black and white

In an effort to actually finish up stuff like I promised, I thought I’d share a story about the time I gave Switch a lap dance.

We’d made a bet and I had totally, kind of embarrassingly considering the circumstances, lost. So he told me he wanted me to dress up sleazy and give him a lap dance. Which made me laugh, initially, because I dress a little cutesy usually (lots of florals, skirts, sundresses, etc). And so half of it was extracting anything vaguely trashy from my wardrobe and constructing some vague semblance of an outfit for him.

“Can’t I just wear something lacy instead?” I texted him in frustration, “I’ve got lacy."

"Nope,” he had replied, “you’re not going to get out of dressing up like a whore. You’re just lucky I’m letting you do this at my place and not making you walk over here dressed like this.”

So, I threw together this one vaguely slutty top, a pair of short-shorts, a ridiculously high pair of heels, a g-string and a pair of fishnet thigh-highs, put it all in a bag, and called it a day. When I reached his place, he left me to change into it and encouraged me that strippers wore a lot more makeup than I had on. I shook my head, took out my makeup bag, and proceeded to essentially crayola my face.

“Can I come in?” He called through the door as I was finishing up.

“No,” I whined, “I look silly.”

We both started laughing as he let himself in, but the second he saw me he kind of froze and the corners of his mouth curled up into one of the most indescribably sinister smirks I have ever seen in my life. “Well, look at you,” he murmured as he went to put his hand on my hip.

I slapped his hand away playfully and pointed to a chair. “No touching. Sit down.” My efforts to keep a straight face were fasting waning.

Even if it was something for him, I’ll admit I got a little bit toppy – or maybe it was just bratty – when I was giving him the lap dance. I ground slow, I took excruciatingly long to take my clothing off, I teased myself over him, I kept pushing his hands off of me and telling him it was against the rules. We both nearly broke down laughing when he shoved a dollar bill down my panties. I was having trouble taking the whole thing seriously.

When I was down to my g-string, he reached down and tried to shove it aside. His fingers found my slit, stroking over it before trying to push up inside me. I feigned shock and stumbled away, attempting to straighten out the g-string. “You can’t do that,” I said as I turned to him, pouting. “It’s against the rules. You’d get kicked out.”

He got up to his feet, gathered up my wrists in a hand, and shoved me up against the wall. His fingers shoved into me once more. “Gonna get in trouble?” He asked.

“No,” I choked through a gasp, “but you are.”

He pulled his fingers out and spun me around, pushing me once more up against the wall. My cheek and breasts brushed the stucco roughly. And, as I felt his hand loop into my hair, keeping my face pressed into the wall, I started to take the game seriously.

Sometimes, you are snapshots. Found objects. Morsels. A trail of breadcrumbs.

You are things I must piece together, things I have borrowed without permission that came without instructions beyond a pamphlet written in a clunky, hasty attempt at a translation to English.

You are a certain North Atlantic triangle that claims to pull like migration patterns but, in my humble opinion, is more just an intersection with a terrible traffic light that sends us both barreling forward at the same time.

Yet, in those rare, fleeting moments where the chemicals and the silver and the light come together, in those times when everything syncs beyond my understanding of how a camera or you or I function, there seems to be some semblance of clarity.

But this, too, is only a snapshot.

Game over? Really now? Are you sure?

Because, in my house, this is just about when the games begin.

Believe me when I tell you – no matter how hard I push – that I fight to lose.

It’s strange that I can look at an image like this and actually feel longing. Because I’ve been taken fairly close to there before, and when the person with me knew how to handle it, it was incredibly satisfying. It’s hard to describe without sounding needy or fucked up or dependent or a lot of the other critiques of people who identify as submissive.

But, it’s just in the way he holds her, the way she leans on him, how the chain doesn’t come off. He’ll assure her of how good she was and how proud she made him. She’ll have the opportunity to just let it out. There’s an arrangement there. There’s intimacy.

cabinetofdesire:

You didn’t think I was pretending when I told you I would own you, did you? That somehow we were playing? We are grown-ups, dear. Children play; we commit. And you and I have committed.

In your case, to sleeping in this cage, chained to the bars, until you have developed a more positive attitude to your new situation. If you are good perhaps you will in time deserve a mattress, maybe even a blanket.

Mmmm. Damn.

“We danced too wild, and we sang too long, and we hugged too hard, and we kissed too sweet, and howled just as loud as we wanted to howl, because by now we were all old enough to know that what looks like crazy on an ordinary day looks a lot like love if you catch it in the moonlight.” – Pearl Cleage, What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day.

There’s a way someone can back you into a corner without either of you moving. And, for as useful as rope can be, some entrapments aren’t very physical at all. Because the best kind of hunt doesn’t take place in the wild.

You tease.

montecervesa:

Why, hello there.

Good news: All of the kittens found loving homes.

Bad news: My place with Roommate was not one of those homes.

You see, our building doesn’t allow animals, so we would have to be pretty on top of hiding the cat. So, all right, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. But, it has ignited within me such a desire to have a cat. For now, this will exist solely as catenvy, but maybe one day…

Ivy

Just another Adult Content site