A little something to thank you all for the kind messages regarding the recent mountain of stress I’m climbing.
As you can see, I’ve been…destressing.
And giving in to a certain boyfriend’s promise of cookies if I posted this.
Yes, the plug is turned sideways. Yes, there’s some super humiliating stuff written on my body. Yes, I am blushing right now.
(Had Craftsmate photoshop the background to tears because I’m a moron who thinks somebody is going to recognize my bedsheets.)
I know somebody who would like these a whole lot.
Yes, it’s past my bedtime.
Yes, I’d probably blush and cry if this happened.
And, yeah, I sort of kind of want it.
Imagine finding this, quite by surprise, midday
after a night capped by one too many
glasses of wine…
I want a butterfly butt!
Happy Valentine’s Day from your grumpy cat.
Craftsmate.
This.
You know why.
“Find that earring yet, princess?”
“No, Daddy. I just can’t find it anywhere.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn up soon. Maybe just bend a little deeper and get a closer look?”
Like a Brisket, Part Eight
Penthouse came back with the riding crop. I had never been hit with it before and jumped a bit in the hogtie when he thwacked it right against my back near my shoulder blade.
“Ow, sheesh,” I muttered as he rubbed where he had hit.
“See,” Penthouse explained in the little official demonstration tone he seemed to put on whenever he just wanted to jerk me around. Sure, he checked in and asked permission like a champ, but he wasn’t above being a little cheeky. “The problem with a hogtie is that even though she can’t move, your access is kind of limited."
He punctuated his little lecture with a few more hits to my back.
"But, see, you’ve got the back just fine,” he continued as he kept whacking me with the crop.
I groaned and buried my face in the carpet. But, I liked the sting and I’ve never been opposed to a little condescension.
Penthouse moved down to my legs. “And, you can get the legs, too. This all right, Ivy?”
“Just fine,” I muttered into the rug just as The Prodigy got herself free. My hands had started to turn red from the cinched rope around my wrists and so I was let out as well to swallow down the rest of my cocktail after that ordeal.
“Go check in the bathroom, see if I left any marks,” Penthouse said with a smirk. “They’re all probably under your dress. I’d like to know.”
For the record and for all my whining, there were none.
Like a Brisket, Part Three
When we got to Penthouse’s place, we played a game of show and tell.
Craftsmate went first and produced from his bag a series of floggers he had made, including something Penthouse had essentially commissioned him to make. When he took out the flogger he had hit me with, I had to chuckle. That thing and I had a history.
Penthouse showed us this giant leather glove he had been using to essentially flog people with that didn’t hurt very much but made one hell of a noise when it made contact with anything and his new riding crop. However, the highlight of his show and tell had to be this absurd wooden toy sword he had found and bought because he figured it would be good for paddling people with.
Leave it to kinky people, right?
Craftsmate let me try out hitting him with it and Penthouse made some room in his kitchen to allow me a good swing. To play fair, and out of pure curiosity, I turned and allowed Craftsmate to hit me back.
I shrieked when it made contact with the fabric of my sundress and my rear. It was probably one of the hardest hits I’ve received on the ass from anything. My experience with paddling is fairly slim, so I was walking around the kitchen, holding my ass, and whining for a few minutes after the hit. It stung like crazy.
“Turn around,” I said, “I want to look at my butt.”
I looked over my shoulder and just saw red. With a huff, I told them to turn around. “You’ve seen my butt already anyway,” I cracked before turning and lifting the bottom of my dress once more, “take a look at this.”
Penthouse chuckled, “there’s a line on your butt. That’s kind of awesome.” He looked over the toy sword and smirked.
“Sorry, Ivy,” Craftsmate said, “but, yeah, line on your butt.”
Craftsmate: I want to try out this new flogger on you.
Me: My only concern is marking up my thighs all over again.
Craftsmate: I mean, I could do it on your back or your ass.
Me: With the other people around? I don’t exactly want to show a bunch of strangers my ass.
Craftsmate: …
Craftsmate: thinkivykink.tumblr.com
Me: God, I hate you.
I have off-handedly mentioned on here a few times my freckle. It’s kind of famous.
However, recently, it’s gotten larger and darker. To the point that it’s still kind of cute but people constantly confuse it with dirt or food or other random smudges on my face. Lately, I have been trying to hide it with makeup, something I never did before. Just because I was tired of people trying to pick it off of my face.
So, I recently went and saw a dermatologist and she was all about slicing it out to make sure it’s nothing too bad and was like, “oh, I can do it right now if you want and you’ll just be swollen for a week and blah blah also you’ll have a scar and we’re going to need to biopsy it.”
I told her to slow down and made an appointment for next week. Honestly, I’m a little sad to have to see my signature freckle go. Also, I’m a little sad about how much something that’s “probably not cancer but we need to check anyway” costs. Ugh.