Girl on the Net

Introducing Jenby’s guest blogs makes me feel like a lowly intern announcing the arrival of the CEO: her adventures are as creative as her writing is exquisite, and I am always in awe of both. She’s the most prolific guest blogger here on the site, as well as almost certainly the kinkiest person I have ever met. Just this year she’s already told us about some fun (and romantic) sharps’ play, her first ever nyotaimori scene, and getting railed at an orgy while dressed as Marie Antoinette. I was telling a friend just this morning about Jenby’s recent hucow episode, in which she was literally milked in front of a lucky audience at a club, and my friend (herself no stranger to deliciously creative pervery) exclaimed in wonder – with wide, excited eyes – that she had just learned an awesome brand new thing. I am always honoured that Jenby brings this thrill of deviant discovery to my blog. Today she is here with another kickass story, and this one’s all about sweat. Buckets and buckets and buckets of it. Open wide.

Sweat for life – an ode to odour

I’ve just gotten in from a latex event in the middle of a heatwave, so let’s talk about sweat.

It’s quite possibly my favourite bodily secretion, and nothing will make me fall for you faster than forcing my face into your unwashed, unshaven pits so I can lick away at the salt-rich deposits like a pornsick macaw and get so high huffing your scent that I forget my own name.

I forget where I was going with this. Just please whatever you do, if you’re prepping for a date with me, do not adjust your sweat.

The issue is, of course, that it’s hard to cultivate enough of the stuff to really make it the star of a scene. I sweat a negligible amount. Even, I discovered, when playing a genderbent Hamlet outdoors while dressed entirely in black in 36 degree heat.

Luckily, every now and again one encounters a perfect storm (with more than a little chance of rain).

I was tranning the shining station at my local fetish club and fighting to stay awake on almost no sleep when a drone friend of mine entered the social area clad in full-body opaque black latex, tightlaced corset, low heeled boots and gas mask with that trademark tinted visor, full of mystery and mind-melting promise.

Wasting no time I sashayed over in my vibrant pink two-piece, shoulder-length opera gloves and patent leather heels, and wrapped my arms around the erstwhile human’s neck, planting a sensuous kiss on the impassive dome which constituted its face.

And that’s when I noticed the rivulets of liquid cascading from beneath the unit’s corset, racing one another to the bottom of its shapely rubberised legs.

A race that looked so fun, I decided to join it.

With characteristic speed I found myself on my knees, licking at the salty streams while our mutual friends looked on in amusement.

‘Disgusting’ chuckled a voice from above. In my blissed out haze I wasn’t sure if it had been the drone who spoke or its owner, but with my duties as a shiner fulfilled, it wasn’t long before the two of them were leading me out of the social area and down the chilly metal steps to the venue’s dungeon.

Once there I was shoved unceremoniously onto a circular bed in the centre of the room, and my gleaming tormentor reached up and switched the glowing kitty ears on their drone headset to a deep red, signalling to everyone that Domme Mode had been activated.

The unit produced a thick roll of clear pallet wrap from my bag, and whipped off its glove so it could get purchase on the slippery material, and that’s when the rain cloud I mentioned earlier finally broke.

As I lay there, face upturned to my Dominant, a veritable shower descended, pouring from the glove which was now being vigorously shaken out above me.

It was like Flashdance.

Revelling in the refreshing rain I rapturously extended my tongue, and the sharp, salty flavour hit my taste buds, sending me swirling ever deeper into subspace.

In no time I found myself tightly mummified, finally cultivating my own sheen of sweat as the unit parked its latex-coated rear over my head, which was now the only exposed part of me.

‘Struggle,’ it said calmly, and I eagerly complied, squirming and writhing with all my might and confirming that my bonds really were tear-proof.

Satisfied, the drone let its full weight ease onto my face, the still-closed crotch zip digging into my soft human flesh as I lapped at the glistening rubber skin.

And that’s when it struck me.

Even with the zip tightly closed, sweat was still somehow pouring out, seeping through the cracks, and consequently each and every breath I took was infused with the choking liquid.

I was being waterboarded with sweat… and I loved it.

Craning my neck upwards, I gratefully supped on the precious gift of my Dominant’s juices, letting my tongue trace the folds of its neopussy through the catsuit, until it decided I’d had enough fun, dismounted, and released me from my bonds.

As it slinked off to be used itself by its owner, I returned to the social area where I lounged for the remainder of the event, and as I was leaving it occurred to my sleep-deprived brain that the only reason I’d been able to make it to the end of the night without fully conking out was probably the sheer amount of salt I’d ingested.

Yet another point in its favour, I grinned.

So please, if it’s warm out and you find yourself perspiring in the presence of a petite blonde girl with a cute fringe and hairy pits, take my advice:

Don’t sweat it.