I will s u f f e r to impress you.
_pls leave caption_
kneeling
“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good,” – John Steinbeck, East of Eden.
I stayed up late last night talking to Sir about a really dark, scary fantasy I’ve got. And it wasn’t even that he reciprocated interest in it that got me, it was the fact that he was patient and affectionate about it. He reassured me that, yeah, I’m a little sick, but it’s in a good way and these fantasies are perfectly okay within the context of a consensual, respectful, loving relationship, where eventually the “scene” stops and there’s plenty of aftercare.
Have I mentioned that I have the best owner ever?
Her feet are impeccably clean right now.
If she’s brave enough to stay, that will change pretty soon.
Chained, Part Nine
I heard the tell-tale rattle of clothespins on a line and whined a bit into my gag. Penthouse had grabbed the zipper off of the desk and from my soon-to-be-proven-correct assumption, handed it off to Popcorn.
“What you do,” he explained, placing a hand on my shoulder, “is you just put them all over on her breasts, then yank the end of the string, and they all come off.”
Popcorn was a little ruthless. She went excruciatingly slow, debating out where each one should go, so I was stuck sitting with two particularly harsh ones near the skin over my collarbones. Eventually, I couldn’t take it and just hit the buzzer.
They took care to remove the blindfold and the gag, making sure I was all right, and took off the clothespins gently by hand. I was a little disappointed I hadn’t had the guts to ride it out, but I figured it was better to know my limits.
Penthouse untied my legs and I got up to my feet, adjusting my nightgown and giving Popcorn a hug. We thanked each other for a fun experience and she left, having somewhere else to go.
It’s where I belong. I’m home. And I don’t even need to click my heels together.
It’s crazy how the other options don’t even cross my mind.
The fact stands that I don’t have to kneel. I don’t have to follow the routines, the orders, the reminders. I don’t have to abstain when I’m told and I don’t have to indulge when I’m told, either. I don’t have to reach the standard that is expected. There’s room for slippage and for coming up short.
But that never occurs to me until it’s pointed out later. And, by that point, I don’t want to think about the other options at all.