======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
It was the end of the week and I was hanging with my boys when one of my pledge brothers inquired about my hand, referring to the burn wrapping around my fingers and traveling up my sleeve. I am fond of a good story, so I sat down, served up a lowball of whiskey and recounted the story of the hottest pussy I’ve handled in some time.
To preface, I’ve been out of the relationship game for quite some time, and rightfully so. But there is this girl, let’s call her Maya, that I’ve been talking to for a little while now, doing the typical hang out and hook up thing. She’s a little older than me and is probably a little out of my league. She’s really mellow and has substance and intellect, both of which are exceedingly rare these days. She’s also a little kinky, the “try almost anything once” kind, not the Texas Chainsaw Massacre kind. And so it seems that I’ve been developing those things we call “feelings,” and am fairly certain she’s doing the same. I figured I’d give it a shot, make it exclusive, and settle down at least for a little while.
Maya and I are hanging out one night with some of this “settling down” stuff running through my mind. I remembered her birthday was coming up so I asked her what she’d like to do, I wanted to try to give her “her dream day,” so I said she could have anything she wanted. With a little twinkle in her eyes she asked if I really meant it when I said anything. I had to remember to be careful saying that around her, she has this fixation on Kim Kardashian and has been trying to convince me to make a sex tape so we can become famous.
I gave her the look your advisor gives you when you recommend a “Cow-bro’s and Nava-hoe’s” mixer.
“Anything at all. Except for that.”
Her face lit up, in a type of apprehensive way, the way it does when she is excited about something but is worried about what you might think of it. She asked if I’d make her dinner (she has a soft spot for my cooking). With a placid nod, I said, “If that’s all you want, sure.” I baited the hook and she bit. “Okay, fine, so I wanted to try this massage oil that I got. It gives you this tingly sensation when you use it.” I was a bit curious as to why she would hesitate to share that with me, so I gave her an inquiring glance, “and…”
She caved. “And it’s a really long story but I got some silk rope and I wanted to try it out with you.” I’m dull as dishwater so I was a little skeptical, but it seemed harmless enough. After a moment of consideration, I consented. What could possible go wrong?
So her birthday rolls around and we’re at her place. I cooked dinner and followed it up with chocolate covered strawberries for dessert. We had a glass of wine and watched a short movie together, and her satanic cat was being unusually mild for once. After the movie, she got the massage oils, tiptoed to her bedroom, lit a few candles, undressed and laid in bed. Reluctantly, I found the silk rope, which was surprisingly soft, and tied her hands to the bedpost.
I dipped my hands in the massage oils and began working out the knots in her delicate shoulders and back. A long sigh and a muted moan affirmed that she was enjoying herself. I turned to scoop up a little more oil so I could start my search for the little man in the pink canoe when I saw the cat had snuck in and was staring at me from a nearby desk. He eyed me warily, flicking his tail back and forth, ostensibly close to a few candles. I silently hoped he would light his tail on fire and was about to continue with my search until he raised a paw and, with a menacing grimace, pushed a candle off the table. I leaped for the candle, hoping to keep it from burning the carpet.
You could say I saw my life “flash” before my eyes as the once small flame enveloped my right hand, fed by the oil. Tendrils of fire began climbing higher up my arm, braiding together into a shroud of orange, as if egged on by the malicious stare of that damn cat. Still bound to the bed, Maya looked on, hopelessness and horror crossing her face as I turned into the human torch.
I sprinted toward the bathroom and jumped into the shower like Bob Beamon in his record setting Olympic long jump. The water seemed to spread the oil rather than quench the flame but the cold curbed the burning. I heard a noise over my screams and suddenly saw Maya step through the doorway with a red canister, issuing a white liquid through a hose, and even as I stood there ablaze I couldn’t help but notice the irony that I was supposed to be the one squirting white liquid.
Hot, wet, spent and covered in goop, I laid down in the shower and closed my eyes.
Needless to say, I’m still single..