d – Ivy

Some things from my trip to see @doctortease:

1. I’ve received further confirmation that I’m a tough cookie.

2. Because it turns out I, uh, really like electricity. Particularly in the form of TENS units. (It’s a really fun form of pain!!!)

3. That said I totally can’t cum when a TENS unit is switched back on at the last minute.

4. Until I, um, can? Because it’s gotten that intense?

5. Another fun insight: if you get a rope wet and hit me with it, I’ll actually bruise. In like a pretty, firework-y kind of way.

6. It’s really fantastic to have nice friends in cool places, but it’s also great to be home.

7. (That said, I am so fucking jetlagged.)

Handoff, Part Six

(Parts 1-5 here.)

If I can be honest: I wasn’t even aware of how much of his hand was inside me at that point. Just that at least a pretty sizeable majority of it was, and that it felt strange and good and somehow a little bit like an accomplishment.

D withdrew his hand to roll me over onto my back, leaving me empty a moment before easing his fingers in once more. “Look at you, little one,” he taunted, something akin to mirth shining in his eyes. “Going back to a hotel with a bad man and letting him do this to you.”

I was perhaps a little embarrassed at how easily my body was yielding to his hand. At how pliant I could be made by hands that had never even touched me before. But he was right, I had gone back with him to his hotel room and taken off all of my clothes. I had let him tie me up, spread me with a speculum and then with his own hand, all without betraying much of his composure at all.

Early on, I’d rubbed him briefly through his pants while he kissed my neck, back when I was still dressed and unencumbered. But since, save for a moment or two where I bit down on his fingers in my mouth, I had been made just to receive. Which was, as it turned out, its own form of domination. One that I had come to realize I actually enjoyed.

We laid in his bed when it was over, chatting idly until my head stopped swimming. He’d untied me and my wrists were still looped in the vague indentations left by the ropes. It feels strange to say that he was gentle in the aftermath when in some infinitely frustrating but impossibly hot way, he’d basically been gentle the whole time.

But nonetheless, he pulled my jacket on for me and smoothed my hair off of my face. In the lobby of the hotel, he fetched me a lollipop from the front desk. Outside, we waited on the curb for the Lyft I called to arrive. I stood, sucking the lollipop and holding D’s hand. And I felt both incredibly small and – really – rather grown up.

Handoff, Part Four

(Parts 1-3 here.)

Every weekday morning, my bus to work passes the hotel D took me to. I’ll look up and, subconsciously, shift a little in my seat. It’s almost become a part of my commute now, seeing the hotel and remembering being spread open, being made small and helpless. I have felt myself become wet before, the sharpness of my memory manufacturing another sort of Pavlovian drooling entirely.
It wasn’t some sleazy hourly motel. Inevitably, I’ll see professionals in neatly pressed suits with their efficient black suitcases rolling along on the pavement behind them. Not to say that it was particularly swanky either. But I suppose my point here is that when I pass the hotel, I realize that I am perhaps the first and only person to have ejected a speculum onto its sheets.

The vibrations that had taken me over the edge were intense. At first, the speculum had rattled inside me when D lowered the head of the wand to the implement’s base. But I suppose I had clenched around it, because once it was still it was like a column of vibration, like something drilling into the earth. It went so deep that I nearly saw white. I don’t remember if I gave any cue that I was cumming – it’s become routine now for me to have to ask for it with partners – but I was before I knew it.

Afterwards, I had managed to steady my breathing. For whatever reason, over the past couple of years, I’ve been getting really good – if you can even call it a skill – at orgasming vaginally without clitoral stimulation. However, it’s often not nearly as intense. But my body doesn’t hold itself to its own rules. There’s this feeling that I get when I orgasm this way, like something in my head’s shifted just slightly and then something – endorphins? – is freed to rush out. Like twisting the kink out of a garden hose to release the pent up water. It’s more localized in my head than it is anywhere else in my body. But the feeling still lingered this time, made every part of me still feel alight and coiled. Even my clit was still tingling when I heard D switch the vibrator back on.

So I flinched at the idea of having more stimulation applied to it. I clenched up. And that’s when I felt the speculum slip out and found the telltale heat of shame crawling up the back of my neck.

”Ivy, we are going to finish this examination,“ I heard D say over the scrape of the speculum being closed. "Even if I have to bend you over the bed and insert it that way. Do you understand?”

I whined, but nodded nonetheless. The truth was that I was relieved to feel the speculum slide back inside me. I wanted it there, had missed the feeling of being held open almost immediately after the speculum had been pushed out. For as vulnerable and exposed as it made me feel, it also felt really, really good.
This time it wasn’t nearly as cold, and it slid home almost effortlessly. I wasn’t sure if he’d reapplied lube or if I was just that wet.

"Are you going to be a good girl and keep it in this time?” D asked, not waiting for my reply before he lowered the head of the wand to just above the hood of my clit. When D turned the vibrator on, I sucked in an inhale so sharply that it stung the arc of my hard palate.

