Her daddy always says she’s the greediest at playdates.

She says she’s just the best hostess ever.



“Let’s go for a walk,”

I said, “the river is beautiful when it snows.”

You agreed, and we bundled up to face the wind. As we were about to head out the door, however, I pulled you aside.

“Today, I think I just want to enjoy the scenery,” I said as I produced a ball gag and padlock from my coat pocket, “There’s plenty of time for conversation when we get back.”

Your eyes grew wide as I pulled the scarf away from your face, slipped the gag between your teeth, and locked it in place with a satisfying “tink” before carefully arranging your scarf so as to hide the gag from prying eyes.

“There, don’t you look beautiful?” I inquired. You replied with nothing more than a muffled groan, but it was too late, we were already out the door.

I took the lead and blazed a trail through the slush covered sidewalks over to the coffeeshop. Just a few blocks away, it was a short detour on our walk to the river.

Despite a muffled protest, I led you inside. “Can I get you something?” the barista asked.

“I’ll have a large coffee, um, black, and she’ll have a hot cocoa,” I replied, looking at you.

The barista then turned to you and asked, “Do you want whipped cream on that, darling?” You nodded silently and then indulged me by turning six shades of red.

The rest of the walk to the river was relatively uneventful. Not many people were out enjoying the snow, preferring, apparently, the relative comfort of a sofa and fireplace to the damp squalor of freshly salted sidewalks. Along the way I attempted to make conversation, saying perhaps, “See how that icicle is reflecting the light?” or, “I love their holiday decorations,” but you never offered up much of a response, other than a glare or a finger pointed at your mouth. “What a tough crowd,” I’d then say, prompting, of course, another piercing glare.

To Be Continued

This is the kind of stuff I want but I am entirely too shy to ask for.

And also a little too shy to endure.

I love the superfluous lock. It’s not like she’s going to be at liberty to be able to take this thing off in public anyway. It adds that extra sense of the loss of control that makes it really, really hot.

Flash Forward #2


For the first Flash Forward, click here

“I touched myself this afternoon,” I tell Craftsmate while we are studying in the library. “And came.”

He frowns a bit and turns the page of the document he’s reading.

I sigh and put the screen of my laptop down. “I was very stressed out.”

“Did it help?” He asks.

I shrug. “Yeah, a little.”

He nods to himself, not looking up from the paper in his hands. “You’re still getting a spanking.” I figured as much.

Back at his place, he gives me a pretty firm spanking. My ass is stinging afterwards and I think I am finished when he asks me to flip over. I roll over on the bed and lie down on my back for him. He traces his finger over my slit.

“Is this the needy little cunt that gets you in so much trouble?”

I nod. He smacks it hard and then teases his fingers over it once more. I feel myself start to get wet. I’m always a little ashamed about how my body tends to betray me like this.

He smacks it a few more times before pulling my panties and my sweatpants up.

“I want to touch it now,” I say with a pout.

He grins and kisses my forehead. I’m tired, but he wants to stay up and work a bit more. “Well, you’re not going to. Sweet dreams.”

As I huff and curl up, he reaches below the sheets and pulls my hands over them so he can see where they are. He sits down at the desk beside his bed and, after a few unanswered exclamations of frustration, I fall asleep.


It’s interesting to me that this is the gif of The Master, which was a spectacular movie, that got all popular on tumblr.

The sexiest part to me was honestly that really fucked up scene in the bathroom where Amy Adams starts jerking Philip Seymour Hoffman off and being just the dommiest ever. It wasn’t a healthy dynamic, but damn was that the toppiest, meanest handjob ever.

I guess my Pretty is showing.


“Heal the scars from off my back
I don’t need them anymore
You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars
I’ve come home.”


Blush city.


Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Two

When I got into Craftsmate’s room, I set my clothes down on the floor down by the door and he approached me, giving me a hug and smoothing my hair back. I was nervous, but I showed him the plug in my ass, pushing my panties aside so he could see the handle.

From his box of random crafts supplies, he pulled out a piece of leather and tied it to the end of my plug. He had been hinting a bit at the notion of having me be a pet and I had expressed interest. “There you go, kitty, you’ve got a tail,” he said and patted my ass. “Now, I’m going to make dinner and you can clean what I’ve left in the sink.”

I huffed. “But cats don’t do the dishes. You’re conflating fantasies.” Nonetheless, he made me put an apron over my basically naked body and leashed me to the sink.

At one point, there was a knock on the door and I managed to work the leash off and run into his bedroom. It was, of all people, his neighbor The Prodigy looking to borrow some nutmeg. Once she had left, he went into the bedroom, brought me back out into the kitchen, and tied the leash back onto the sink.


Some of the stuff I ordered got hereeeee.

My gosh, I am an overexcited child.

But, whatever, I have new pretties.

M’s Infernal Cabinet of Desire: But is it Art?


M’s Infernal Cabinet of Desire: But is it Art?