Submitted by thisexactmoment, who told me to enjoy (“or, more accurately, dont”).
knife
A photo from a delightful shoot last October. There might be a few more coming up.
Photographer: C. deMontecervesa
Models: M.L-E. & S.N.
Stylist: C.V.
Yeah I’m gonna need a few minutes.
Easing out the Kinks, Part Two
When we reached his apartment, Penthouse and I hung around a little bit and caught up. Eventually, we wound up in his bedroom, curled up on his bed with him trying to make me take a nap.
Which, ah, as you may recall, I don’t usually respond well to.
But I hadn’t had a good sleep the night before and Penthouse had a really comfortable bed. Not to mention he held me down and teased my pussy until I promised to take a nap with him.
So, I managed to successfully nap. Except, then I was super cozy and didn’t want to get out of bed. Somehow, even when I’m obedient, I’m still a brat.
Penthouse had brought his knife home and took it out. He teased it over me while I insisted we stay in bed, which quickly turned into whines and pleas for nothing in particular as goosebumps started to rise on my skin.
“Come on,” he said finally and rose to his feet. “Let’s get lunch.” He walked to his dresser and pulled out a pair of nipple clamps. “Come here.”
I stared at him, incredulous, but walked over nonetheless.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Seven
Once he had finished flogging me, Craftsmate reached up and tilted his lamp so the light hit my cunt. Pulling up a chair, he sat down in front of me and calmly pulled my labia apart. He picked up a roll of duct tape and started to tape me open, securing my labia to the inside of my thighs.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled around the gag. He ignored me and started to tease his fingers over my terribly exposed pussy.
Eventually, he picked up a knife and traced the dull end over my labia, slit and clitoris. I practically jumped through the roof, unable to contain myself as he continued to violate my helpless pussy with his fingers and the knife. I shuddered every time he pushed the dull end against me, my eyes wide and my fingers fluttering uselessly in their bonds.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Three
While I was washing the dishes, Craftsmate came over and picked up a knife I had just cleaned. It was long, wide, fairly sharp looking. Without introduction, he reached up and started to tease it over my collarbone.
“Did you use a knife like this the first time you tried knifeplay?” He asked, his voice almost teasing.
I nodded anxiously and set down the glass I was washing. My hands were trembling.
He raised the knife to my throat, “hey. Keep going.” I picked the glass up and started to wash it again as he continued to run the knife over my neck and chest. I could hear the smirk in his voice as he said, “look at you. You’ve got goosebumps.”
I went to put the glass down to dry, but my hand shook and I broke it against the counter. Craftsmate set the knife down and I looked up at him nervously. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not mad,” he replied and started to sweep the glass into the garbage carefully with his hand. “But you’re getting punished for that later, kitty.”
Ivy…
There’s a tag on her post that says “Ivy has been pretty knifey lately”.
Yeah, I’m transparent.
If anybody needs me, I’ll be in my bunk.
I indulged. From about the 1920s, I think, and certainly restorable.
Here’s to indulgence.
This.
This I would like to try.
There are moments where I stop and reflect on things.
At this particular instance, I am chilling in bed with Craftsmate.
“Do you know why people like to fuck around with you like this?” he asks.
I am tied up and blindfolded.
Craftsmate is lying behind me, one hand threaded into my hair. His knife is on my throat, teasing over the skin.
Outside my door, I can hear Sunshine open the door to her bedroom, step out in the common room, and walk off to the bathroom.
I suck in my breath and try to stay quiet.
In a few hours, I will need to be up for a meeting with my thesis advisor.
Craftsmate reaches the end of his explanation.
“And being pretty is such a sin.”
I try to reflect back on what the argument was in the first place, but my mind is the fuzz between radio stations.
I could be at the library or asleep or at some other school, living some other life, writing some other entry about something entirely different.
But this, in its triumphs and its embarrassments, is the way my life fell together.
And, one day, I won’t be ashamed.
Both Craftsmate and Penthouse had expressed to me that they were not particularly into knives or knifeplay when I first met them.
Today, both of them texted me on separate occasions to let me know that this is no longer the case. They’re in deep enough that Penthouse has kindled a book on it.
And apparently this is all my fault.
Sorry I’m not sorry?
I like to engage in acts of creative destruction. Never to truly hurt you but rather to startle you into feeling alive.
Photo (by {E}mma)