful slumber, his thickness still heavy as I hold him engulfed. We doze and I awake fully sated.

Fire fuck.  

It's a beautiful thing to have discovered that My body arouses in a holy-crap kind of way to the experience of fire play, and that fire arousal lights up so much of the same neural circuitry as sexual arousal, that it's merely a matter of taking Me across the finish line. I learned that from j, quite by accident. Maybe there was a time I might have cared that this is bottoming, bottoming from the Top. But I'm long past the semantics. I know what I want, I tell him, he gives it to Me. 

That is all.