I’m getting close to the final shove. I could really use someone to make me…focus. Sure, I know I need to develop that skill in myself a bit better. But, a girl can fantasize.
bondage
This is one of my favorite games.
I like to play a little game, when you can’t speak. It’s a mean little game, but I find it amusing. You find it infuriating. That’s quite possibly what amuses me so about it, but then I always was a sucker for your reactions.
I like to talk to you, hold long conversations when your only input is the most monosyllabic of moans, perhaps a ‘uh uh’ if you really try. So I do your half of the conversation for you, because I’m generous like that.
“You know, the way you’re looking at me, it’s almost like you like being tied up and gagged like this. Do you like it?” You fix me with a piercing, angry gaze, all furrowed brows and needles for eyes.
“You mean you do? Oh that’s wonderful news. We should keep you like this more often then! I’d hate to get in the way of you and your passions.”
And so forth. It’s just a little game, but it’s one I enjoy ever so much.
Won’t you indulge me?
It’s difficult when you’ve grown so used to submitting to someone and then, suddenly, you’re not. A balance is thrown.
Specifically to that person, there’s still a sort of deference you afford them. There’s something very much “there” that is sometimes difficult to just let lie. Because these things become forces of habit and suddenly your signals are completely crossed.
Generally, it’s just difficult not to have that dynamic. I don’t want to say I’m just hardwired to submit to people, but there is something about it that makes me very happy and feel very secure. Beyond the sexual aspect of it, the psychological level is incredibly powerful. And it’s hard to sit there sometimes and think you’d like to be serving someone but it’s just not happening for you right now.
I’ve noticed quite a few of you lamenting on here recently over a bdsm relationship that just ended and I send my condolences and best wishes. Because I know how it feels. I’m there right now and everything’s just a little off-balance.
I know I’ve just revealed him recently, tumblr, but the thief and I will not continue with our current arrangement. Simply put, I will not be submitting to him anymore.
It hurts the both of us, but it’s the best step right now. He has things to attend to in his current relationship and I do not want to exacerbate anything that’s going on there. He and I are still very close, still care very much about each other, etc.
My goodness, I feel like a parent explaining their divorce.
But, yeah, we’re okay on an interpersonal level. However, personally, I’m a little bit shaken up. There’s a feeling you get from submitting to someone and you get that deep. After about nine months, we had settled into a groove and had become quite attached to each other. To be totally honest, my heart is hurting.
So, you know, be a little patient with me, tumblr. I’m feeling fragile.
<3, Ivy
I’ll admit part of me swooned when you referenced Mauss. But part of me almost felt violated.
I sometimes feel too well-known when people read the same books as I. I feel like they have a part of me that way and I, by extension, have a part of them by knowing what they’ve read. I start to associate them with the work. They become part of it
It’s not the same with movies. There’s just something about books.
But that’s the very spirit of the gift, isn’t it? You give me part of yourself and I’m indebted. I give you some of me and you’re in my debt. And you know how I feel about power exchanges.
It’s funny to remember you as you were before you existed, subtle visitor. You know how I’ve suffered getting accustomed to you.
Tell me I’m something beautiful. Something precious. Something you would never want to part with. Because, ironically, it’s the only way you’re really going to be able to share me.
It’s not that I want to imagine that the process of sharing, of lending me out, is painful to you. I want you to enjoy it. I want you to do it because it turns you on. Moreover, I want to do it because the way it turns you on also turns me on a lot. Not to mention the way it turns me on, well.
It’s just that somewhere in the midst of someone else’s hands moving over me as I respond to someone else’s words, I’ll start to lose a bit of myself and who I am when we play like this. And so to be told those things, it’s an anchor. It’s something I can attach myself to and steel myself for the next blow.
Jack and Jitters, Part 4
He rubbed for a while longer as I ground myself against the bed, squirming and gasping with how sensitive I had become. As I got close, he yanked the stockings that bound my wrists and pulled me down to my knees. His other hand gathered up a chunk of my hair and held it roughly, pushing my face into the crotch of his pants.
