Dear Tumblr,
I received some super amazing news today about an opportunity I had applied for, forgotten about, and assumed I would not be accepted to.
Well, I was accepted.
But, I’m too gosh darn swamped with work to celebrate.
Pft.
<3, Ivy
cuffs
I’ve been learning to say no.
I know this is the worst thing for someone with a sex tumblr to say. You guys probably don’t want to hear me saying no to stuff. Well, you don’t want to have to read about me turning away from potentially fun decisions.
I have a friend. A very good-looking friend. A very good-looking friend who I have, in the past, had some serious fun with. And we were planning to pick some stuff up and have a little fun. But, she’s in a relationship with someone and, despite the fact that they are trying to do polyamory, I’m not entirely sure they know exactly what they’re doing. I don’t want feelings to get hurt and I don’t want to ruin our friendship and drag down her relationship with it.
Because, above all, she’s one of my great friends. I would absolutely hate to lose her. And, while the fun we’ve had was pretty great, I need to get some priorities straight. I think I’ve made the right decision here. And, yeah, it stinks a little, but I have a feeling I’ll be glad I did this in the long-run.
This is a test.
They’ve tried things like this before. It was much more contrived. There was fur on the handcuffs. There was an unwritten agreement not to push anything too far. It was, in its plainness, simple and safe, just a few twee forays into something vaguely perverse. Something they could laugh over later.
Now, no laughter. Just stares, expectation, a hope for some sort of common understanding in the shifting against the chair and the tightening of his fist in his pocket. Someone could say something, but it wouldn’t do any good in air this electric and unstable. It’s somewhere between vulnerability and a sort of bravado that had been, since today, unparalleled.
There could have been conversations, they both knew that. There could have been things hinted at when rolling over between bouts of sleep. But there was something gorgeous about this sort of spontaneity and the way she was, in this terribly available and humbling position, boring into him with such a gaze as to suggest that she would devour him were it not for how she were restrained. If he were not to partake of this, it seemed, there was a chance he could be swallowed whole.
This is a test. And the light on in the bedroom, the ringing telephone, that look on her face are all just factors. The answer’s somewhere else entirely.
He won’t tell her why she’s being punished, just that she is. She knows she hasn’t done anything particularly wrong. He knows it, too.
But he’ll still tie her down and call her all sorts of vile names as he shoves her panties into her mouth. She’ll groan as the fabric scrapes her tongue before becoming engorged with her own saliva. She’ll squeal as she feels the tails of the flogger trace over her exposed rear. She’ll tell herself she did nothing wrong at all. She’ll insist that she doesn’t deserve this.
Smack. She reminds herself how good she’s been. How sweet she is, how selfless. How she serves so willingly. She could not have possibly done anything wrong. She’s his good girl. His perfect little pet.
Smack. The hit lands square on her crack again. Tears warm the corners of her eyes and blur the sight of her bound wrist. She heaves a breath behind the panties. The familiar taste of herself is being dissolved by her saliva and the material’s new thickness nearly makes her gag.
Smack. She grunts behind the panties. Tears hit her cheeks, the bedspread. She’s a good girl. This is just proof of it. She’s enduring this for him.
Smack. She cries out around the cotton wedged into her mouth. Her body bucks forward violently. She’s done something, she knows it. Somewhere. She’ll make something up. She’ll identify something she’s already been punished for. She is willing to fill in the gaps for him.
Smack. She deserves this. She’s been very bad. This is her punishment. She needs it. She deserves it. She doesn’t need a reason, an explanation, an example. She just needs.
They keep her like that for hours. They reach around the stone to touch her. To squeeze her breasts. To tweak her nipples. To tease their fingers over her slit. She’s not even sure if she can call it a “they”. She’s not sure how many there are. She’s unsure if she’s reading too deeply into when she feels some hands are coarser and some are smaller.
She tries to study shadows on the wall, but the room is far too dark. She is left to rely upon the sounds of their steps as they enter the room, the feeling of those hands, the patterns that they take, and their all-too-quick departure.
It becomes her whole world. Those hands, those footsteps, the occasional grunt or cough, they’re just about all she’s got.
Mmm. Is that a challenge?
writhe for me. you can’t touch yourself, but I’ll let you cum if you can do it without touching.
See, I could use this kind of discipline right now.
I could also use the kind of discipline that would make me work on my gosh-darn term papers.