Thanksgiving Thank You

I strive for the approval of others. That's pretty obvious, right? Well, whenever I feel like I didn't do someone justice, I try again. There are a few of you out there who are owed additional stories, and you'll get them. But today, thinking back to the holiday that passed, I was inspired to write the following story.

Which reminds me: I'm thankful for you, all of you. I'm thankful that you come here and read these. I'm thankful that you make requests. I'm thankful that you leave comments, that you give love and support. And I'm thankful that you buy my books (and if you haven't yet, please do?). Thank you all for your involvement in this blog.

And, of course:
For Fay, after a wonderful thanksgiving:
I’m not sure if you know this or not, but I hate thanksgiving. I’ve never been a fan, I could care less about football, and I prefer my turkey sliced and on a sandwich. When you invited me, I almost turned down the lovely offer. And I’m glad I didn’t. You told me that a kinky thanksgiving just isn’t the same as a regular thanksgiving, but you wouldn’t tell me what was different. To find out, you said, I had to come.

And I did. And I’m glad I did. Although at first, I couldn’t tell the difference. I arrived with a bottle of wine, my customary gift. You asked people to bring a side, but I decided I wanted to be well liked and accepted, and so it would be best if I avoided anything resembling cooking. I can burn microwave popcorn; what chance would I have with yams? Besides, there’s never too much wine.

I wish I could say that I purposefully chose a wine that would go well with the meal, but the fact of the matter is just that I prefer Riesling, so that’s all I had. Still, I’m glad it was a hit. I introduced myself to people around the table while you were still running around the kitchen like a demon, opening this, moving that, slicing and mashing. The only time I even heard your voice was when you yelled at someone who tried to sneak in for a taste before it was all ready. Your verbal lashing looked like it left marks.

Other than that, I heard you moving around in boots that I knew were uncomfortable to wear while cooking, and it made me smile knowing that you were wearing them for me. That’s when I looked around at the other guests and noticed that you weren’t the only one in boots. Engineer boots, biker boots, two pairs of Doc Martens; in fact, the only person who was not wearing boots was that lovely young girl Lindsey, who had converse chuck taylors that laced all the way up to her knees, making them kind of like cloth boots. I know I wasn’t complaining.

The conversation was a bit bland, but that’s to be expected. The general chatting of people who don’t know one another. “How are you? How do you know Fay? Where do you live?” That sort of thing.
Then, of course, the big question. “What do you do for a living?”

I considered lying, or just telling the partial truth, falling back on my alternate identity with his important, but boring, job. Something told me not to though. After all, you didn’t invite him to your party. You invited me. So I answered. “I write erotica,” I said. “I’m Boot LS.”

It was like there was a shift in the climate of the room. I was afraid it was a cold front coming in, that I was about to face a whole bunch of criticism, disgust, or awkward smiles and desperate attempts to change the subject.

I should have known better.

“Oh, I love your work!” Lindsey said, crossing her legs, resting the cloth boot on one hand and tapping her foot, giving me a somewhat knowing smirk. “Is it true that you, um, perform all of them?”

I shrugged. “Me or one of the others at the office,” I said. “We try to be very realistic.”

“Sounds like a great job,” the man, I want to say his name was Don, chuckled a little. “You taking applications?”

That got a general laugh, and the tension in my shoulders drained out. I smiled, happy to be among friends and supporters, something unusual for me, especially at thanksgiving dinner.

“So which ones are you, and which ones are other people?” Terry stretched out so I could get a good look at how high up her Doc Martens went, peeking out from under her capris pants.

I took a deep breath, always a bit hesitant to give out that information. I don’t want to expose people who aren’t into that sort of thing. “Well, just about anything that could conceivably be me, is.”

“Bosses prerogative?” Don asked.

“You could say that. I don’t like thinking of myself as the boss, though.”

Lindsey smiled at that. “Too dominant for you?”

I was saved having to answer that question when you came out of the kitchen, carrying our first course, the smell so delightful that Pavlov must have been spinning in his grave. You passed out the food, and for a few minutes, everyone was too busy enjoying the delicious assault on our taste buds to remember that there were others in the room, let alone that there had been a conversation going on. We slowly came back to ourselves in time for me to offer you a toast, which you graciously accepted before once again disappearing into the back to get the turkey itself.

“Is it true that you once spent an entire night licking stranger’s boots at a club?” Terry asked, pretty much the instant you were out of the room.

I nodded, glad I had a glass of wine in my hand as an excuse not to say anything.

“For twenty dollars a pair?”

“Ten,” I smiled, felt my face flush a bit, and put down my glass. I could probably have refilled it, but it seemed like that might not be the best idea.

“Wow,” Lindsey said. “That’s, um, really degrading.”

I shrugged. “It was fun.”

“Was anyone mean about it?”

I shook my head. “No, I was pretty well protected. Anyone who was a jerk didn’t get their boots cleaned. It was just a game, not looking for any real humiliation.”

“I’m not sure I could do that,” Lindsey pushed her hair back behind her ear and shook her head, a small, wistful smile on her face.

“Not everyone likes humiliation,” I said, shrugging.

