For a month now, I have been a woman on fire.
My rage is less acute than it was four weeks ago, but the fury remains, fed by the never-ending supply of trash that Trump throws in the pit.
So, in order to find some solace, I attended a kink party – if I’m already boiling, why not add some fuel?
I have always been drawn towards fire; I love the smell, the taste, the look, the feel. It’s stunningly beautiful and alluring and frightening. Running my hands over a flame has been a joy of mine for as long as I can remember. So, it seems natural that I might be drawn towards fireplay – and I knew just where to find it.
There is nothing quite like getting naked in front of a group of strangers, lying on a table, and having someone literally set fire to your skin. The smell of the isopropyl alcohol filled the air, and I could see the orange flames even through my eyelids. He started out lightly at first, stroking my back with the blazing wand, and suffocating the flame swiftly with his other hand, up and down my body, in a rhythmic, meditative pattern. Eventually – urged on, no doubt, by my wriggling and writhing – he became bolder; he smacked my skin with the torch, allowed the flame to sit for milliseconds longer, burning all of my peach fuzz off as he went. It was utterly exhilarating, and simultaneously comforting – the warmth gave me a false sense of security, until ouch! it burned just a little bit longer and shocked me back to reality.
In the background, I could hear the jeers and smacks aimed at the old, naked white man whose Domme had written “Trump Supporter Pig” on his chest, put a pig nose on, and tied up for everyone to laugh at. I smiled serenely to myself: this is the therapy I never knew I needed.
