So I should probably save some of the photos from this set for when I actually get around to telling you the story of that night, but can you blame me for just wanting to post them all immediately?
arms
The way you play with me like a child.
Ugh, I need to just fade away like this.
Pretty likes it when you beg.
But she likes it best when you deliver.
“I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers. I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air, alive, with closed eyes.”
– ee cummings.
You know that crying out won’t help.
It won’t deter him, won’t even give him reason to pause. You have a word to make him stop, a word he’ll respect and honor, but he won’t honor any kind of frantic cry he elicits.
Besides, he’s always encouraged you to scream.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Six
Craftsmate tied me facedown on his bed and proceeded to get his flogger out. He beat me until I was crying out so much that he had to gag me and put music on to drown out all the noise.
Then, he sat down on me and started to tickle my ribs. I am absurdly ticklish and I absolutely hate being tickled. A few minutes in, I was panting for breath and drooling around the gag. He stopped, moved his duvet cover so I could see the small puddle of my salvia that had soaked into it, and proceeded to scold me for drooling all over his bed.
“Look at the mess you made,” he chided, pulling on my hair before pushing my face into it. I blushed six shades of red.
He rolled me over and tied me back down, picking the flogger back up and starting to beat my breasts.
“I’m nervous,” I said to Penthouse as I pulled on my clothes and went to head out to a meeting.
He turned to face me, “how come?”
“Uh, because I’m about to go into an important meeting with the word ‘whore’ carved into my stomach.” I stared down at the shirt that covered it, willing it to stay opaque.
“Oh,” he smirked, “yeah. I guess that’d do it.”
Believe me when I tell you – no matter how hard I push – that I fight to lose.
I’ve unfortunately never been dominated or punished by someone while they were wearing the sort of shirt with sleeves that they would need to roll up. This is regrettable.
I like the immediacy of just being thrown over someone’s lap and spanked. The idea of not having to tend to too many articles of clothing besides some of my own appeals to me in the sense of instant gratification.
However, there’s something so perfectly condescending about having to wait for someone to roll up the sleeves of their shirt. It kind of makes me tremble and feel terribly small.
In a good way.