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She just absolutely needs the blindfold, she says. Nothing else makes her quite so brave.

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He used to tie me up like this and make me go to bed. 

Inevitably, I’d wake up humping the crotch rope.

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Sometimes I just need you to have the gall to tell me you don’t care whether or not I’m comfortable.

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As promised, a naughty update.

Things you can’t see: The knot in the crotchrope over my clit and the vibrator tucked into the rope underneath me. 

Things you can see: My new beddddd (so comfy).

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Bear with me on this one, guys. It’s a little humiliating. 

The other night, using this prompt, Craftsmate put me in a crotchrope with my arms tied to my sides. Before blindfolding me, he asked me for a number between one and twenty.

“I don’t know,” I replied, giving as much of a shrug as the rope would allow. “Sixteen?”

Cue sixteen minutes of Craftsmate going between teasing one of my nipples and rubbing the knot in the crotchrope over my clit. The sensations that produced combined with the fact that he has been teasing me pretty mercilessly for the past few days resulted in me quickly tripping into a pretty delirious state where I completely lost track of whether he was on my nipple or my clit.

The time dragged on until finally the alarm on his phone went off, signaling I’d managed to endure the sixteen minutes. Somewhere between exhausted and immensely frustrated, I managed to doze off only to, according to Craftsmate, literally be woken up by the sound of my own moaning.

Apparently, he had walked in to find me writhing around in my sleep, hands opening and closing, body arching up against the crotchrope. According to Craftsmate, I was muttering things like “please” and “yeah” which, you know, isn’t embarrassing at all. (Spoiler alert: It is.)

He slipped into bed beside me and started gently teasing me, until, yeah, my moans legitimately woke me.

So, ah, that’s what’s up, I guess.

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I’m usually pretty awful at routines, confessedly. But, Craftsmate’s developed one lately that’s managed to somehow fix my horrible sleep patterns and drive me completely insane. Essentially, since Sunday, he’s been having me come over to his place at night, strip down to my panties and a t-shirt, and lie on his bed with my face down and my ass in the air.

I have to pull my panties down and wait while Craftsmate takes his sweet time applying lubricant to my asshole and his fingers. First with one finger, then two, he gently starts probing and thrusting into my asshole. Sometimes, he will rub my clit, but he’ll never let me cum. He does this with a rubber glove on, knowing that it only adds to the humiliation of the entire ordeal for me. Because, yes, I find the whole anal inspection thing to be completely humiliating. 

When he has finished, he blindfolds me and has me pull my panties back up. Then, he puts me into the crotchrope arrangment he did on Sunday – with my wrists tied at my sides and the tiniest bit of slack to helplessly flutter my hands on either side of my pussy in an attempt to relieve myself. He teases me for a little while before tucking me in and leaving me there to go do work or watch television. 

By the time he comes to bed, I’ve fallen asleep that way: bound, blindfolded, teased, always vaguely aware of the push of the knot in the crotchrope against my clit. In the morning, he teases me a bit more, unties me and only removes the blindfold after he has inspected how wet I had gotten during the night.

I don’t know how long this routine is going to last and I kind of like how much I simultaneously despise and enjoy it. Every morning I ask him if that was the last time and try to convince him that I’ve learned my lesson, but part of me is almost relieved when he tells me no and informs me of what time he expects me that night.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go blush for about six years after sharing this.

whyexactly:

Sometimes rope pulls

tighter on your mind

than it does on your skin.

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I woke up on Sunday morning in Craftsmate’s bed to the feeling of him tightening the ropes around my wrists. Somehow, the night before, I had agreed to sleeping tied up. Except instead of sleeping with my arms tied behind my back or in front, I wound up with my arms tied at my sides, attached to a crotchrope with a knot that pressed into my clit, preventing me from forgetting its presence. 

We had established, sometime during the evening, that I was a selfish brat. Or, rather, I was told that I was a selfish brat who couldn’t control herself. Hence, the crotchrope, the hands tied to inhibit touching, the nagging push of the knot as a cruel little joke.

When he had finished tightening the rope around my wrists and ensuring that I would not be able to let myself out, Craftsmate climbed off of the bed and went to sit down at his desk. As he slid off the mattress, I became attune to the throb of my clit and realized the effect of the crotchrope on my sleeping body had left me inconsolably needy.

“I think it would be a nice idea if you came here and touched me,” I said playfully, wriggling a bit in the rope and feeling the knot rub over my clit.

Craftsmate shook his head. “You said nothing until you finished your thesis chapter.”

“I changed my mind,” I huffed. “Come here. Please?" 

He didn’t budge.

I kept pressing, but I couldn’t get him to come over. My hips had started to pick up a slight thrust and I was trying to keep myself from grinding the crotchrope right in front of him, but I could only hold out so long. Eventually, my pleas for him to come touch me turned into begging him to use me and finally dissolved into me saying all I wanted was his attention, I didn’t care how it looked.

Amused, Craftsmate came over and teased the tip of his finger over the crotchrope. "I don’t think so. Maybe your Daddy lets you be a little princess and get away with this kind of stuff, but you’re entirely too spoiled and you’re not getting what you want this time.” I blushed at the mockery in his voice.

“Please,” I gasped out, “please I’ll do whatever you want.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you get to cum until you’re a good girl for me and not some selfish brat.”

After a round with Craftsmate’s riding crop and a rather humiliating inspection of my cunt, which had become so wet that it had soaked straight through my panties and drenched the knot of my crotchrope, I was sent off with assurance that my poor conduct would no longer be tolerated.

And, much to my chagrin, an order to keep my hands off of my dully throbbing cunt until my behavior improved.

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Continued from here.

Penthouse sat on his bed, smiling down at me. I was hogtied at the foot of it, nude, rope slung through my crotch. Every so often, he pulled on the stray end of rope threaded through his bedpost, tightening the knot against my clit.

He noticed I had gotten a text from a certain Gentleman.

A certain Southern Gentleman.

He smirked.

“You can respond, go ahead,” I murmured, already halfway to subspace. Penthouse picked up the phone and responded with a greeting and an update on the situation.

SG responded right away.

And that’s how Penthouse met the Southern Gentleman.

Kind of.

stefanradev-foto:

“Rope marks ”
Model: Petya Gencheva

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It can be so hard sometimes just to focus on your own thoughts. It’s in these moments of quiet contemplation and enforced solitude, of a self-awareness brought on by the presence of foreign sensation, that the amount of stimulus that exists surprisingly can drive you into a moment with yourself and your thoughts.

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Aw, sweetie, I know you’re uncomfortable. But it’s making Master and I so happy. And that’s really all that counts when you think about it, hm? 

(In other news, I am so hunting down that dress or sewing myself a version of it.)