I reached up with my bound hands to try to undo his belt and he let go of my hair, grabbing onto the knot in the stockings. “You have way too much freedom.” He tightened the knot, making the removal of his belt, pants, and boxers a tad more difficult.
He reached down and pulled my nightgown up, knotting it above my breasts as to expose my body without removing it. He combed his hand through my hair, pulling it a bit as his hands left my scalp to dip my hair back and open my mouth. “Look at me while you suck it,” he said as I took him into my mouth.
I don’t want to fully admit that I started grinning when he sighed, “I love the way you suck my cock.” I really don’t want to own up to the fact that a phrase as simple or lewd as that could make me feel awesome. Because, well, I’d like to think I’ve got other stuff going for me and other important skills. But, gosh, I don’t know. There’s something about making a man sigh.
I didn’t break eye contact until he hauled me to my feet somewhere in the middle of it by the stockings around my wrists. He removed the stockings and yanked the nightgown over my head and off of my body. My hands wandered to his shirt and I pulled it off. We were both naked. For a few moments we were – as it seemed – even.
Jack and Jitters, Part 2
(Note: What is to follow here depicts some consensual nonconsent. In no way was I ever actually not consenting to what was going on this evening, nor was I coerced into these acts by physical force. While certain acts depicted can be completely considered to be illegal and wrong in a very different context, SG and I are two consenting adults with a mutual understanding about the dynamic of our relationship and the fact that I could have terminated these actions anytime I wanted. While alcohol was involved, I was coherent and completely aware of the situation, not to mention I had the equivalent of what you’d rub around a baby’s mouth when it has a toothache. Seriously. Sober, safe, sane. Consensual.)
I was feeling a little bit bratty by the time I pulled the nightgown over my head. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the fact that he’d made me go through the formality, so I decided I wasn’t going to make anything too easy for him either.
I took the glass out of his hand and took a sip. Then another. I set it back down on my bedside table. He reached for my hand, I took a step back and cocked a brow, lowered my head, raised my eyes. He reached out again, this time grabbing my arm, and swung me over to the bed.
SG has a sort of favorite way he likes to hold me where I’m bent over backwards on the side of the bed. The bed is on risers that put the mattress about a yard off the ground, so really just my shoulder-blades and up touch it. This time, he pushed me hard and I pushed back. He tried to pin my arms down, I struggled against his grasp. The second he reached down to pull the nightgown up, I used my free hand to try to shove his away. He gathered both hands above my head under one of his and proceeded to try to use a sheet to tie my wrists. Obviously, that’s just way too much fabric.
“My stockings are in the second drawer from the top,” I said, briefly breaking character. He smiled through his, reached in and grabbed a pair of black stockings. He secured my wrists together impossibly. Freaking Eagle Scouts.
He held onto the ends of the stockings with one hand, yanking my arms up further across the mattress to the point that I was forced onto my toes. He reached down between my legs and his fingers brushed over my lips and I closed my legs. “No,” I breathed. (Once again, dear readers: safe, sane, consensual, sober.)
“What did you just say?” He shoved my legs apart, holding one open and trapping the other between his.
“No,” I groaned again and tried to close my legs. He reached down and smacked my cunt. Hard, sharply. I cried out.
It’s strange. I wanted him and because I wanted him I wanted to refuse him. I know it doesn’t entirely make sense. But it’s like every time I said “no” and every time I refused him, I was bringing more of him out and into this. And the more of that part of him came out, the more of that part of me came out. It’s carnal. It’s completely and totally animalistic.
And it was also a demonstration. It was a trust fall. And as he pulled the stockings harder, pulling my body taut and arching my back more dramatically, I knew he’d catch me.
This is speaking to me right now.
Confessedly, I used to do this to my Barbies, though nowhere nearly as ornately. I definitely used to enjoy placing them in the back seat of this little RV I had for them. Even then, I understood that a camping trip could easily be something nefarious with the addition of some rope skills and desire.