D focused almost entirely on my clit this time, bringing me up near the point of orgasm before withdrawing once I neared the peak. A few minutes later, he’d done it again. Then again. Then again. Each time the window constricting slightly, even as he managed to get me closer and closer to plunging over with each edge. Soon, I was trembling, I was barely coming down between them. D was dragging the kind of cries out of me that scraped my throat raw as he worked me up and then withdrew, wordlessly, over and over.

For a while, it all blurred together. I don’t remember if I begged or not. I don’t remember when he withdrew the speculum. I recall being told to hold the vibrator against my clit by trapping it between my bent knees, but my legs quaked too hard for me to keep it still, even after two attempts and a sharp slap to my thigh. And I don’t even remember if he ever let me cum and, if so, how many times he did, though he must have. Because when he removed the bandage from my eyes, the room was for a moment soft and swollen. I felt like I was floating despite the heaviness in my limbs.

D had lain down beside me on the bed. As I blinked my vision back to steadiness, he pulled me into him. We’d take a break, he explained. He wasn’t done with me yet. “But I’m going to keep you just like this for a moment,” he murmured against my skin. “I want you to stay right here."

doctortease:

(Part one, part two.)

After initial visual inspection and baseline vitals were established for Ivy (hereinafter “subject”), the session proceeded as per standard protocol. Subject was responsive and aroused. Subject was vocal despite attempted self-restraint.

Of particular interest for this exam were the subject’s orgasmic threshold, pain threshold, and verbal or physical cues to indicate their approach. The following techniques were employed to glean data.

Subject’s glans clitoris and labia were stimulated manually.

Subject, while sight-deprived, was allowed to hear a nitrile glove being donned.

Subject was offered and accepted synthetic lubrication.

Subject’s vaginal canal was penetrated with a single finger. (note: concern about diameter expressed here, unusually early)

Subject was stimulated via vibrating wand fitted with silicone diffuser head.

Subject was induced to choose between body weight on said wand or sustained stress posture. (note: she chose tiptoes)

Subject was bent at the waist, and manual impact stimulus was employed.

Subject was eventually persuaded to count manual impact stimulus aloud. Impact was extended to the upper thighs and the soles of the feet, in addition to the traditional posterior site, as part of this persuasion

(Note that by this point self-lubrication had made synthetic reapplication redundant.)

Subject was penetrated with two gloved fingers. Vocal protest increased sharply. Significant pressure noted.

Subject was turned onto reverse side to allow for tactile examination of breast tissue and, again, application of the wand.

Subject’s legs were repositioned to allow for maximum exposure.

The exam proceeded to phase three.

Keep reading

Handoff, Part Two

(Part one can be found here.)

Before we got too deep into anything, @doctortease (I will, for the sake of convenience, refer to him herein as ’D’) had me sit down in the armchair in his hotel room so that we could go over limits and, to an extent, expectations. He was across from me on the ottoman, so close our knees were touching. Despite the tightness in my chest that I couldn’t quite attribute to solely nerves or arousal, something about D’s presence set me at ease. At the museum, he was congenial and easy to be around. His voice was gentle. He had kind eyes.

Even so, I could barely meet them. I always withdraw when it comes to saying what I want, and to have someone speaking so casually about tying me up and playing with me – in the sort of nonchalant way one would order a sandwich – had rendered me taciturn. “I’m really turned on right now,” I admitted, allowing it to serve as a means of voicing my consent. Here and there, I’d chimed in things that had appealed to me, had seconded some of his own preferences. But I’d hoped being this forthcoming would negate, or at least justify, my shyness.

“Good,” D replied, tracing the tips of his fingers over my thigh. His touch was so light it felt like breath on my skin.

I’d expected him to undress when I did. But he didn’t when I rose, unzipped my skirt and let it fall around my ankles. And he didn’t when I removed my t-shirt and tossed it aside. Nor when I unhooked my bra. Nor when I stepped out of my wedges. Instead, he’d advanced towards me until I felt my back press against the wall. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

I looked up at him. “You can fuck me if you want to.”

He laughed. I felt my ears redden, felt the heat rise on the back of my neck and in my cheeks.

I want to talk for a moment here about power. I think a lot of people conflate power with force because those are the manifestations of power we’re most used to: closed fists, raised voices. To hold power seems to imply being the agent of something. The instigator. The one enacting the violence, the one calling the shots, the one explaining the rules. And I think that’s a valid idea to a point. But I think there’s a greater power in doing nothing. In leading the other person to show their cards while you withhold yours. So, D had gotten me naked without lifting a finger, while he stood there with his clothes on. He’d had me offer myself to him and not even given me the dignity of an acceptance or refusal. I realized what this afternoon was going to look like. And in the face of it, I was fucking dizzy with want.

