While I was in NYC, I met a pretty girl named Halo at Jefferson’s monthly orgy. Later, after attending a gangbang for Janie Bloom’s boyfriend (I’ll blog about that soon, I promise!) Halo and I decided that we didn’t want to part just yet. We decided to get dressed, go back to her apartment so she could walk and feed her puppy, then come back to Jefferson’s and make dinner.
“Smalls is coming,” Halo and Jefferson told me before we left.
“Smalls?” I wondered if I was hearing them correctly.
“Smalls,” they said, and I was left to wonder if they were referring to a boy or a girl.
On the way back, we went by a grocery, and Halo called Jefferson on her cell phone to see if he needed anything. So after more sex than I’d ever had at one time in my life, I found myself having an even more surreal experience: carrying stuff for a pretty girl in a grocery store.
Every time I get to have sex in NYC I feel deeply, deeply lucky. I know there are people who, at the same time I’m orgy-ing, are performing jobs they hate or are with people they don’t like. Or maybe their loneliness simply feels like a permanent condition. To these people, the things I did that week seem like an unattainable dream, as real as the hyper-polished spreads of a fashion magazine. I feel for them. For a long time I too thought good sex, not to mention multi-partner sex, was a lie on par with how buying the right perfume would make you irresistible.
Is it any wonder, then, that I remember something as pedestrian as going grocery shopping with Halo with a kind of glow? The bustling market felt more like a bazaar than a convenience store, and I followed along in a daze as she moved easily through the crowd, choosing a loaf of french bread and luscious ripe tomatoes. When she wondered aloud where she could find a place to buy wine that would be open at this hour, a gorgeous Australian man eagerly gave her directions to a nearby place. Things like that never happen to me, with my knee-jerk suspicion of strangers. Come with us, I wanted to tell him, we’ll do things you’ve never seen before.
* * *
When we got back to Jefferson’s apartment, a girl opened the door for us. “Hi!” she grinned. “I’m Smalls.”
Smalls was wearing nothing but a grey leotard and a red leash, the end of which Jefferson was holding. He was standing in the kitchen so that no one looking in through the open front door would be startled.
“Did you ever put clothes on?” I asked him as we came in with our bags.
“Why bother?” said Jefferson, reasonably. We unloaded the groceries in the kitchen and, predictably, as soon as the french bread was unwrapped began making phallic jokes with it. But then Jefferson suggested I feed pieces of it to Smalls instead.
I’m usually embarrassed when anyone alludes to my feederism, even among other kinky people. It’s something about our villainous reputation combined with the fact that most feederism erotica is uniformly awful, but somehow that didn’t happen this time. I was emboldened by the conversation I’d had with Halo as we’d walked her dog, where I’d explained my blog to her without her being confused or grossed out, and she’d even promised that I could feed her chocolate later. So I tore off pieces of the bread and fed them to Smalls as if she were a baby bird. I fed Jefferson too, and he used it as an excuse to bite my fingers. This made me so stupid-excited that I stumbled against the wall and accidentally turned the kitchen light off.
Before I could break anything seriously, however, Halo wanted help putting her corset on.
Believe it or not, I had never been near a “real” corset before. I’d read eagerly of Varla Dayne and Mr. Pearl, and had once purchased a cheap spandex teddy that gave the impression of wearing one, but Halo’s was a boned confection that shrank her tiny waist in even further. I pulled the laces on the top, then the bottom, then the middle, channeling the governess in a Victorian novel as Halo leaned forward suspended only by the laces. When the gap in the back of the corset closed, she gave a satisfied sigh.
Then she turned around so I got the full effect. Her corset was breastless, so her nipples were on full display, and her already narrow waist was pulled in even more, so that she had the waspy proportions of a burlesque dancer. I slipped my hands around her new hard curves, aroused and admiring. I don’t know what it is about the sight of such proportions that make me feel as if I’d suddenly gotten high, but there it is.
We went back into the kitchen, where the water was boiling. Halo took over the pasta making while Jefferson adjusted Smalls’ leash to a more comfortable configuration. It wasn’t a dog kind of leash, but a stretchy red rope she had finger woven out of red yarn. I’d made something similar as a child, I told her, but had never been able to think up a use for it that was half as interesting as hers!
Naturally, thinking about knots led to other uses for the rope, and Smalls begged Jefferson to make a breast harness for her. There wasn’t a lot of rope, he cautioned her, but took the leash off and wound it around her body instead, crossing it between her breasts and tying it in back. I leaned against the wall and watched them. Though it sounds impossible to anyone reading this, the whole scene had a very domestic air. Jefferson and Smalls were quietly absorbed in their work, and Halo was stirring and tasting in the background. Later, Halo called it being “lover-like.”
Jefferson and I talked about when I had bit him on the ear at Friday’s orgy. Smalls was inspired by this story to push him up against the door jamb and start sucking on his nipple. Jefferson tried to play along, putting his hands behind his back “like Saint Sebastian”, but in a moment or two his playful look was replaced by one of dismay.
She’s not even biting you! I pointed out. What happened, did someone try and bite your nipple off as a child?
Sure, Jefferson said, and rolled his eyes. I’d somehow forgot that I’d sunk my teeth into him without warning only a couple days before.
However, he was saved from further experimentation by dinner being ready, and all the attendant bustle as we tried to get everything on the table while it was hot, pour drinks and pass out napkins. In a few minutes everyone was sitting down and chatting like a family back home from school and work, except that Jefferson had nothing on but the napkin in his lap, Halo had nothing on but her corset and Smalls was wearing only a length of rope crossed between her boobs. Somehow, I had managed to be the only one left that was fully clothed.
I don’t remember what we talked about for the first few minutes, except that I was starving, the food was delicious, and being here with all these smart and sexy people made me deeply, deeply happy. Eventually, though, the talk turned to Sex Camp and Smalls’ first time there. She’d been so giggly and happy that a porn star had crushed on her and described six different fantasies to her, with Smalls’ body inspiring six different outfits.
“I don’t really like my boobs, though,” she said, claiming one was bigger than the other.
Oh really? Jefferson grasped the harness where it crossed between her breasts, making them stand out even more prominently. I don’t really see it. What about you, Halo?
Halo shook her head.
They look perfect to me, I said. Smalls is tiny, but she is also perfectly proportionate, with a luscious ass and tits that defy gravity.
“You have to weigh them,” Smalls said helpfully.
Halo, you better put this to the test, said Jefferson, and Halo got up and weighed Smalls’ breasts in her hands. She still couldn’t tell if there was any difference between them. She decided it would be best to take Smalls over to the sofa and study them more closely.
“Keep looking,” said Jefferson turning back to his dinner as Halo got to work, “Molly says they’re perfect, and we don’t want her saying anything that isn’t true.”