Sir and I play a little game sometimes that’s just a drop too taboo and way too blushy to write about.
games
Craftsmate and I play a little game like this.
I feel ya, Piglet.
Daddy and piglet love it like this. cuz piglet can pretend to be asleep if she wants. she kinda kinks on that a little bit.
mmm. im going to hell
This past Saturday night, after my super awesome best date, I took a little trip to celebrate a friend from Ivy University’s birthday. There, out of nowhere, while I’m catching up with some friends, I run into The Grown Up. Turns out he’s friends with the birthday boy.
He’s spent some time out of the country, my schedule’s been busy, blah blah. Either way, he had given me his number and I had never called it. But we’ve run into each other a few times and he’s always friendly and lovely.
Welp, I got a little liquid confidence in me and asked him why we haven’t hung out. To which he replied that he didn’t have my number. Oops.
“But, you could give it to me,” he said, “since you don’t seem to know how to use the phone.”
I grinned, “where’s the fun in that? Here, you can guess my number and then call me the next time you’re around Ivy University.”
I proceeded to go through each number by giving him a hint about it. Such as, the number of continents or "if you write this number out and look at it really fast it looks like sex".
“This is incredibly attractive to me,” he said with a snort as he reached the sixth number.
I shook my head, “I’m not flirting with you, I’m just challenging your mind.”
“Okay, Ivy,” he chuckled, “okay.”
In an effort to actually finish up stuff like I promised, I thought I’d share a story about the time I gave Switch a lap dance.
We’d made a bet and I had totally, kind of embarrassingly considering the circumstances, lost. So he told me he wanted me to dress up sleazy and give him a lap dance. Which made me laugh, initially, because I dress a little cutesy usually (lots of florals, skirts, sundresses, etc). And so half of it was extracting anything vaguely trashy from my wardrobe and constructing some vague semblance of an outfit for him.
“Can’t I just wear something lacy instead?” I texted him in frustration, “I’ve got lacy."
"Nope,” he had replied, “you’re not going to get out of dressing up like a whore. You’re just lucky I’m letting you do this at my place and not making you walk over here dressed like this.”
So, I threw together this one vaguely slutty top, a pair of short-shorts, a ridiculously high pair of heels, a g-string and a pair of fishnet thigh-highs, put it all in a bag, and called it a day. When I reached his place, he left me to change into it and encouraged me that strippers wore a lot more makeup than I had on. I shook my head, took out my makeup bag, and proceeded to essentially crayola my face.
“Can I come in?” He called through the door as I was finishing up.
“No,” I whined, “I look silly.”
We both started laughing as he let himself in, but the second he saw me he kind of froze and the corners of his mouth curled up into one of the most indescribably sinister smirks I have ever seen in my life. “Well, look at you,” he murmured as he went to put his hand on my hip.
I slapped his hand away playfully and pointed to a chair. “No touching. Sit down.” My efforts to keep a straight face were fasting waning.
Even if it was something for him, I’ll admit I got a little bit toppy – or maybe it was just bratty – when I was giving him the lap dance. I ground slow, I took excruciatingly long to take my clothing off, I teased myself over him, I kept pushing his hands off of me and telling him it was against the rules. We both nearly broke down laughing when he shoved a dollar bill down my panties. I was having trouble taking the whole thing seriously.
When I was down to my g-string, he reached down and tried to shove it aside. His fingers found my slit, stroking over it before trying to push up inside me. I feigned shock and stumbled away, attempting to straighten out the g-string. “You can’t do that,” I said as I turned to him, pouting. “It’s against the rules. You’d get kicked out.”
He got up to his feet, gathered up my wrists in a hand, and shoved me up against the wall. His fingers shoved into me once more. “Gonna get in trouble?” He asked.
“No,” I choked through a gasp, “but you are.”
He pulled his fingers out and spun me around, pushing me once more up against the wall. My cheek and breasts brushed the stucco roughly. And, as I felt his hand loop into my hair, keeping my face pressed into the wall, I started to take the game seriously.
Believe me when I tell you – no matter how hard I push – that I fight to lose.