I already know you consent, so let’s make something clear.
If you flinch, I will stop. If you push back, I will stop. If you move away, I will stop.
If you stay still, I will continue.
It’s not that complicated.
It’s always so simple. Until I start squirming.
Don’t make me have to beg.
If being a Nice Guy means treating women like vending machines you push kindness coins into until sex falls out, you shouldn’t just finish last, you should be disqualified for unsportsmanlike conduct.
Sorry, just felt the need to reblog this. There’ll be more porn on the horizon, calm your tits.
Sometimes, I get ridiculous and wish I looked like this.
The hair, the body, the lips, the breasts, the nose.
Be gone, unhealthy thoughts. You are serving no one.
This is what my ballgag looks like.
Due to the demands of blah blah academia, I haven’t had the opportunity to wear it in a while.
This is simply unacceptable.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Five
Craftsmate wiped my face clean and smiled down at me. “Why don’t you show me your tail, kitty?”
I blushed and turned, dipping my back and presenting my ass to him.
“Wag it a bit,” he said.
I shook my hips a bit and felt the tail wag back and forth between my legs. He reached forward and tugged a bit on the tail, eliciting a sharp gasp as I bucked back against the yank. He chuckled softly and got up to his feet, patting the bed.
“I think you owe me for my glass, don’t you?” He grinned. “Let’s see how you can pay me back.”
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Four
After the food was made, Craftsmate had me take the apron off and go into his room. He had hung chain off of a section of his bed that turned the space under his bed into a makeshift cage. Blocking off the other sides with boxes, it was this fairly small area where I could crawl a few inches in either direction.
He made me get down into the cage and brought my food in to me. Before I could get to eating with the conspicuous lack of silverware, he took my hands and taped my fingers together into little “paws”. I huffed and bent down, a blush rising in my cheeks as I started to eat off of the plate.
It was indescribably humiliating. My face got messy, I would lose grasp on the plate and it would slide around, I felt utterly ridiculous lapping water up and out of a bowl. When Craftsmate reached down to have me eat something from his hand, I could barely keep it together.
Eventually, he got up and left the bedroom for a moment. When he got back, he had a bowl with some ice cream and apple pie. “The Prodigy made a pie and decided to share some,” he explained and took a seat at his desk, facing the cage. “Next time you see her, you’re going to thank her. Now, come here.”
Gingerly, I crawled out of the cage and rested my head against his knee while he ate, opening my mouth when he fed me some. When he had finished, he put the bowl in my face so I could lick it clean and I complied, feeling the humiliation burn in my cheeks.
“Good kitty,” he murmured, running his free hand through my hair.
Craftsmate: Apparently there’s a nerve on the neck that slows heart rate when compressed, and there’s a very very low chance that it might stop the heart if you’re being choked.
Me: Wow, that’s something.
Craftsmate: Yeah and I thought breathplay safety was all just about the breath.
Me: All my fetishes are far too dangerous.
Craftsmate: Anyway, when you get the chance you should probably ask your physician to get you screened for risk because some people may be more susceptible.
Me: Risk for what?
Craftsmate: Choking-related risk.
Craftsmate: Hmm does [Ivy University] have a sports physician?
Craftsmate: You can be all like, “yo im thinking of getting into a martial arts that uses a lot of chokeholds, can you tell me if that’s safe for me”.
Me: …
Me: My life isn’t a real thing.
Summer, please come back. It’s just so cold without you.