“I do,” she said. “It’s not that. It’s the degrading part. I just—I prefer things a bit softer.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I said, thinking of all the times you had lectured me about being a good boy, about being a pretty boy, about being your cute little slut, so proud of the lengths he goes to for your pleasure. “Not all humiliation is about being made a lesser person. Sometimes, it’s about admitting the things you love to do, and admitting that you aren’t ashamed of them, even a little.”

“Like that time you went through the mall and slowly changed from man to woman?”

I smiled at the thought. “Yes, like that,” I said. “But that wasn’t me.” I gestured at myself, at the shape of my body and the hair that grows everywhere, whether I want it to or not. “I couldn’t look like a girl if I wanted to. But for the person who did,” I didn’t want to drop names, “it was something that he really loved, and was very proud to do.”

You came out then, with the turkey already carved, and started serving out portions. I bit into my first forkful and the turkey was so moist I felt like a torrent of flavor was pouring down into my stomach. I closed my eyes to enjoy it, to let myself taste as if I could differentiate one spice from another. I gave the turkey my whole concentration, enjoying everything from temperature to texture, enjoying the subtle differences as though they were the subtle differences in different kinds of boot leathers.

You were more willing to stay and chat with the turkey on the table, and you made sure I knew who everyone was. They weren’t all big names in the kink community –Terry was, but she and I go way back—but it was still clear why each of them had been invited. Nine of us there, including you. Lindsey and I the only submissives. There would be pie, and then there would be dessert. There were some awkward questions asked about limits, some nice establishment of limits and of sexuality.

“And here I thought you were just asking which stories I’d experienced as a way of getting to know me,” I said, laughing with honest joy. “I didn’t realize we’d been negotiating.”

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Don said, smiling at me over his wine glass.

“Is that your second glass?” You asked him.

He shook his head. “Still number one,” he said. “I know the rules.”

You gave him a pointed stare, as if it was some sort of sore issue, and he showed you his glass, still half full, then set it aside. You seemed satisfied by that, and turned back to your food.

“You aren’t drinking too much, are you Boot?” this came from Stacy, who had been relatively silent, sitting next to Lindsey.

I shook my head. “I’m not much of a drinker,” I said, which was true. The glass I’d already nearly finished was more alcohol than I’d had in months.

“Good thing,” Stacy said. “Wouldn’t want you unable to consent. I’ve got plans for you.”

I looked at Stacy, the stock broker with the crucifix who had insisted on saying grace before she started eating. “Is that right?” I asked.

Stacy glanced at you with a wry smile. “Once our host has finished with you, yes.”

“Should I be worried?”

Her smile turned to a smirk as she looked back at me. “Oh, I think so,” she said, her voice both dark and playful. “You’ve done a lot of things that need to be punished.”

Don smiled and leaned towards me with a stage whisper. “Gotta love Catholics,” he said. Then he patted me on the back.

“I think I should take him first,” Terry said. “Before Fay, I mean.” You gave her a look, one that should have a capital L. A Look. Terry held up her hands in supplication. “I’m just saying that it might help if you weren’t the only one exhausted. I could tire him out for you a bit.”

Terry is maybe two thirds my size, but I know how nasty she can be in a wrestling match. Way back in the day, before she was who she is, before I was who I am, we were friends. We played a few times, and I saw firsthand just how much strength was coiled tightly into that average sized frame. There were bruises for days; it was lovely.

“You still in practice?” she asked me.

I took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” I said. “I might be able to give you a little bit of a run. But I’m a lot older than I used to be.”

“And he’s going to be tired from the meal,” you reminded her. Turkey does have a sedative effect, after all.

“Then I’ll wake him up and tire him out at the same time,” she said.

You rolled your eyes and got up to get the pies. Which Terry, and I, took as assent to her plan.

“I think I should skip the pie,” I said.

“Probably a good idea,” Terry nodded. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?”

“I sure hope not.”

“Maybe we should wait a bit, let your stomach settle?”

“What’s this shit about waiting for my stomach to settle? Aren’t you worried that I might actually beat you?”

Terry laughed. “Not even if you wanted to,” she said. “I’m not out of practice.”

I took a deep breath and wondered how many marks I’d have on my body after this nice little dinner. Would Terry leave me bruised? Would Stacy’s corporal punishment leave me battered and bloody? Would you pull out that new electrical toy you’d just picked up? Would I have a pair of boot prints on my chest from Don and his partner, who had made it a point to bring up trampling during the negotiations?

You came out with the pies and set them on the table. “Thanksgiving is a time for friendship,” you said. “For relaxing and for being grateful. It can be stressful, but that’s not the point.”

I smiled at you. “The point is to enjoy it,” I said.

“Exactly.”

You didn’t mention that part of that enjoyment involved releasing all that stress. You didn’t tell me that you were planning to release your stress at cooking on my body and my mind. You didn’t tell me that Stacy was going to release her stress with a ruler. You didn’t mention that the beatings, the intricate shibari work that Don was going to do to suspend me and take the pressure off every joint to help me relax, was all about releasing that stress.

You didn’t tell me about the domination that was to come, or the kinky boundaries we would all push, for friendship and for stress release. You didn’t tell me, but you didn’t have to. It was a nice surprise.

And I’m very grateful.