Soon enough, my wrists were tied in front of me with a length of soft rope, a yard or so of excess trailing down to the floor in front of me. D seized it up and led me over to the foot of the bed, turning me with his hands on my shoulders so I faced it with my back to the duffel bag he’d withdrawn the rope from.

“I’d like to blindfold you, Ivy. Is that all right?” D asked. I appreciated his willingness to obtain my consent, but I was mildly amused by how perfunctory his tone was about the whole thing. As if he’d just checked in with me about turning on the fan or making some other mundane adjustment. Regardless, I nodded.

I didn’t recognize the black elastic bandage right away when I saw the roll out of the corner of my eyes. D wrapped it around my head in three swift, deliberate turns before I felt his fingers against his temple, pressing the loose end flat. The blindfold was snug, the material pressing firmly, though not uncomfortably, into my eyelids. A few attempts to open my eyes proved futile. It felt redundant when he asked if I could see, more like a reinforcement of my status than a request for an update on it.

“It’s fine,” I answered, taken aback by how breathy my voice had become. Were it possible, I felt even more naked than before.

More so, even, when D pulled up on the rope, guiding my bound hands to rest on the back of my neck. My arms were forced up, bent at the elbow and out of the way of my body. He allowed the excess rope to trail down my back before tugging it up between my legs. Even though he hadn’t pulled it very tightly, my breath still hitched. It was enough to remind me of how vulnerable I was. To confirm how much I’d given him.

For a few honey-slow moments, we stayed like that. His breath warmed my neck, his fingers trailing idly over my skin. I tried to imagine what I must have looked like in that moment: bound, nude, blindfolded, forced to stand with my chest pushed out. I was a little light-headed. I could feel myself soaking into the rope between my legs.

“I want to hear you breathe,” D said, his voice giving me something to steady myself against in the darkness as his hands left my body. I heard his footsteps on the rug, the sound of him rummaging through the bag.

Something freezing cold made contact with my back, just between my shoulder blades. I gasped, lurched forward. At first, I thought it was ice. But after a few moments, there were no telltale water droplets running down the slope of my back.

Hear you breathe.

My cheeks burned even more fiercely as I realized what it was. The stark cold of it had drawn a few quick, heaving breaths out of me, but D coaxed them into long, deep draws. He rewarded my even breaths with soft praise, even as I gasped and choked on the first few breaths each time he found another spot on my torso. I couldn’t help it. Aside from the inherent disorientation of having something make contact with your body when you can’t see it coming, it was still cold. Even as it warmed slightly with the heat coming off my skin.

“Are you scared?” D asked.

“You think I’m scared?” I tried to sound cavalier about it. I wanted to serve it up as a bluff. But the words caught in my throat.

His grin was apparent in his voice. “I can hear your heart.”

doctortease:

Handoff, Part One

“Take a moment and really LOOK at the diorama!” said the museum docent. “And close your eyes.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“Don’t just picture it! Try to feel it. Hear it,” she urged.

I peered at the fanciful nineteenth-century taxidermy case, which featured two lions fighting a probably racist caricature. Ivy, standing a few feet away, was waging her own battle with contained laughter.

“What do you hear?” said the docent.

“Screaming?” I said.

“Are you in creative writing?”

I looked at her, a bit furrowed. I realize that higher-education students come from many age brackets, but I am pretty far from passing for an undergrad.

“No?” I said, with a bit of hesitation; I mean, writing was—in a way—the reason I was here to visit.

“Well, if you were writing a story about this moment,” she forged on, “what would it feel like?”

I looked at the sand heaped around the bottom of the case, and the wild-eyed, splay-legged camel within.

“Hot?” I replied.

Ivy and Flora, actively pretending not to know me, were no help at all. It took me a few more minutes to escape and flee toward the larger east gallery, blessedly free of taxidermy, during which they were busy charming each other.

It was another hour before Ivy sidled up to me, alone, in a side room filled with burial artifacts that no one had ever bothered to sort.

“Usually when I’m considering whether to have a scene with someone,” I said, “I’d start with a conversation about our… you know, kinks and interests.”

“Right,” said Ivy. “But I think we’ve got that covered.

“Has it really been that many years since the first time we interacted?”

“Yup,” she said. “I was a baby.”

I winced.

“Cheer up,” she said. “I’m all grown up now!”

Later still, at the hotel, I ran my fingertips down her arms and felt her prickle and shiver. She was standing very still, lips parted; I ran my fingers back along her thigh, drawing her skirt up, and up, and up—until it became clear that she had chosen to forgo her panties for this first meeting with a new old friend.

“Naughty girl,” I murmured, smiling. “Is it all right if I call you that?”

She nodded, and took a deep breath. “What should I call you?”

“Well, we are almost strangers,” I said. “Why don’t we try… ‘Mister?’”

“Okay, Mister,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound very grown up at all.