black and white – Page 28

So, Craftsmate left his hat here last night.

I think I’ll leave it up to your discretion what he’ll need to do to get it back.

(Especially after saying he didn’t think he pinched hard enough.)

Payback’s a bitch.

So, last night I wore a ballgag for the first time.

Craftsmate had just made me a blindfold and I was over at his place messing around with the floggers. I tried flogging him while blindfolded and then he flogged me back, not blindfolded, with significantly more success.

He made this ballgag and I was super impressed with it, so I asked him to make me one. He warned me that it makes you drool uncontrollably after four and a half minutes and I told him I could totally outlast that.

And I did. Although I did eventually wind up drooling just about everywhere while I was sitting on his floor ballgagged and blindfolded and awkwardly trying to communicate with him. Because talking ballgagged is hard, tumblr. So it was a lot of hand motions and laughing and drooling.

Confession: Switch was the first person to ever full-on toss my salad.

I feel like I’m nine explaining it that way, but it still makes me blush. So bear with me here.

Before him, there was one other person who expressed a sincere interest in it and I was totally bashful about it. He basically would go everywhere around it and once he got too close I would urge him to come up for air. So, besides a few licks, there was really nothing too interesting going on down there.

I sort of had a feeling I’d like it because I like other kinds of anal play. But I was still sort of shy about having someone’s tongue down there and a face all up in my business. And so when he asked to do it, I got super bashful, but part of me wanted to be brave and actually give it a try. And so, almost through gritted teeth and eyes squeezed shut, saying it fast enough that I couldn’t take it back, I agreed.

Let’s just say I’m really, really glad that I agreed.

I like that there’s some ambiguity here as to who is actually in control.

I love that feeling when that very last piece of clothing is cut from your body and it flutters to the ground. There’s such brutal finality to it, it’s almost poetic. It’s the point of no return, the crossing of the Rubicon, a thousand different clichés of that nature rolled into one experience.

Because, of course, the only reason a cliché is a cliché is for the harsh obviousness of its truth.

That guy from my frat actually just asked me if I’ve ever heard of Feminist Ryan Gosling. Seriously?

So, I had no issue bullying him a little. Because I think it’s been too long since I bullied him. And because I think he deserves it.

Like a Brisket, Part Twelve

While I was hogtied on the floor and the Prodigy was tying up Craftsmate, I got really subspaced. I attribute to this to a few factors:

I was pretty stringently hogtied and feeling tied up and helpless like that gets me pretty fast.
Craftsmate was feeding me grapes from the farmer’s market out of his hand which sort of emphasized the feeling of helplessness for me.
At one point, Penthouse asked to duct-tape my mouth and I consented. It stayed like that for a fairly short period of time, but that only added to it.
Penthouse knelt down next to me and was asking me if I was subspaced in this vaguely condescending tone that I like which pretty much cemented it.
The group was discussing hemp and Craftsmate was like, “wait, you can’t buy that here?” And I started subspacedly mumbling about the FDA banning it. Penthouse reached down and petted my head while I was talking which, uh, yeah. Cement sealed.

Of course, the whole time I’m yelling at myself in my head not to get subspaced. I thought it would make everything awkward and I even apologized for it once I came out of it. I guess I just, even around the people I should be most comfortable enjoying it around, was unsure if it would be weird to actually enjoy myself beyond the academic “ah this is very fascinating” sense of enjoyment.

But, subspaced Ivy knows her US History. So, there’s that.

Mean Sasha Grey is the patron saint of Pretty.

This past Saturday night, after my super awesome best date, I took a little trip to celebrate a friend from Ivy University’s birthday. There, out of nowhere, while I’m catching up with some friends, I run into The Grown Up. Turns out he’s friends with the birthday boy.

He’s spent some time out of the country, my schedule’s been busy, blah blah. Either way, he had given me his number and I had never called it. But we’ve run into each other a few times and he’s always friendly and lovely.

Welp, I got a little liquid confidence in me and asked him why we haven’t hung out. To which he replied that he didn’t have my number. Oops.

“But, you could give it to me,” he said, “since you don’t seem to know how to use the phone.”

I grinned, “where’s the fun in that? Here, you can guess my number and then call me the next time you’re around Ivy University.”

I proceeded to go through each number by giving him a hint about it. Such as, the number of continents or "if you write this number out and look at it really fast it looks like sex".

“This is incredibly attractive to me,” he said with a snort as he reached the sixth number.

I shook my head, “I’m not flirting with you, I’m just challenging your mind.”

“Okay, Ivy,” he chuckled, “okay.”

I’ll kick your butt, Daddy. No lies. I’m hard candy.