She might always get so blushy for her inspection times, but she’s far too little to be left in charge of such an important part of her anatomy.
inspection
Do you think if I leave a little, umm…trail of breadcrumbs…doctortease will start posting again?
I haven’t gotten a really thorough inspection in quite a while.
A clever way to combine the imperative of ease of inspection with the little brat’s desire for pretty pink panties.
All we need now is a built-in moisture sensor over the cunt and a remote-controlled e-stim device for punishment over the clit and she could almost be permitted out in public.
Hiding forever.
I’m usually pretty awful at routines, confessedly. But, Craftsmate’s developed one lately that’s managed to somehow fix my horrible sleep patterns and drive me completely insane. Essentially, since Sunday, he’s been having me come over to his place at night, strip down to my panties and a t-shirt, and lie on his bed with my face down and my ass in the air.
I have to pull my panties down and wait while Craftsmate takes his sweet time applying lubricant to my asshole and his fingers. First with one finger, then two, he gently starts probing and thrusting into my asshole. Sometimes, he will rub my clit, but he’ll never let me cum. He does this with a rubber glove on, knowing that it only adds to the humiliation of the entire ordeal for me. Because, yes, I find the whole anal inspection thing to be completely humiliating.
When he has finished, he blindfolds me and has me pull my panties back up. Then, he puts me into the crotchrope arrangment he did on Sunday – with my wrists tied at my sides and the tiniest bit of slack to helplessly flutter my hands on either side of my pussy in an attempt to relieve myself. He teases me for a little while before tucking me in and leaving me there to go do work or watch television.
By the time he comes to bed, I’ve fallen asleep that way: bound, blindfolded, teased, always vaguely aware of the push of the knot in the crotchrope against my clit. In the morning, he teases me a bit more, unties me and only removes the blindfold after he has inspected how wet I had gotten during the night.
I don’t know how long this routine is going to last and I kind of like how much I simultaneously despise and enjoy it. Every morning I ask him if that was the last time and try to convince him that I’ve learned my lesson, but part of me is almost relieved when he tells me no and informs me of what time he expects me that night.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go blush for about six years after sharing this.
Sometimes rope pulls
tighter on your mind
than it does on your skin.
I woke up on Sunday morning in Craftsmate’s bed to the feeling of him tightening the ropes around my wrists. Somehow, the night before, I had agreed to sleeping tied up. Except instead of sleeping with my arms tied behind my back or in front, I wound up with my arms tied at my sides, attached to a crotchrope with a knot that pressed into my clit, preventing me from forgetting its presence.
We had established, sometime during the evening, that I was a selfish brat. Or, rather, I was told that I was a selfish brat who couldn’t control herself. Hence, the crotchrope, the hands tied to inhibit touching, the nagging push of the knot as a cruel little joke.
When he had finished tightening the rope around my wrists and ensuring that I would not be able to let myself out, Craftsmate climbed off of the bed and went to sit down at his desk. As he slid off the mattress, I became attune to the throb of my clit and realized the effect of the crotchrope on my sleeping body had left me inconsolably needy.
“I think it would be a nice idea if you came here and touched me,” I said playfully, wriggling a bit in the rope and feeling the knot rub over my clit.
Craftsmate shook his head. “You said nothing until you finished your thesis chapter.”
“I changed my mind,” I huffed. “Come here. Please?"
He didn’t budge.
I kept pressing, but I couldn’t get him to come over. My hips had started to pick up a slight thrust and I was trying to keep myself from grinding the crotchrope right in front of him, but I could only hold out so long. Eventually, my pleas for him to come touch me turned into begging him to use me and finally dissolved into me saying all I wanted was his attention, I didn’t care how it looked.
Amused, Craftsmate came over and teased the tip of his finger over the crotchrope. "I don’t think so. Maybe your Daddy lets you be a little princess and get away with this kind of stuff, but you’re entirely too spoiled and you’re not getting what you want this time.” I blushed at the mockery in his voice.
“Please,” I gasped out, “please I’ll do whatever you want.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you get to cum until you’re a good girl for me and not some selfish brat.”
After a round with Craftsmate’s riding crop and a rather humiliating inspection of my cunt, which had become so wet that it had soaked straight through my panties and drenched the knot of my crotchrope, I was sent off with assurance that my poor conduct would no longer be tolerated.
