The way she leans up and accepts the gag, even while blindfolded, is enough to make me watch this over and over and over.

I keep a coin jar to keep track of all the times kitten has been a good girl. Yesterday she earned her first penny.

I was a brave girl yesterday.

Punishment and Correction

Last night, I was a very bad girl and essentially broke three of the negotiated rules I had with Craftsmate. Since we have been attempting to shift our dynamic from a bedroom kinky arrangement to a full-on D/s partnership, I understand why such rules are important and, in theory, I want to be able to follow them.

Overall, I have liked the changes we have made in shifting our dynamic this way. I enjoy the feeling of being owned. I love being able to shed my bratty side – which was mostly in place to provoke what I wanted out of dominants instead of asking for it like a good girl because of some unresolved shame over being able to just own up to what I liked – and instead be an obedient submissive who asks for what she wants. It’s helped to reinforce our dynamic as we plan to become long distance.

Also, it’s made sex and our chemistry a whole lot hotter, as well as somehow sweeter and more intimate.

However, I’ve discovered that what gets to me most is the way I am punished when I misbehave. It’s completely nonsexual and literally intended for correction and not foreplay. It’s something I’ve backed away from in the past or gotten unnecessarily emotional over because it scared me in its seriousness. Stuff feels a lot less like a game that way.

So, as I mentioned, I am being punished and part of that punishment is to write about it. I was punished like this one other time about a week ago and, while I initially balked at it, I accepted it and actually found it to be a good experience. I had intended to write about it, but I dropped the ball on that (oops).

But, today, as part of my punishment, I have to share the fact that I am being disciplined and why with you all. Naturally, I’m a little nervous – hence the long, rambling introduction – so bear with me here.

The why is because of, as I mentioned, three things:

I completely neglected to call Craftsmate “Sir” on more instances than a gentle reminder would warrant.
I stayed up an hour and a half past my bedtime for no real reason and, while I eventually got involved in talking to someone, this wasn’t until about half an hour past my bedtime and I did not reach out to Craftsmate in order to ask if I could stay up.
I drank alcohol without permission in a situation where I could have asked him first. (As a rule, I’m supposed to ask unless I’m in a situation where it’s not socially convenient to just whip out my phone.

And my punishment is as follows:

I had to share the details with all of you as to why I was bad last night. (Done.)
From now on, I have to refer to Craftsmate on this blog as “Sir” to get me into the habit of addressing him properly. (Which is preferable, since I cannot stand that nickname I gave him. The “Craftsmate” tag will still exist but I won’t directly refer to him that way in posts. I’m also adding a “Sir” tag to old posts about him.)

So, there you have it. I want to try to write about the other time he punished me because it was actually super sweet and rewarding, so expect that soon. But in the meantime I kind of have to handle some latent shame stuff from having to share this and worrying I’ll be kind of judged for it.

Full Service, Part One

Submitting out of the bedroom didn’t begin on the strongest note: I was late to meet Craftsmate’s train. However, he was understanding and we greeted each other warmly.

Gently, he took hold of my face and asked me if I knew what to call him today.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied softly and he grinned, pushing my hair from my face before reaching for my hand.

I was careful to walk a step behind him as we continued down the street. It was a gesture that he had expressed to me in the past was something he enjoyed. When he informed me that he had noticed, I was surprised at how proud I felt.

He waited until we were in relative privacy to check the second stipulation of how I was going to greet him today: that I would be plugged. Once he was sure the street was empty, he stopped me firmly before reaching down and pushing firmly against the handle of the plug through my jeans. With a smile, he took a moment to grope my ass before motioning for me to continue walking.

Usually, I tend to take charge when we’re going around my town. It’s my stomping ground, after all. And so it was an interesting exercise to allow him to lead, to gently prod him along by saying “it’s that way, Sir” without merely taking charge and directing him myself.

While we were on the way to get something to eat, we were walking in the street next to a narrow stretch of curb about a foot wide. Without saying anything, he took hold of my shoulders and gently guided me over to walk up on the curb and out of the road. There was something so possessive and sweet about it.

At lunch, I poured out his soy sauce for him when I saw the sushi was about to arrive at our table, making sure to serve him before myself. We’re usually pretty “to each his/her own” about this sort of stuff, so I found I had to make a conscious effort to remember to be of service to him.

And, believe it or not, I kind of liked it.

I woke up on Sunday morning in Craftsmate’s bed to the feeling of him tightening the ropes around my wrists. Somehow, the night before, I had agreed to sleeping tied up. Except instead of sleeping with my arms tied behind my back or in front, I wound up with my arms tied at my sides, attached to a crotchrope with a knot that pressed into my clit, preventing me from forgetting its presence.

