So apparently Jennifer Lawrence is getting some heat about smoking some pot and how it could alienate her from her fans.


Sheesh. Girl, come the fuck over. I got you.

Jennifer Lawrence ❤ on We Heart It.


I’m usually pretty awful at routines, confessedly. But, Craftsmate’s developed one lately that’s managed to somehow fix my horrible sleep patterns and drive me completely insane. Essentially, since Sunday, he’s been having me come over to his place at night, strip down to my panties and a t-shirt, and lie on his bed with my face down and my ass in the air.

I have to pull my panties down and wait while Craftsmate takes his sweet time applying lubricant to my asshole and his fingers. First with one finger, then two, he gently starts probing and thrusting into my asshole. Sometimes, he will rub my clit, but he’ll never let me cum. He does this with a rubber glove on, knowing that it only adds to the humiliation of the entire ordeal for me. Because, yes, I find the whole anal inspection thing to be completely humiliating. 

When he has finished, he blindfolds me and has me pull my panties back up. Then, he puts me into the crotchrope arrangment he did on Sunday – with my wrists tied at my sides and the tiniest bit of slack to helplessly flutter my hands on either side of my pussy in an attempt to relieve myself. He teases me for a little while before tucking me in and leaving me there to go do work or watch television. 

By the time he comes to bed, I’ve fallen asleep that way: bound, blindfolded, teased, always vaguely aware of the push of the knot in the crotchrope against my clit. In the morning, he teases me a bit more, unties me and only removes the blindfold after he has inspected how wet I had gotten during the night.

I don’t know how long this routine is going to last and I kind of like how much I simultaneously despise and enjoy it. Every morning I ask him if that was the last time and try to convince him that I’ve learned my lesson, but part of me is almost relieved when he tells me no and informs me of what time he expects me that night.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go blush for about six years after sharing this.


Sometimes rope pulls

tighter on your mind

than it does on your skin.


Sweetheart heard that girl down the block played kind of rough.

But Daddy said it was just rude to turn down an invitation.


A little victorious TMI:

After almost exactly three freaking months on hiatus to God knows where, my period has returned.

My gosh I aint even mad.

Somebody bust out the 90s tunes and sunglasses, I’m having a Bar Mitzvah-style dance party.


I try to get into the notion of harnesses when used during scenes and not just worn under clothes and sometimes I’m totally sold. But I can never get into harnesses that don’t really have any bondage component to them. I’m the kind of person who, if I’ve got something kinky going ok and I’m not tied up, I don’t know what to do with my hands and I feel a little lost and uneasy.





“You had a chapter of your thesis due last week and this is all you have to show?”

Stop bullying me.

I handed that chapter in.

30 Day Music Challenge, Day 6 – A Song That Makes You Want to Dance


Oops. Yeah. Remember when I was doing this?

“I Need Your Love” – Calvin Harris ft. Ellie Goulding.

The song itself isn’t particularly inspired, but one of my best friends once got a kick out of watching me empathically pelvic thrust to it a-la Eric Prydz. So, whenever it turns up on my iTunes or I hear it at the gym, I want to pelvic thrust dance to recall a really fun afternoon.

For something sweet and upbeat that reminds me of the first person I said ‘I love you’ to, check it.

For your daily dose of Kanye, look no further.


I want to be told to crawl to her, with no assurance of when I’ll be returned.


Caledonian Antisyzgy.


Craftsmate and I were in the middle of messing around when I heard the door to the common room open. It was around lunchtime and I figured my roommate, Sunshine, would be having lunch somewhere.

This was, apparently, not the case.

“Ivy?” She called toward my room, “you home?”

I was blindfolded and gagged and bent over the end of my bed. I managed to wriggle my hand out of the scarf that bound my arms behind my back and yanked the ballgag out of my mouth in a mess of drool.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “Just hanging out in my room with Craftsmate.”

“Oh,” she replied, apparently oblivious to what was going on. “Hi, Craftsmate.”

“Hi, Sunshine,” Craftsmate called back, trying not to laugh. He shoved the ballgag back into my mouth and retied my wrists, leaning down and whispering, “better keep quiet, then.”

Outside of my door, I heard Sunshine take out her phone and call up for a taxi. Inside my room, Craftsmate reached around and clipped a clothespin onto my clit. I bit down hard on the strap of the gag as I heard Sunshine list off her address and her name.

“No, no, it’s Sunshine,” she clarified, “S…U…N…”

Craftsmate pinched my nipples hard and I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold.

“No, S. S. S…U…”

I managed to keep it together until she left. After telling me that I had been good, Craftsmate left me seated on the floor, wrists tied tightly (but not so tight that I couldn’t get myself out), his cum dripping down my back. 


Real things said to yours truly:

“I know you feel like a rapper right now, but they’re just cookies.”

The amount of pride I take in my baking abilities would make Betty Friedan cry.