“tags:#let’s raise some money to send #thinkivykink #to #summer camp #shall we?”
Meanie.
Why is it only our kids that we send, often against their will,
to a camp on a far away island, with a large
group of strangers? Huh?
Don’t be silly, sweetie.
Remember how much
you had last summer?
Craftsmate and I had a quickie today after class.
He came all over my back, kissed me goodbye and went to play squash.
Blushing forever.
Usually, I am really good at wriggling out of stuff. I’m fairly flexible and I have very little hands, which makes for relatively quick escapes from even the most ornate arrangements.
So, when I asked Craftsmate to tie me up and make escape as close to impossible as he could, I was still expecting to be able to get out in time to have lunch in an hour.
“Now, don’t go easy on me,” I chided.
That morning, Craftsmate heeded my request tenfold. He tied my wrists together with rope, ran one cuff through the rope, and tied the other off to the bedpost. He wrapped my arms, at the forearm and elbow, in duct tape. He tied my ankles together with rope and anchored it to the foot of the bed with a line of zip ties, which he seemed to delight in pulling tight until my body was stretched taut over the bed. He taped my vibrator against my clit and proceeded to loop my thighs in tape to prevent me from removing the vibrator. He then covered the knots in the ropes that held my wrists and ankles with tape and looped my hands in it until they were reduced to useless little fists. Finally, he blindfolded me and strapped on my ballgag before taping over it.
While I did manage to get the gag out of my mouth and shake the blindfold off, no amount of squirming could loosen any of the ropes or dislocate the tape. Although I had cleverly gotten Craftsmate to give me some water, which I proceeded to spit out onto the tape holding my forearms to loosen its hold, its removal made close to no difference.
What’s more, the vibrator on my clit was doing its job at keeping me distracted. I found I could not manage more than twenty minutes without having to stop struggling and just enjoy the feeling of it.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Craftsmate would say with a smirk. “that’s right. You just take a little break.”
When I managed to get the tape off of my fists, Craftsmate only turned the vibrator onto high to make my task more difficult.
“Why don’t you just relax?” He asked, “you know you can’t get out. Why don’t you just enjoy this and endure the consequences of begging me to let you out?”
I was stubborn. Needless to say, I missed lunch and almost three hours later I finally begged him to let me go. In exchange, I have to allow Craftsmate to do this again.
Only next time, he says, he knows a few ways to make it “better.”
Gingerrkitten
And the very, very worst is when Daddy makes her wait.
Sweetheart heard that girl down the block played kind of rough.
But Daddy said it was just rude to turn down an invitation.
Things changed when I started letting him sleep over. The first time was an accident: we dozed off on my couch together after a long conversation and I woke up with my head on his chest and his arm draped over me. It’s hard to explain why, but it felt strange and different to see him in the morning. I just never had before.
And then he just wound up staying over some nights after he had untied me. We’d go to sleep together and I would find myself curled against him in the morning. It was this strange, hollow phantom relationship that existed exclusively in my bedroom. Which makes it sound like there was nothing there, but the terms of play partners was something I had never had to traverse before.
Except we started violating our own terms. We kissed each other, eventually in front of our friends aided by alcohol on Halloween. We started going out on dates, something he first suggested that I initially balked at. We broke rules constantly about how we could touch each other and for which reasons we could.
And, cheesy as it sounds, feelings started to develop out of ambivalence and confusion. I ate my words about it just being a strict “play partner” arrangement, something he now teases me about having said on here.
If you were to ask friends, they could give you a partial story about two people with some banter that figured it out from sharing a bed. Which is true. Something happened when he started sleeping over.
“Every man winds up with the horse that suits him.” – Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plain.
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.
Don’t make me have to beg.
