Mr. Deen is an inspiration.
Oh my God the way he just covers her face like that.
dirty talk
Re: consensual nonconsent
ChatSir: Well, you’re just asking for it.
Me: How am I asking for it?
Me: Besides specifically asking you for it.
I went out last night to a bar with some people in my graduate cohort. On the way home, I texted Sir to let him know I was headed to bed.
“Did any guys try to hit on you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, “three.”
I was a bit surprised when he texted me back with, “mmmm so hot.”
“That’s hot to you?” I asked, “how is that hot to you?”
“Yeah, guys drooling over my girl,” he replied.
We both kind of get turned on by possessiveness and infidelity. Naturally, it’s not really one of those fantasies you can really do to the hilt, but we talk about it a lot.
I smirked and texted, “one called me sweetie. Like, ‘hey there, sweetie.’”
“Mmm, what an asshole.”
“You love that.”
He called me a pervert. I insisted he was more of one. And so he called me a filthy little girl and a floozy.
“I am not,” I answered as I walked in the door and set my bag down, “I didn’t flirt back.”
“I know. You’re a good girl.”
“Oh yeah?” I teased, “So assured I wouldn’t cheat?”
I’m sincerely glad I’ve found someone just about as fucked up as I am, who isn’t judgmental about some really absurdly messed up fantasies I have.
“Good morning Baby Girl."
"Good morning Daddy."
"Daddy, you’re touchin’ my tummy!"
"Yes Baby Girl."
"Ah! Daddy. That was not an appropriate place to touch.”
"Daddy touched that while you were sleeping Baby Girl. Daddy touched everything while you were sleeping. Outside and inside."
“Daddy!”
“You liked it, Baby Girl.”
“Good. Now repeat to us, very slowly and in great detail, all the ways in which you are a sick, filthy slut.”
I remember when you made me do this just to you.
That alone was humiliating enough.
I still blush and squirm thinking about it.
-Sir
Look at me. I want you to look into my eyes and tell me how proud it makes you to suffer for me. I want you to tell me that it makes your slutty little pussy wet.
(Also, Team Yellow Clothespin, woot woot)
It’s so hard for me to admit I like it or I want it. I so often hide behind some struggling victim persona to avoid having to confront the shame of actually enjoying it. But I’d like to become brave enough to stand behind all of my desires, even the most depraved, and this might just be the way to do it.
“Are you a good girl for your Daddy when he fucks you?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, good. Because I don’t fuck bad girls.”
There are moments where I stop and reflect on things.
At this particular instance, I am chilling in bed with Craftsmate.
“Do you know why people like to fuck around with you like this?” he asks.
I am tied up and blindfolded.
Craftsmate is lying behind me, one hand threaded into my hair. His knife is on my throat, teasing over the skin.
Outside my door, I can hear Sunshine open the door to her bedroom, step out in the common room, and walk off to the bathroom.
I suck in my breath and try to stay quiet.
In a few hours, I will need to be up for a meeting with my thesis advisor.
Craftsmate reaches the end of his explanation.
“And being pretty is such a sin.”
I try to reflect back on what the argument was in the first place, but my mind is the fuzz between radio stations.
I could be at the library or asleep or at some other school, living some other life, writing some other entry about something entirely different.
But this, in its triumphs and its embarrassments, is the way my life fell together.
And, one day, I won’t be ashamed.
Fuck Baseball, Part Three
At one point, Craftsmate made me admit that I was a dirty little whore.
Of all the things I admitted, it probably made me blush most.
Mostly because of the shock he feigned when he finally got me to look him in the eyes and admit it.
It was also what made me the wettest.
Fuck Baseball, Part Two
“I want to hear what you like,” Craftsmate said after he had finished listing off what he wanted to do. I was aroused, I could feel myself blushing and I was having trouble thinking totally straight. Not to mention I find having to name the things I’m into totally humiliating.
“Why don’t you just read my tumblr?” I whined, “it’s all right there.”
He laughed and reached up, looping his fingers through my hair. “Because I want to hear it from you.” I attempted to turn my head away and he twisted his hand, pulling me back and forcing me to look up at him. “I want to hear it from you and I want you to look at me while you say it.”
I tried to turn my head once more, but he pulled it back roughly by the hair. Squeezing my eyes shut, I managed to stammer out, “I…ah…I like getting tied up and used.”
“Open your eyes and say it again.”
I huffed and shook my head. “I can’t.” He pulled my head back and I gasped, opening my eyes. “I like to be tied up and used.”
He grinned, “used how?”
“Roughly,” I choked out, thoroughly humiliated but glad the ordeal was over.
“Good,” he smirked and patted my head. “Now, what else?”