He won’t tell her why she’s being punished, just that she is. She knows she hasn’t done anything particularly wrong. He knows it, too. 

But he’ll still tie her down and call her all sorts of vile names as he shoves her panties into her mouth. She’ll groan as the fabric scrapes her tongue before becoming engorged with her own saliva. She’ll squeal as she feels the tails of the flogger trace over her exposed rear. She’ll tell herself she did nothing wrong at all. She’ll insist that she doesn’t deserve this.

Smack. She reminds herself how good she’s been. How sweet she is, how selfless. How she serves so willingly. She could not have possibly done anything wrong. She’s his good girl. His perfect little pet.

Smack. The hit lands square on her crack again. Tears warm the corners of her eyes and blur the sight of her bound wrist. She heaves a breath behind the panties. The familiar taste of herself is being dissolved by her saliva and the material’s new thickness nearly makes her gag. 

Smack. She grunts behind the panties. Tears hit her cheeks, the bedspread. She’s a good girl. This is just proof of it. She’s enduring this for him. 

Smack. She cries out around the cotton wedged into her mouth. Her body bucks forward violently. She’s done something, she knows it. Somewhere. She’ll make something up. She’ll identify something she’s already been punished for. She is willing to fill in the gaps for him. 

Smack. She deserves this. She’s been very bad. This is her punishment. She needs it. She deserves it. She doesn’t need a reason, an explanation, an example. She just needs.


Yesterday, I had a conversation with Heart about when she revealed her own little taboo experience and we got into how strangely freeing and comforting tumblr can be. The car story I’ve been writing about is probably only known by two other people than those involved and one part, specifically, no one has heard. I’ve been debating putting it up here. 

But, either way, I suppose what I’m getting at here is that the catharsis that this site offers is simply marvelous (provided no one I know finds this and figures out it’s me). 


“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
Anaïs Nin


I may or may not have been a little playful and naughty with a girl in my frat. She said she’d never kissed a girl and I obliged more than willingly. It was more silly and fun than anything else.

But, get this, followers. She is a ballerina. And she has her septum pierced. The buttons? They’re getting pushed.


They keep her like that for hours. They reach around the stone to touch her. To squeeze her breasts. To tweak her nipples. To tease their fingers over her slit. She’s not even sure if she can call it a “they”. She’s not sure how many there are. She’s unsure if she’s reading too deeply into when she feels some hands are coarser and some are smaller.

She tries to study shadows on the wall, but the room is far too dark. She is left to rely upon the sounds of their steps as they enter the room, the feeling of those hands, the patterns that they take, and their all-too-quick departure. 

It becomes her whole world. Those hands, those footsteps, the occasional grunt or cough, they’re just about all she’s got.

The Infamous Car Story, Part 3


Continued from here.

My boyfriend pulled me back up so I was sitting between them. He wrapped an arm around me before sinking a few fingers in my mouth. As I sucked on them, trying to shoot the sweetest little expression over to Elle to avoid anything too harsh, she set to pulling down my top so the straps rested below my shoulders and the neckline sat below my breasts.

She leaned forward and started to kiss at and suck on my neck. Her hands rested on my breasts and she squeezed gently before pulling them out of the cups of my bra. She rubbed them around, chuckling against my neck each time I moaned around his fingers. Her nails scraped over my nipples and her teeth slid over the side of my neck.

He withdrew his fingers from my mouth and let his hand wander down to my breast. His hand passed under Elle’s and he gripped my right nipple before starting to twist it. I cried out loudly and Elle raised her hand up to my mouth, pushing my head against my boyfriend’s chest while she muffled my cry.

Her other hand set to work on the other nipple. She pinched, causing me to writhe against my boyfriend’s form as I tried to wriggle my wrists out of my stockings. They continued like this for a while. Pinching, pulling, twisting. All the time I whined and pouted and wriggled about, hoping they would bring me to orgasm sometime soon. 

Elle smiled up at my boyfriend as she gave a particularly hard tug before saying, “I love those breasts of hers.” She leaned forward and sucked my nipple into her mouth.

My boyfriend chuckled as I moaned against Elle’s hand and gently removed her hand from my mouth. He then reached back, grabbing my head by the hair and tilting my head back, “you love this, don’t you?” He smirked and continued, “you love all these eyes on you. These hands. You don’t even care how badly it hurts.”

He was right.

To be continued. 


The temptation to make a “burning the candle at both ends” joke is almost too great.


See that little rip down near her rear? I’m just going to pretend I bit that into existence. 


I have a collection of dainty little dresses that I wish I could just roll around in all the time.

(PS: Casey, I absolutely love this song and this photograph.)


how strange it is to be anything at all