Hopefully I run into a few of these on my trip there.

That’s right, I’m going off to Harvard for the weekend! My friend has a friend there, and so a few of us are joining her on a road-trip/weekend getaway. I’ll get back on Monday. I was going to add a bunch of things to my queue, but I got a little lazy/sick. 

What can you do when I’m off in beautiful Cambridge? Go look at all the wonderful tumblrs I constantly follow and reblog. Leave me something fun in my askbox so I’ve got a bunch of things to post and questions to answer when I get back. Or, I don’t know, just take a walk.

<3, Ivy

PS: This is not an invitation to come looking for me. Just thought I’d put that out there. 


Mmm. The line between privileges and rights is this sexiest thing ever.


Pepper’s outfit at home is a collar, and nothing more. it suits her purpose and status just fine.

But I’m a fairly nice person, and let her wear one of my old plaid shirts as well.

She knows it’s an act of kindness and not a right.


Sometimes, you just have to be a good girl and take it. The obedience is necessary. The pain is incidental. The progress is inevitable. The payoff is incomparable. 


He came here.

Once, when he was really sick, I spoon-fed him beefaroni and took care of him until he felt much better. While there was no beefaroni involved this time (I’m a vegetarian), I do feel much better now.

And somehow a little bit worse.


So, I’m sick. No, not this kind of sick. (Well, that, too.) Like, sick sick. Like I have a cold. 

Thankfully, my professor was super understanding and told me I could just bring my paper to seminar next week. Not so thankfully, I have to spend the day nursing myself back to health since I have a really important meeting with my department coming up AND I’ve got some really awesome weekend plans I don’t want to cancel. 



I’m all for breaking down gender stereotypes and traditional definitions of relationship dynamics, but the following exchange got me a little trembly.

Friend of a friend who had never met “lesbians” before: So, um, is like one of you “the man”?

My (at the time) girlfriend: Oh, me. 

This was a point-blank delivery. No hesitation. No looking at me. No chuckles. No eye rolling. Hooooly crap. 


The First Time Ivy Tried Knifeplay, Part 2

(part 1 can be found here)

“Oh, God, Ivy. I told you not to open your eyes.”

It was too late. It was this massive, cold, harsh serrated blade, something a little less menacing than a meat cleaver. She held in in her fist like she was in some kind of slasher movie with how my t-shirt had been destroyed. I swallowed dry air and shuddered. 

I have to say I was mildly surprised to notice the wetness that had puddled beneath me. I bit down hard on my lower lip for a moment, gazing up at my girlfriend who was still holding the knife as if waiting for me to give her some sort of approval or to just freak out over the size of the thing.

I cleared my throat before finally saying, “I trust you.”

“Good,” she gave me a little smirk, “because now the real fun can start.” She set the knife down on my chest, the blade pointed straight at my throat. As long as I didn’t heave or start hyperventilating, I would be fine. “Hold that for me, would you?”

She chuckled as she walked over to her closet and looked through it for a moment before coming back with a winter scarf. She tucked the knife into the strap of my panties before starting to wind the scarf over my eyes. It was a bit scratchy, but it certainly served its purpose.

And suddenly I was in the dark again. The inescapable, unrelenting dark. She dragged the knife out from its spot in the strap of my panties, cutting the strap as she pulled. She started her rounds again of bringing the blade over my body, down my stomach, and up the sides of my neck. I quivered as she played it over my breasts through the holes in the shirt. 

She brought the knife back down and sliced the other strap on my panties. I heard her set it down on the bedside table and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“I don’t know what you’re so happy about,” she began as she slowly eased the front of my panties down, exposing my pussy. They were nearly stuck to it with my wetness. “You’ve gotten yourself all over my sheets." 

A flush burned in my cheeks. "I’m…I’m very sorry, Miss,” I whispered as she gathered my panties up in her fist, their removal expedited by the fact that she had cut the straps. Her fist remained down between my legs, my panties soaking up even more of my wetness.

“No, dear,” she began as she raised her hand to push my panties into my mouth, “you don’t even know what sorry means yet." 


“The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul,” – W.B. Yeats.