There’s something about being told that good girls share, and then not getting any at all.
denial
Halfway There, Part Eight
Flint checked on me a couple of times before leaving the girls to finish up dinner in the kitchen. He took a seat on the couch, propping his feet up on my back. I adjusted myself as he used me as a footrest to watch television, making sure I wasn’t buckling too much under the pressure at the small of my back.
“Lida,” he said, “come here.”
I heard her walk out of the kitchen and over to me. He must have been motioning to her or have mouthed something, because I heard her say, “in front of her? Are you sure?”
“Your mouth first,” Flint replied.
Lida stepped over me and moved onto the couch. I blushed and buried my face into the carpet when I realized she was sucking Flint off, my cheeks burning even harder when I heard her moans as she climbed onto him and started riding him. Flint pressed one of his feet into my back, using my body as leverage as he thrusted back up into her. I couldn’t see them from my position, but the fact that they were essentially using me as a fulcrum for sex was – and I’m embarrassed to admit – maybe my favorite part of the night.
Eventually, he sent Lida back into the kitchen to finish the food and bent down to check on me.
“Was that okay?” He asked.
I nodded and he reached down between my legs. The second his fingers made contact, he started laughing. “Are you serious?” He shoved a few fingers inside of me and I moaned against the tape over my mouth. “That…that got you this fucking wet? Lida, she’s soaking wet.” He wiped his fingers on my face and grinned. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” With that, he rose to his feet and moved back into the kitchen.
Blushing, I squirmed a bit in my bonds. The smell of my wetness on my face was basically inescapable. I hated admitting that I was into this sort of thing – it took me forever to admit to Sir – and now I’d just silently confessed it to Flint and Lida.
Sir’s being a big meanie and not letting me rub my pussy until bedtime.
I am posting this here to signal boost this grave injustice.
Pout.
I was talking dirty on the phone with Sir this afternoon and I couldn’t find my vibrator. He thought it was hilarious that I weighed the possibility that he had taken it with him or hidden it. You know, to curb certain behaviors.
(He hadn’t. Yet.)
I’ve got this fantasy where I’m institutionalized. The warden’s just a teensy bit corrupt and has fun teasing my needy cunt while I’m stuck in my straitjacket.
Or, you know, while I’m asleep. Which only leads to me being kept longer.
Now in hiding due to problematic fantasies.
Full Service, Part Six
What happened next is a bit blurry. I had gotten really subspaced and, as a result, had a lot of trouble keeping track of things. According to Craftsmate, later that evening, when I thought I had been saying things to him in complete sentences, I was actually only saying one or two words.
This is where I stress how important it is to be with someone you really trust when you get that deep. I am serious here. Don’t go trusting the good stuff with the people who don’t deserve it.
I had been resisting letting myself get that deep with him because of an experience in the past with someone else I used to be with. Basically, he pushed me super deep, I figured I could trust him, and he took advantage and did some stuff that was really not okay.
But, this time was really amazing and I feel good about letting go. He didn’t betray my trust and he checked in with me a lot.
At some point, I wound up on my back again. I remember he kept making me hold the vibrator between my thighs in order to have it on my clit and I would wind up squirming, making the vibrator fall off. Then I would have to shuffle around and try to push the vibrator up towards one of my hands with my knee. When the clamps became too much, I whined that I needed them off and he removed them for me.
For all the haziness, I remember distinctly how badly I needed him to fuck me and how much I pleaded.
“I want your cock,” I begged, grinding up against the vibrator between my legs, “please, Sir, I want your cock so bad.”
Craftsmate laughed and pushed some of my hair from my face. “Awww, baby, now you want my cock? First you wanted the vibrator and now you want this, too? Remember how badly you wanted it?”
He reached down and turned the vibrator off, prompting me to squeal in frustration.
Tantrum material.
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.
Craftsmate and I were in the middle of messing around when I heard the door to the common room open. It was around lunchtime and I figured my roommate, Sunshine, would be having lunch somewhere.
This was, apparently, not the case.
“Ivy?” She called toward my room, “you home?”
I was blindfolded and gagged and bent over the end of my bed. I managed to wriggle my hand out of the scarf that bound my arms behind my back and yanked the ballgag out of my mouth in a mess of drool.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “Just hanging out in my room with Craftsmate.”
“Oh,” she replied, apparently oblivious to what was going on. “Hi, Craftsmate.”
“Hi, Sunshine,” Craftsmate called back, trying not to laugh. He shoved the ballgag back into my mouth and retied my wrists, leaning down and whispering, “better keep quiet, then.”
Outside of my door, I heard Sunshine take out her phone and call up for a taxi. Inside my room, Craftsmate reached around and clipped a clothespin onto my clit. I bit down hard on the strap of the gag as I heard Sunshine list off her address and her name.
“No, no, it’s Sunshine,” she clarified, “S…U…N…”
Craftsmate pinched my nipples hard and I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold.
“No, S. S. S…U…”
I managed to keep it together until she left. After telling me that I had been good, Craftsmate left me seated on the floor, wrists tied tightly (but not so tight that I couldn’t get myself out), his cum dripping down my back.
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.