breasts – Page 5

Meet Switch, Part Three

Switch pulled me over his lap, raising a knee so my ass was pushed up into the air. His fingers laced through my hair and pulled my head up sharply. He leaned down to kiss me roughly.

“Your mouth tastes like pussy,” I grinned and he shoved my head back down onto the bed.

He traced his fingers down to my slit and rubbed up and down a few times. I was still a little tender from having just cum twice from him going down on me and I sucked in a deep breath when he shoved a finger inside of me.

“Well, your pussy tastes so good, baby, I think you should have some more,” he pulled his finger out of my cunt and moved it in front of my face. “Go on. Taste yourself.”

I leaned my head forward and took his finger into my mouth. Masquerading a smirk behind pursed lips, I started to bring my head up and down on his finger as if I were sucking it off.

“Goddamn,” he murmured as I sucked. “You’re a little slut, aren’t you?” I winked over his finger. He pulled his finger from my mouth and smacked my ass hard. “You little fucking tease, I think it’s time to put you in your place.”

I get into this terrible habit of slut-shaming myself when things don’t go exactly my way with guys.

Which is super healthy, right?

That guy from my frat says this weekend is super busy for him. And instead of taking this at face value and being like, “totally, okay, cool, he’s just got a lot on his plate for finals next week” I jump right to, “he doesn’t want to go with me because he thinks I’m trash.”

I don’t know why I go there, but it’s a really strange insecurity of mine. My knee-jerk reaction for a while now has literally just become, “[person in question] thinks I’m a whore and has lost interest”. In my defense, it’s been drilled into my head since like age eight by the patriarchy that if I get around too much I don’t deserve affection. (And you’re not fucking helping either, Taylor Swift, you backwards man-stealing puritan, seriously just because someone’s less pure and nerdysexy and blonde than you are doesn’t mean they deserve a boyfriend).

Sexually open women deserve this stuff just as much as women who make the choice to abstain. I’ve just got to silence the stupid critics in my head.

Confession: My nipples aren’t horribly sensitive to light touch, but when pressure comes into play it’s an entirely different story. I’m usually entirely too sensitive for most clamps/clothespins/etc. I have a pair that work the way the ones in this picture do, so they can be adjusted, but I’m still a huge wuss about the whole thing.

The Southern Gentleman decided to help me pick out my outfit for the night.

“It’s great,” he said as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “But what’s under the shirt?”

I shrugged, “a bra.”

He smiled, “and what’s under the bra?”

“My…” I rolled my eyes, “ugh, you’re such a child.” I pulled my shirt and bra up, showing him my breasts.

“Good girl,” he grinned.

Hey, Dacry?

See that hand coming out from the left?

Gets you thinking, right?

I think we need to find ourselves a new friend.

<3, Ivy

masters-of-war:

Ellen Von Unwerth

True Story: I own one of these buggers and I am way too sensitive to use it for very long.

Other True Story: I was once tied down with this thing on me for about half an hour. Excruciating. Sub-space like no other.

A Different True Story: The warm weather is giving me some freckles and they look a lot like hers.

Sometimes, she’ll find her breakfast and a list of tasks when she wakes up. It’s never so much chores as preparation. Most times, it’s as simple as a pair of handcuffs or a collar. Others, it’s a bit more complicated. It’s a process, a set of steps up to preparing herself for a day to come.

She knows better than to do anything else but follow the list. Even when she doesn’t like its contents. Especially when she doesn’t like its contents.

The alternative is always worse. And obedience is always rewarding.

Sometimes, when he pulls her hair, he isn’t violent about it.

It’s a reminder.

It says, “I’m here.”

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.

“Why are you so cruel?”

It’s something that she asks from time to time, though the circumstances often vary. Sometimes, it’s in a vaguely smug sort of way. Sometimes it’s a whine. Or through tears. Or under a moan.

His answer, however, is always the same.

“Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.”