We had established, sometime during the evening, that I was a selfish brat. Or, rather, I was told that I was a selfish brat who couldn’t control herself. Hence, the crotchrope, the hands tied to inhibit touching, the nagging push of the knot as a cruel little joke.

When he had finished tightening the rope around my wrists and ensuring that I would not be able to let myself out, Craftsmate climbed off of the bed and went to sit down at his desk. As he slid off the mattress, I became attune to the throb of my clit and realized the effect of the crotchrope on my sleeping body had left me inconsolably needy.

“I think it would be a nice idea if you came here and touched me,” I said playfully, wriggling a bit in the rope and feeling the knot rub over my clit.

Craftsmate shook his head. “You said nothing until you finished your thesis chapter.”

“I changed my mind,” I huffed. “Come here. Please?"

He didn’t budge.

I kept pressing, but I couldn’t get him to come over. My hips had started to pick up a slight thrust and I was trying to keep myself from grinding the crotchrope right in front of him, but I could only hold out so long. Eventually, my pleas for him to come touch me turned into begging him to use me and finally dissolved into me saying all I wanted was his attention, I didn’t care how it looked.

Amused, Craftsmate came over and teased the tip of his finger over the crotchrope. "I don’t think so. Maybe your Daddy lets you be a little princess and get away with this kind of stuff, but you’re entirely too spoiled and you’re not getting what you want this time.” I blushed at the mockery in his voice.

“Please,” I gasped out, “please I’ll do whatever you want.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you get to cum until you’re a good girl for me and not some selfish brat.”

After a round with Craftsmate’s riding crop and a rather humiliating inspection of my cunt, which had become so wet that it had soaked straight through my panties and drenched the knot of my crotchrope, I was sent off with assurance that my poor conduct would no longer be tolerated.

And, much to my chagrin, an order to keep my hands off of my dully throbbing cunt until my behavior improved.

So, some of you have been asking why I only seem to post about Switch dominating me. One, I haven’t had much time to sit down and write out what we’ve been up to. Two, gosh, I don’t know, it still makes me blush a lot.

I’ll fill the air by saying that I’m sometimes surprised how easy it is for me to dominate someone. I find submitting much more rewarding, but dominating comes fairly natural to me. While there have been a few teensy hiccups, I think I can attribute my success to having seen it from the other side and being able to discern what works and what more or less doesn’t.

Also, I may just be really, really mean. Because, it’s sort of funny. My persona when I dominate is always vaguely amused. I laugh a lot. I speak sweetly, I tease. It might be the fact that he could probably kick the crap out of me for half the stuff I say to him and doesn’t. And that’s control on the part of both involved parties.

I think the best way to describe what I’m like when I’m on top is vaguely within the lines of what some people describe as a babydomme. The word “Daddy” never comes into play, but my voice is almost always sweet, I giggle a lot, it all comes off a little bit precious. I think it’s that, honestly, with my size, I’d look a little absurd if I were yelling or too overtly cruel. And I’m plenty cruel, I just do it with some giggles thrown in. Which, honestly, may just be a little crueler.

So, yes, I’ll get to stories. I promise. You’ll all find out how positively mean I am.

When he comes in and sees her bent over the dresser that way, he’ll shake his head and call her eager. He’ll ask her if she’s forgotten how to properly great someone.

But, he recognizes there’s a culture you start to develop with someone when you come to know them this way, an etiquette. Rules and standards emerge from the precedence of where clothing was flung and the soft, trembling things that were muttered when the lights go out. Customs come about through repetition, repetition comes about from initial success after some trial and error. And from it all comes an unwritten code, a mental list of manners in the spaces where typical constraints are left in the doorway with restraint, decency and your socks.

Of course, that won’t stop him from teasing her about it.

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.” – Mary Oliver, Wild Geese.

michaelrecycles:

vaginabubbles:/inside of out by soheir

She’s the kind of girl that is a little hard to just take out. Especially when she’s like this. It’s not because you’re ashamed to be seen with her. If that’s the case, you don’t deserve to be with her at all. It’s the fact that once she’s around people and the temptation is there, she’ll be a total brat because she can.

Surely you wouldn’t punish her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Maybe it isn’t so good for her in the long run. But for those few delicious hours out, when she can give you a look as she crosses her legs just so, the night is hers.

One of the Ivyest screencaps out there. Just the look on her face alone.

makesmypussywet:

There’s no need to even ask me this.