crop – Ivy

So, I saw a video on my dashboard. It was only thirty seconds long, but it kind of gave me chills.

There was this absolutely gorgeous man tied down with red rope, essentially being edged. At least, that’s what I gathered. Because I watched it with the volume off because I didn’t even think I could handle it with sound. I was blushing like crazy already with it mute.

At one point, the person edging him shoved his fingers in his mouth and I literally almost gasped. The expression on his face, the way his body twisted. I don’t know.

I’ve started to explore my dominant side a little, but I’m still consistently shocked when things actually really get to me. Usually, I figure that it’s hot for me because the act is pleasing to whoever the partner is in the situation or I imagine eventually I’ll be overtaken in a power struggle sort of arrangement. But, I was genuinely enjoying this little 30 second clip of this beautiful man suffering.

So, I may have underestimated Pretty a little bit. Just a little.

If you had shown me this image a year ago, it wouldn’t have done much for me.

Now, I stare a little longer at pictures like these. I appreciate them.

And sometimes I even crack a grin.

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.

There’s something about the word bitch.

Slut, whore, words like that, they all tend to have a lot more accountability. A lot more agency. They seem to be a direct result of the things you choose to do and you sort of own them. My reactions to being called these words during play usually have a degree of smugness to them. It’s an accusation of being the sort of person who enjoys this stuff. And I’m confirming it.

But, bitch, I don’t know. It’s rougher. It screams ownership, subjugation. It reduces you to something animal-like, primal, something that relies on just instinct and physical cues. Simpler thoughts and more visceral reactions usually accompany being called this or having to call myself this.

I guess I should clarify that I kind of love/hate/love the word bitch.