Sep 3rd


Well, I'm still limping a couple days later - musta been a good party!

Saturday night Nia asked me if I'd go into what she termed White Trash Wife Beater mode. I started to think on what sorts of things could go into a scene if I were living in a single-wide propped on tilting cinder blocks, failing the tooth-to-tattoo ratio, and aspiring to someday appear on the Jerry Springer show. Oh - and then she asked if I'd mind if she fought back. This isn't gonna be pretty, folks.

I told her to wear disposable clothing and to arrive at the Wet Spot around 9pm, that I'd arrive around 10ish and at that point the game would be on. I managed to get there and wander off to the other side of the room without her getting a close eye where I was, although I know she saw me arrive. There's a pillar in the middle of the room with a little hook on it about 7' up, and I attached one end of a prisoner transport shackle [the Peerless brand leg irons in the link] to the hook. With other friends keeping her occupied over by the office, I snuck over and suddenly slapped a pair of handcuffs on her. Officer Friendly will tell you, once your subject is handcuffed behind their back, one hand on the cuffs will pretty well control where they go. I duck walked her on over to the pillar and reattached one end of her handcuffs to the dangling end of the shackle. I had an 8' length of some sort of industrial strength rope left over from when I was a fire fighter - don't know what it's made from but whatever was done to make it indestructible made it ... unforgiving ... to the flesh it may get tied over. I tied that off to the shackle, tied it under and between her legs, turning her skirt into a pair of culottes, and earning me a few more bruises. That 'fighting back' thing, remember? The flashes of fire in her eyes were marvelous as she tried really really hard to kick me in the nards, scratch whatever flesh appeared available, and ... uh - did I mention she kicks?

Let me back track a bit. I was wearing a pair of those too-blue cheapo blue jeans, white socks and black shoes, with a flannel shirt worn sleeveless and open like a vest, over an olive drab tank top that said PIG in nice bold letters across the chest. Backwards on my head was a dirty baseball cap from a "Dunny's Drive In - Nooksack WA", obviously a national cultural landmark. She was kicking and yelling and fighting and struggling and scratching and all that stuff, right from the git-go all the way through. The DMs had been warned, Georgette egged us on, Panther and family had helped distract her, and apparently we had a good sized audience. I guess that kinda added sterno to her flames when I got her secured to the wall kneeled down to sort through my toy bag... and pulled out a bag of fried pork rinds to sit and munch on. Good lord, but that girl got steamed.

She got even more incensed and pretty darn animated when I started pulling the toys of the evening out of the bag. Now, I'll give this to her - for a person who can't move over a couple feet and who is chained to a pillar, she put up a darned good resistance to my putting mousetraps [the plastic 'quick start' ones] on her nipples. That fastfootedness is remarkable considering I'd just frozen her in place by slashing her blouse to hanging shreds with a straight razor. Next tools out of the bag? Needle nose pliers. Lockjaw pliers. One of those screwdrivers that has those little gripper jaws to hold the screw? And other similar found-in-any-garage toys. Only things I was missing were a chaw of Redman and a blood alcohol level larger than Ichiro's batting average.

We fought on for a while, me shredding her clothes, repositioning her a couple of times for maximum ... comfort, yeah, that's it..., and terrorizing her with the thought of the toolbox contents. All too soon I called it... we both really wanted to keep going, but I didn't want to push her too far, and personally I was exhausted. Just in case anyone was wondering, it ain't too damn easy to channel a character like that, play in role, create a pleasurable sensation experience, allow her to fight as much as she wants without her hurting either of us, and to keep it as real as possible. I did notice putting the toys away that my lockjaw pliers had a small shred of the skirt she'd been wearing, and I'm certain there is a matching bruise somewhere tender. Her wrists I know for sure are going to be a reminder for a while that struggling against handcuffs is Darwinistic and self correcting.

After recovering for a bit we retired to one of the beds in the back room where it was blessedly cooler, and took turns fooling around and exploring each other's body. I love the fact that she and I are each quite sexually experienced, and yet we both continue to find things that are new and fascinating to explore.

I'm writing this Monday morning and am still finding the places on my body where I blocked her kicks. My knee is swollen a bit and there are a bunch of scratches on my arms that tingle to beat the band when I scrub them with a scrungieball full of Dr Bronners' Peppermint. It was a damn fine party.

Life is good.


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