floor – Ivy

The Adventures of Sir, Sweetheart and Mr. Purple, Part Eight

While Sir and the Southern Gentleman essentially sat and discussed what they wanted to do to me, I got a little antsy. I pouted and shook my head, attempting to loosen the buckle on the bit gag. Sir took hold of my chin and asked me what was wrong.

“I want to talk to him,” I spat around the gag in a garbled mess.

Sir smirked and looked over to SG, “do you want to hear what she has to say?”

“No,” he replied, “not really. I just want to look at her.”

Despite how much I enjoyed this condescension, I managed to work the gag loose. It fell into my lap, slick and wet. Sir went to put it back in, but I shook my head and looked at SG. The two were discussing what they’d like to do, and I figured I’d add my side as well.

“I want you to use my cunt,” I said, barely able to get the words out, “I want you to fuck me while he holds me and makes me be good for you. I want to serve both of you.”

(I had, of course, assumed I’d just be gagged right up if I started with saying I wanted both of them to go down on me at once. So, I figured I’d start on a high note.)

Sir pulled me up to my feet and had me turn around and show SG my ass. “Why don’t you show him what he’s getting.”

“He knows what he’s getting,” I retorted, feeling a little saucy. Sir slipped two fingers into my cunt and I gasped, nearly losing my balance.

“Is she tight?” SG asked and I rolled my eyes. He and Sir were playing into that whole mutual slave auction fantasy they have (which, okay, I have, too) and I was feeling super exposed and blushy about the whole ordeal.

Sir noticed me squirming and moaning – caught somewhere between discomfort and pain – and laughed. “She’s so tight she’s a little sore from having just been fucked.” I blushed.

“Does she take pain well?” SG asked.

“You want to see?” Sir offered with a smirk and tipped me forward so I was bent over the couch, my head and chest resting against the seat.

I huffed. “He already knows!” I protested, but I was left to wait as Sir walked into the other room, forced to imagine what he’d decide to return with.

Somehow, even though I’ve set up my furniture and unpacked my clothes, I still wind up sitting on the floor in a hunting jacket.

Whatever.

Ugh, I need to just fade away like this.

I’ve got a bit of a history with this position.

cultphotography:

Broke Eva

Even hard candy melts.

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’m not nearly as fragile as I’m allowed to be. I’m given permission to collapse, to surrender, to let the cracks deepen until the secrets and fears and insecurities come oozing out. But, I’m nowhere close to being that breakable.

I’m sensitive, but I’m not inconsolable. I’m submissive, but I’m not codependent. I’m pliant, but I’m not weak.

To no one in particular, but perhaps to a good crowd: real domination is not grabbing someone by their insecurity, it’s grabbing them by their strength. It’s not about using or patching up vulnerability, it’s about allowing something unyielding and independent the opportunity to surrender. And there is the prize: controlling something that can very well control itself.

m-as-tu-vu:

L’Accès ..*

Sometimes, things just feel a little more difficult. Feelings catch up with you. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not moving anywhere, if not just backwards. It just, I don’t know, stinks.

And it’s hard when most people in my life can’t relate or don’t understand. And I don’t want to have to sit there and say, “this feels bad because of this."

And it’s even harder when the people who do understand have some sort of stake in it. Or it’s just tempting to let other people fix the problem. Or overwrite the problem with other people.

Sigh. I don’t know, tumblr. I guess I just have a lot of feelings tonight.