On advice from friends, I spent several days with a very talented intimiste, Nicea. I was lucky enough to find her at her house, available and interested in some extended shared time with me.
Over a cup of delightful ginger peach tea, I sat with her and poured out my troubles, my trials, and my needs. As with every visit to Nicea, there was first the discussion of wants, needs, expectations and desires. Of course, talking of such things serves to heighten each.
We talked for several hours while the business of her house went on around us. Rilej, one of her partners, went out for a private seduction, while Minil worked with her student on hair weaving in the front room. Nicea’s apprentices brought us a dinner for lovers; wild game birds with roasted peppers and onions, rice noodles with a sweet ginger sauce, and freshly steamed sugar snap peas in a light butter sauce followed by a mint and chocolate sorbet.
While we ate, we discussed the goals we each had for our time together, and agreed upon some parameters: no blood, no scat, no permanent marks, piercings would be allowed, as would penetration, impact play and edge play. Satisfied, we left the table, and the real world, behind.
Nicea has several rooms dedicated to her art, with a central courtyard containing a lovely fountain and formal plantings of sweet smelling gentian and lavender. The centerpiece of her courtyard is a large whipping cross. Eight feet tall, with rings set in each arm, it is constructed of timbers from an old trading vessel. Dark brown, the fittings gleam in the semi-darkness in which it stands.
As her apprentices brought out the toys we’d discussed, and a few we’d passed over in generalities, I removed my taka and began to focus on my breathing. My excitement was high, and I was already dizzy. Then, she came to me. My world became her face, her voice, her hands. With her, I was now safe.
She offered me a cup of her famous house blend of psychedelics and aphrodisiacs. I drank, deeply, of the tangy dark liquid. It came on quickly.
Her hands were cold as she secured the cuffs binding me to the cross, trailing fingers across my back and down my legs, positioning my feet, and securing them. The blindfold sealed the room from my sight, but I knew it in the wind, in the smell of the wood from the ship, the leather in the bindings, the sweetly musky scent of Nicea.
The swish of the flogger through the air, then the sting across my back; this was what I’d been needing, craving. I let go, and flew on the sensations. Pain and pleasure mingled into a sensual whole, my every molecule at once flying across the universe and intimately held in her hands.
I returned to myself wrapped in a blanket of furs, held in her arms. She smiled down at me, and stroked my forehead. Her left eye had a dark spot against the green, just off the edge of her pupil. She offered me cool water and sweet fruit. With harp music played by her newest apprentice in the background, and her strong arms around me, she soothed me into sleep.
That was the first day.
