grab

I was leaving Pup’s place one night when he grabbed hold of my coat and – intentionally, as to irritate me – buttoned it askew. Huffing, I undid the buttons.

“Do it again,” I said.

He shook his head, “do it yourself.” I pouted, twisting one of my legs and shooting him some puppy eyes. He sat down on the end of his bed and chuckled. “You’re cute, do it yourself.”

“My Daddy buttons my coat for me,” I said, brushing my knees against his.

His hand shot up: palm overwhelming my face, fingers burrowing into the hinges of my jaw. I stumbled back and he pushed me against the wall. “I’m not your Daddy, you little bitch,” he snarled in my ear before releasing me. “Now button up your coat.”

That Time Pup Was Celibate For A Little Bit, Part Ten

Before the whole break from messing around thing, Pup used to grab my face like this all the time. (He still does now, sometimes when I’m being a brat, sometimes when he’s fucking me.) When I went to show him out that evening, he did it again as I was mid-way through some bratty little comment.

Before he left and after he’d torn my tights up, Pup had gotten up to his feet and stood over me. I was teasing him, making some comment about how I didn’t want to sully his “sacred vow,” when he lightly applied pressure from the heel of his foot into my diaphragm.

(Hey readers: Don’t try this at home. You’ve got a bunch of fragile-ass bodily infrastructure going on in there. When I say lightly, I mean really freaking lightly. Pup was massively careful with this and I don’t want any of you hurting yourselves on my account, okay?)

I coughed. No matter how hard I tried to breathe in, I couldn’t. I could take little shallow puffs of breath if I really tried to, but otherwise I was effectively cut off. I’d never experienced breath play like that before, and I gasped for breath when he drew his foot away.

“Are you sorry?” He asked.

I couldn’t help myself. I felt my mouth spread into a smirk. Pup’s foot lowered back down and I gasped for breath.

“You’re a little bitch, you know,” he said and lifted his foot for a moment. I had barely enough time to catch my breath before he moved it back down. “You’re selfish. You deliberately provoke me. You’re a disgusting slut and I am going to ruin you.”

It stopped about there. My eyes were starting to get glassy with subspace. He read the signs and helped me sit up, talking me out of it.

And still, when he went to leave, I made a bratty comment. That’s how I knew we were back to normal.

Birth control made my breasts grow. It’s also made them much more sensitive.

It bugs me because now some of my clothes fit a little differently and I can’t get away as easily with not wearing a bra.

But, it makes certain individuals inordinately happy, so there’s that.

Sir just introduced me to Mr. Pete, my newest porn crush, who is like if Jason Segel were a mean, tattooed dom.

Hell yeah, now you can’t unsee it, either.

I tease Pup a lot that he went on his first date with a butt.

My profile picture on FetLife, which I essentially only use to keep track of people that I’ve met at munches and who I don’t quite feel comfortable enough to give my phone number to, is of my butt. It’s a pretty similar angle to this gifset.

What can I say? I didn’t want to incriminate myself by posting my face, but I wanted something besides a question mark in the profile picture. So, my butt.

I first met Pup for all of a minute at a munch back in August. I honestly spent more time talking to his girlfriend and her secondary than I did to him. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in him or that I was particularly interested in his other partners, but when he added me on FetLife after the munch was like, “sure, okay, yeah, I kind of remember you?”

I later found out that this was mostly his girlfriend’s doing, in an effort to try to get him to both branch out and ask me out. But, when the initial messages came through, I figured he was probably just creepin’ on my butt pic. His girlfriend had been simultaneously messaging me, and so I was also concerned that they were unicorn hunting, but apparently this was also an effort on her part to try to get the two of us to hang out.

So, I agreed to go out for coffee, mostly because not much else was going on that week. I honestly barely remembered what he looked like. I was worried that he actually thought I was worthlessrapemeat, because the two of us had been cutely hanging all over each other all night and we’ve got some similar attributes, and my silly insecurities made me think that when I showed up, he’d be disappointed that I wasn’t her.

In order to feign nonchalance, I turned up late. Fortunately, he hadn’t confused me with WRM. Fortunately, he was actually really nice and good-looking and a good conversationalist. But, yeah, I still mocked him about only asking me out because he saw a butt on the Internet he liked.

Ironically, he turned out to be working part-time at that shitty diner where I outed myself as poly to my friend to get some money on the side while he finished his degree.

My friends now jokingly call him the name of the diner when referencing him, which I guess implies three things:

Stuff with Pup worked out well after the first date.
I’m out to most of my friends now.
I’ve got a lot to fill you all in on.

nankingdecade:

She says she hates fucking in this position. It makes her self-conscious about putting her body in full view. I’m not going to fuck her any other way from now on.

Can we discuss the degree of vanity that makes up my character where whenever I see a post on his blog that describes a “she,” I assume it’s me?

And then I’m like, “what are you talking about, I don’t say that.”

And then I’m all, “oh, right. It’s not always about me.”

Can I chalk this up to poly problems and not my own conceitedness? I was an only child, okayyyy?

This is what it would look like if Sir and I made porn.

Us, essentially.

“There were people whom you positively ached to please.” – Alice Munro, The Love of a Good Woman.

If it were up to a certain someone, I’d just walk around like in shoes like these all day.

Ivy

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