And, much to my chagrin, an order to keep my hands off of my dully throbbing cunt until my behavior improved.
So, Craftsmate, that guy from my frat and I decided to spend yesterday afternoon doing arts and crafts.
Except, it was the sort of arts and crafts that Craftsmate earned his nickname for in the first place.
Essentially, that guy from my frat has been asking him to teach him how to make a flogger. And, with the snow, we figured it would be a fun thing to do inside after what I still consider to be a pretty unfair snowball fight.
While they worked on floggers, I set to finishing a blindfold Craftsmate had started on but had not gotten around to finishing. It looked like the one pictured, with individual padded circles and a strap running through them and around the wearer’s head.
After we had finished, that guy from my frat went to return his floggers to his dorm and said he would text us in an hour about potentially grabbing some dinner.
One he had left, I held the blindfold out to Craftsmate and told him that I wanted to try it on. With it buckled to the tightest rung, I couldn’t see a thing. Most blindfolds allowed some trickle of light to come in by the nose, but this one literally left me in darkness by virtue of its design.
Rendered blind, I suddenly felt indescribably helpless as Craftsmate reached out to stroke my cheek and push me down onto my knees in front of him.
“Do you like it?” He asked.
I nodded, “yeah. I feel kind of helpless.”
“You do?” I could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Yeah, well, I can’t see a thing,” I answered before gingerly adding, “would you cuff my hands? Just for a minute?”
The cuffs went on fairly quickly and he looped his finger into the chain, jerking me forward and launching into an inspection right there. I nearly died when he pried my mouth open and started checking my teeth, moving his thumbs over my molars methodically.
He stopped when he heard my phone buzz. “You should text [that guy from my frat] back.”
What had felt like two minutes under the blindfold had somehow been an hour. I guess time moves a little differently in complete darkness. Go figure.
She always found inspections blushy. She hated being on all fours with the lights on and her bum in the air. The vulnerability, the lack of control, it made her squirm just to think about the way he used the word “present” (as in presentation). It made her want to hide. It wasn’t one of her favourite things, but it made him happy. It made him proud. And he rewarded her so sweetly.
But that would have been preferable, easy even, compared to the inspection he gave her last time. She sunk in her seat when he looked in her ears, and when he said “let me check your teeth” she felt cornered. She prayed for the chair to eat her alive, she wished she could disappear. She protested. He was firm. She scanned his face frantically, searching to assess her chances of changing his mind: Hopeless.
She considered it for one fast second, saying her safe-word. She never had before, but as she cowered under him she put the word on the tip of her tongue just to see how it felt.
“Stop being silly and open your mouth,” her fussing didn’t move his resolve.
She was angry. He knows how stubborn she is, how could this be the one thing she couldn’t bear to do for him? After the long and depraved list of occasions where she had exceeded his expectations, after the times she had shocked even herself, how could baring her teeth be the line she wouldn’t cross?
They teetered on the edge like that, a stand-off to the untrained eye. But they both knew what would happen next, the question was only how long it would take for her to concede.
“Good girl,” he took his fingers out of her mouth and cooed at her. “Was that so hard?”
Image: And Then by AomochiNAKAHARA Story by: Heart
I usually hate it when people on tumblr are like “oh my god such and such and I are the same person oh my god”. Because tumblr provides such a limited scope of who somebody is that the whole idea of taking a small fraction of somebody’s life and saying that you are therefore identical to somebody is really obnoxious to me.
But, this fraction overlaps right now in a very real way. I’ve been behind on writing about my experiences and mostly I’ve been too busy blushing over them.
So maybe I can just get away with reblogging this (oh, and this) and calling it a day without having to recount the not-so-sordid tales?
Even if you do everything right, inspections are still going to be blushy.
That’s just how inspections work.
To write about the inspection Penthouse performed on me the morning before I left is entirely too blushy. I’ve tried. I can’t.
But the blushiest part was probably when he was about to put his finger in my asshole and went to put a rubber glove on.
“Daddy?” I asked, “what’s the glove for?”
He let some lube coolly drip over my ass. “The other boys don’t use it when they play with your little asshole?” I shook my head no and he chuckled. “Well, that’s just silly, sweetheart.”
Holy condescension, Batman.