Sir: That sweatshirt’s new. Is that from Daddy?
Me, blushing: Uh huh.
clothing
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.
You all are a bunch of pervs for mostly suggesting I go naked. As for the legitimate clothing suggestions, thank you.
My friend took pity last night and came over. She dug out some tall wedges, a high-waisted skirt, and this little tank top. I insisted that it was a little over the top, but she replied that it was just fine. Aside from formals and other sorts of events, I typically stick to skinny jeans and a top or a casual cute dress when going out. The difference would be perceptible and I didn’t want him to think I was like some kind of seventh grader smearing glitter all over myself for my first date to the movies where our parents would be watching from a few rows behind.
Well. He noticed.
In a just staring when he thought I wasn’t looking way. In a very eagerly offering to rub my back when I told him it was a bit sore way. In a desperate attempt to keep his hands to himself while I was sitting on his lap and he was rubbing my back way.
We still had our banter, but it seemed to be riddled with knowing smiles and little chuckles. Sometime during the night, I was told by this random gay guy that my legs were “pure sex”. I blushed and sort of leaned back against him as I thanked the guy who had said it. From the look I was getting over my shoulder, I think he agreed.
We had a great time, but the evening was cut short due to some stuff not really related to either of us. Maybe I could’ve gone home with him, but I didn’t. I sort of want to leave a little bit to mystery,
(via traveling with the ghost (旧館 Old): Олег Михеев (Oleg Mikheev) × Алена Водонаева (Alena Vodonaeva))
Agh, help.
Tumblr community, I see how you helped Heart with her little date lingerie decision.
Well.
That guy from my frat and I are going out tonight and left to my own devices I’d dress like a second grader (actual quote from a friend). So um help me figure out an outfit and please suggest stuff because I just don’t know.
This message brought to you by my inability to be a functioning adult.
Sometime while I was out last night, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I assumed it was a text, but it vibrated again. It took my phone out. Blue was calling.
“What do you think this is about?” I showed my phone to our mutual friend.
He laughed, “probably a drunk dial. Take it. It could be funny.”
I answered my phone and Blue asked right away, “where are you right now?” I named off the place. “Great, great, I’ll be there in five minutes, don’t move.” He hung up. I gave my friend a knowing look and we started laughing.
“I think I’m being booty called,” I shook my head and put my phone away.
Blue came in a few minutes later and made a beeline to us. He was quick to get me over to the couch and start trying to talk me up. I was sober, amused. His breath was hot on my collarbone and his hands were gentle but intentioned, “I don’t know, I don’t get attracted to girls like I get attracted to you. It’s your confidence, your sexuality, the way you look, that damn freckle…”
It’s hard to pick out the sincerity from the alcohol and the ambition sometimes. It felt nice to hear him say those things and I wouldn’t be crushed if he were just saying them to get some, but come on. And then there was his hand, at my throat.
“What are you doing?”
Blue chuckled, “you told me you liked this.”
“Not in the front of the children,” I gestured to my friends and got up. A few minutes later, he was off talking up some guy.
I have no problem with the fact that I didn’t get any last night. And Blue later apologized for his incredibly drunken behavior.
But I wish things weren’t so blasé sometimes.
Being undressed by someone else can be an incredibly sobering experience. Especially when they go excruciatingly slow, in which case you’re forced to adjust to their pace and accept the fact that you cannot simply raise your hands and throw your shirt off. The ball’s in their court, so to speak, the game’s in their hands.
The weather has been insanely warm here for the past few days. It doesn’t feel like a February at all. It feels like spring. I hope it stays this way, I would love an extended spring. I’m not terribly sure of the ecological implications, but idealistically it would be glorious.
I would love more time of gentle heat and still air. There’s something very basic in me during the spring that comes out when the layers come off and the sun stays out. It feels the way peoples’ skin starts to glow, the newfound levity of situations, the easiness of longer days.
There’s something so quiet and restrained about winter and something so hurried and passionate about summer. Spring is steady. Spring is sweetly sexual, naturally erotic in a vaguely pagan ritual sort of way. It makes me want to cover a girl in daisy chains and kiss every inch of newly warmed flesh with smiling lips.
This weather needs to stay.
I absolutely love and absolutely hate walking around with little secrets under my clothes.
I’m referring here to crotchropes, buttplugs, writing on my skin, a mandated lack of panties with a skirt.
I feel positively naked. I feel as if everybody knows and they’re all just humoring me while being faintly amused/disgusted with what I’m doing. I have fought tooth and nail with dominants who try to send me out with things under my clothes. The entire day I’m hyperaware of it. I suppose it accomplishes its purpose, I think about the person who put it there the whole time. I feel like I’m harboring some disgusting secret, ready to be discovered, possibly already found.
But part of me likes secrets. Part of me gets off on secrets. And so naturally part of me really enjoys having those secret things under my clothes in public. Part of me enjoys that swimming, anxious feeling of walking amongst the normalcy with feigned composure.
photo by Edgar Zhukovsky
This is absolutely what chicks do.
And what this chick is doing tonight.
So, okay, not quite. But, I’m getting together with a bunch of other ladies (who love ladies) to have a night to ourselves.
Oh, and knife girl is definitely going to be there. Remember her?
This is what chicks do when guys aren’t around isn’t it? Right? It is.
Dear Riley Shy,
I am developing a crush on you.
You make this face a lot. It makes me wet. You’ve also got this little hint of a Southern twang going on. This also makes me wet.
I just thought I’d let you know.
Best,
Ivy