Practice.
“Good kitty, work that tongue” may just be one of the blushiest combination of tags I’ve seen in a while.
degradation
The first night, they let her hold the bowl still. But everyone knows kitties are a little messier than that.
Whatever do you mean?
This has brat written all over it.
La Niña Santa by Sofia Sanchez & Mauro Mongiello
See, I’d want to be something like this for you.
But I’d need the reassurance that you would stroke my hair every so often after you put your drink down.
I don’t want to just be a table. I want to be your table. The best fucking table you could have. Even if and when I mess up.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Four
After the food was made, Craftsmate had me take the apron off and go into his room. He had hung chain off of a section of his bed that turned the space under his bed into a makeshift cage. Blocking off the other sides with boxes, it was this fairly small area where I could crawl a few inches in either direction.
He made me get down into the cage and brought my food in to me. Before I could get to eating with the conspicuous lack of silverware, he took my hands and taped my fingers together into little “paws”. I huffed and bent down, a blush rising in my cheeks as I started to eat off of the plate.
It was indescribably humiliating. My face got messy, I would lose grasp on the plate and it would slide around, I felt utterly ridiculous lapping water up and out of a bowl. When Craftsmate reached down to have me eat something from his hand, I could barely keep it together.
Eventually, he got up and left the bedroom for a moment. When he got back, he had a bowl with some ice cream and apple pie. “The Prodigy made a pie and decided to share some,” he explained and took a seat at his desk, facing the cage. “Next time you see her, you’re going to thank her. Now, come here.”
Gingerly, I crawled out of the cage and rested my head against his knee while he ate, opening my mouth when he fed me some. When he had finished, he put the bowl in my face so I could lick it clean and I complied, feeling the humiliation burn in my cheeks.
“Good kitty,” he murmured, running his free hand through my hair.
I made him worship my feet.
I hadn’t had a lot of experience with it besides a little bit of blushy messing around with Switch, but something just sort of persuaded me to do it and so I went on a hunch and did.
There was something really, really appealing about the look on Penthouse’s face while he did it. There was this sincere desire to please that literally got me soaked.
Too bad my feet are far too ticklish.
But, looking at a picture like this makes me want to imagine a guy kneeling below those shoes. So, I’ve been corrupted.
Probably the part of my forays into puppy play that has had the largest impact is having to eat something off the floor.
It’s also, pretty much, one of the few things I do. I’ve never worn a tail. Barking makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Besides leashes and collars, the only puppy play-esque stuff I’ve done is being made to eat out of a bowl on the floor.
It’s indescribably humbling. You make a mess. You wind up with more than half of it on your face. The first time I tried, it was yogurt. On my cheeks, on my chin, on the tip of my nose. I had to wait for the person dominating me to clean it off. I wasn’t allowed to speak, I wasn’t allowed to stand up. I felt more helpless than I had some times that I had spent tied up.
I don’t want to like this. I want to say it’s crude and that it is completely unsophisticated. But I am completely and utterly drawn to it.
I hate admitting how much I enjoy being humiliated. The fact that she’s forced to taste herself and God knows who or what else on that dildo is completely and utterly degrading. But something tells me I’d enjoy being in her position, though I’d fight the entire way along and never outright admit it.
“You can put your coats right through there on the bed. Just so they’re out of the way.”
The Infamous Car Story, Part 4
StandardContinued from here.
I blushed furiously at his comment before letting out another moan in response to Elle’s tongue on my nipple. They both let out a mutual chuckle and I felt my cheeks redden even more. My boyfriend kept my head held back, occasionally tweaking or pinching my nipple when he saw fit.
I thought about what my boyfriend had said. It was true. I absolutely loved being the center of attention in this sort of scenario. I loved feeling more than one pair of hands on me, more than one pair of eyes. I loved to know that the two participants were eagerly lusting after me. I loved seeing the two work together to tease, to explore, to enjoy. And, eventually, to make me climax.
My boyfriend spun me on his lap so I faced him, my nipple popping from Elle’s mouth. “You haven’t even made an effort to please us, you know,” he said.
I shrugged, “well, my hands are tied and you keep putting fingers in my mouth.” I felt Elle’s hand collide with the upper portion of my ass check. The part that hurts marginally more than the part that’s typically hit. I groaned as she told me to stop making excuses.
But, my boyfriend just smirked, “you want this to be all about Ivy? Fine, you whore, it’s going to be all about Ivy.” He pushed me back down over the armrest and I nearly bumped my nose on the cupholder. “It’s going to be all about what little fucking Ivy wants.” He smacked my cunt hard, “but it’s also going to be all about making Ivy suffer to get it.”
I yelped as Elle smacked her hand square over where my boyfriend had just hit. He reached around me, fanning his fingers over my face before letting them branch over it and cover my mouth. “Feel nice, slut? This is why I need to get you a muzzle. I know for a fact you like the way it feels."
I groaned against his hand and shook my head. The muzzle had been brought up a few times in the past as a potential plaything, but I had been quick to dismiss it as too animal-esque for me. I knew he didn’t want to put it on me because he wanted dogs, but I also knew that I wasn’t entirely sure how If felt about being presented in a way that reminded me of them.
Also, the general idea of that style of gag frightened me. The criss-crossing of straps over my cheeks, the feeling of my mouth being that covered, the buckles heavy and tight against the back of my head. It was a bit too containing, too restrictive for my liking. And, yet, somehow that also intrigued me terribly.
I realized how transparent I could be in this position. I was clearly getting wetter from his hands on my face that way and Elle’s occasional slaps to my ass. I could basically smell myself in the car, something I’m sure Elle and my boyfriend shared. I was an open book. I was exposed. I was open.
Elle tore my panties down roughly before beginning to rub my clit, "don’t like it, dear? I don’t see how you can’t. It’s even got a nice sound to it. Muzzle.”
I moaned against my boyfriend’s fingers and shook my head. He lifted his hands from me only to replace one at the back of my neck. “I don’t…I don’t like…” I could barely get the words out. I attempted a few more times before resigning to enjoying the feeling between my legs.
My boyfriend’s free hand settled down near Elle’s as he started to tease over my lips with his fingers. He chuckled, leaning down close to my ear, “you don’t even care anymore, do you? We could put you on a fucking leash and walk you around and you wouldn’t care as long as you get your pussy rubbed, huh? Everything else just fades away.”
“Always so simple-minded, Ivy,” Elle joined in, “such a one-track mind you’ve got. The second a hand goes down there you completely lose track of everything else."
I felt myself blush, but they were right. I didn’t care. My thoughts seemed to be pin-holed to one idea, one desire. I came to the sound of them continuing to taunt me, though I could barely process their words. I bucked against the armrest, crying out and completely forgetting the cars that zoomed by.
I came out of it dazed. The effect was dizzying. I continued to squirm and shake with the "after shocks”. They smiled, they chuckled, they waited for me to at least remotely come back before my boyfriend snapped, “did we say you could cum?"
To be continued.