I love when someone can sum up a universal feeling in a clever kind of figurative way.
She wanted some discipline.
One person to tell her no.
Until she said yes.
To everything.
domination
What was it about silence speaking louder than words? Can we apply that to muffled cries underneath a hand? Either way, the commentary here speaks volumes.
“Mmm hmmm mmnf mumf gumf.”
As loud as you want sweetheart.
Not a sound, slut. Or I’ll just stop right now and you can wait another month.
There’s this really weird stereotype that floats around about kink people always being the kind of people who wear chains, bondage pants, the like in public. Or, they have mildly fetishistic apparel that they incorporate into their outfits. They’re typically portrayed as kind of creepy and really dark. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that stereotypical portrayals of kink people are usually that they have very clearly and very obviously ostracized themselves from general society.
And, then you’ve got the basement kinksters. Yes, I’m looking at you and that little stunt you pulled in Pulp Fiction, Tarantino. I’m talking about the idea that they all have dungeons in their basement lit by candles with chains hanging for the ceiling. When they come up from said basement dungeons, they’re key members of society and only then do they blend in. But, a-ha! They’re still portrayed as creepy.
I’d like to imagine I’m not a creepy person. I mean, my dorm room doesn’t have a trap door that leads to some ornate, medieval dungeon. And, hey, there’s nothing wrong with people who’ve got it. I just think the huge underrepresentation of people from the other end of the kink spectrum is a little bit upsetting. The BDSM community is this really diverse group of people. Yet, we’re almost always symbolized by the creeper with the basement dungeon, the gimp, or the femme fatale dominatrix.
But, hey, if the lady in the photograph wants to control me in whatever candlelit dungeonesque room she’s posing in, I’m game.
Sometimes, he saves himself the trouble and has her call herself a whore for him. And, sometimes, she has a little trouble with it.
He dictates everything, from the way she styles her hair to the panties she wears, and her clothing, and whether or not she gets to wear a coat. I imagine him watching her, instructing her quietly. She does what he says. It wouldn’t occur to her not to.
I always think I can get away with this one.
You seem to be under this misconception that disobeying me when we are in public will be forgotten by the time we get home slut. You are about to find out just how wrong you are.
If only the pre-games at my university were like this. Seriously.
I want to be unrecognizable. I love how a relationship (I’ll just leave that right there for all of you to define how you like) can just completely drop like a bomb and leave everything scattered. I love that feeling of when we’ve gone our separate ways and realizing that suddenly I’m not the same person you were stepping into it. Anyone I’ve been intimate with in any way has left an imprint on me. I’ve been branded metaphorically with so many marks of who’s been here.
And I can reflect back and see exactly who’s done what. He made me like this. She made me get over this. They taught me this and that. Every time I open myself up, it seems those I’ve opened myself to take the opportunity to, if I may steal DYC’s perfect metaphor, rearrange the furniture to an arrangement that suits me better than that before.
I just love that strange feeling of wandering around right after a storm. You can smell the rain and the air’s still electric. And everything just feels a little different. There’s this kind of freshness in the fallen branches and the leaves stuck to the windows of cars. It’s how I feel right now, entering this new phase of my life. He literally changed around so many things within me for the better. He was absolutely the thing I needed. And he’s put his mark on me just like everyone else, his certainly being one of the most prominent.
I once read somewhere that if forest fires didn’t happen, the entire forest would just die from all the underbrush clinging to it. I don’t want to say that I was being stifled or anything. But, I do want to say that if I don’t let go, I’m bound to just wind up hurting myself.
I’m trying to look at this whole thing from the positive spin of the fact that he and I really helped each other and changed each others’ lives. And, while sometimes it hurts to say that, for now, the buck stops here, it puts a little spring in my step to know that I am beginning an incredibly new phase of my life whilst changed so profoundly by him.
Sorry for being so cheesy. I promise, the regularly scheduled smut will resume momentarily.
I’m going to smudge the lines of your self-portrait. I want to make the colors melt and bleed. I’ll climb in your head and rearrange the furniture. No one will recognize you when we’re done.
vrbw:
They couldn’t even make it inside. He could see how badly she needed it. He made her sit and beg for it like a sweet girl. He made her thank him for being so, so generous when he finally stroked that aching, needy pussy through her panties.
He teased. “Does that make you feel good, pet?” He asked it over her moans, her desperate, tremulous “thank you, sir"s, her ragged breaths. "Does somebody need to cum?” He wondered as she bucked against his hand.
With that, he lifted his hand and made her thank him for the attention, leaving her on the shivering brink. He’d teach her manners, no matter how many times he would have to deny her.