One day, I’m going to be brave enough to spend most of a play party like this. Just crawling after Sir, keeping quiet while he socializes and flirts, letting other people play with me to demonstrate how obedient I am.
OMG those boots! *droool*
leash
Sometimes, even though he prefers cats, Sir gets to play with a little puppy named Sprinkles.
She’s not all that bright, but she’s cute and she means well and she knows one or two tricks.
Halfway There, Part Eleven
I had gotten into a pretty good rhythm of beating Macy’s ass and I discovered that she was an absolute trooper. I’ve been hit with it before on my ass and a few minutes in, I was crying. She was just lying there, taking it, even asking for more each time I checked in.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I heard Lida ask Flint.
“Ask her,” Flint replied.
I felt a lump rise in my throat when she asked. I didn’t know what to say and I was still super nervous. But, the second I opened my mouth, I couldn’t stop. I asked her where she wanted to go, and she said, “I don’t know.” Back when Flint wouldn’t let me go earlier in the evening, he’d threatened to make me pee into a bowl in the kitchen. So, I threatened that. Along with outside on the porch. Along with in the bathtub. When she started whining, I shot at her, “funny you don’t come to my defense when I’m embarrassed, but I’m supposed to make you feel comfortable? You’d better make up your mind and give me a damn good reason why I should let you have any kind of dignity doing this.”
I’m fairly sure surprise registered on both of our faces over what was coming out of my mouth, but I continued. “So, what is it? Where are you going to the bathroom?”
“I…I don’t know,” she whined.
“You don’t know?” I stopped hitting Macy’s ass for a moment, “you ever do any kind of debate? Mock trial?”
“N…no.”
“I’m not fucking surprised.” I resumed beating Macy. “You have no idea how to make an argument. So, you’ve got pathos, which is appealing to my pity for you. Which, after you posed for a fucking Christmas card photo with me on the toilet, I’ve got none of. Ethos, or my sense of ethics. And I have no moral qualms about making you piss on the fucking porch. And logos, an appeal to logic. But I think having you piss into a bowl in the kitchen makes pretty good sense to me, all things considered."
I was stern, I was intimidating, I was kind of a potty mouth. Flint was grinning like a moron. Lida was squirming.
"Come on,” I said, setting the rute stick onto the arm of the couch. “Get in the kitchen. You took too long. You’re pissing into a bowl.”
Amanda Sugar & Palesaint by -vk photography-
Flickr: http://flic.kr/p/h75SV9
I love the contrast between the dehumanization that the hood offers and the tenderness of the way he’s speaking to her and petting her.
Thanks to those of you who sent questions last night to Sir, he had a good time. There’s one or two left over, so we’ll save them for whenever he gets a chance to do it again.
In other news, I need this right now.
So, the other day I met one of Sir’s partners on Skype. The two of them had recently been out with each other and I had gotten really anxious in the middle and broke down and called him up. I wasn’t proud of it, but I just get scared.
Basically, she meets a lot of the stuff that I really can’t for Sir. And so my head runs through all these crazy possibilities like, “oh my gosh he’s going to realize that she’s better at this and that and he’s going to be done with me.” I recognize I’ve got a serious fear of abandonment, which naturally goes just peachy with ethical non-monogamy.
But, when Sir and I sat down to talk, I wound up just getting really shy. I was a little embarrassed about having placed the call the other day while they were together and I’m just generally a kind of shy person. So, I kept hiding my face and getting nervous.
For the most part, I was a nervous, shy mess. But, we all kind of flirted a little and, gosh, I don’t know. I think I’d be down for doing something as the three of us. I just need to sort out some of my anxieties and remember that in the same way none of my partners will “replace” any other, the same holds true for Sir.
It’s kind of alarming that even in the face of the logic of my own non-monogamy, I can’t shake that feeling of inadequacy or precariousness in my primary relationship.
Um, Daddy?
Two weeks two weeks two weeks.
Only for two days two days two days.
But who am I to be picky?
Breadcrumbs
The first of them was waiting just inside the door, laid innocently enough on the top of the modest pile of mail that had accrued during the day. She wouldn’t even have noticed had it not been for the neon pink, standing out bright against the off-white of junk mail and bills.
She didn’t pick it up at first. Her heels were digging into her ankles, and she wanted to get clear of her jacket, be able to relax a little now that she was home. But she tried to read it from standing, somehow will her eyes to focus on lettering that was far too far away for her to read. It was two lines, maybe five words, and that was all. Block capitals, single spaced, written with a marker, from the looks of it.
Her bag hit the ground, jacket slung on the peg, and she picked it up. The words made her arch an eyebrow, blush just a tiny bit, but she dismissed it as some innocuous game of his, a way to tantalise and tease, get her excited before he got home in half an hour. The sentence was simple, an expression of a desire.
I want to kidnap you.
The post-it fluttered a little, and she closed the door behind her, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and consider exactly what it was that he was up to.
There was another on the fridge, and this one she really did almost miss, as it was lost among a feathering of other notes, all neon, some pink, others yellow, a few green. If it wasn’t for the relative sparseness of the writing, she might have lost it in the sea of colours, but as it was it stood out.
I want to do it today.
At which point, she had to ask herself how he knew what route she’d take through the flat, how he knew where she was going, and that she’d figure this out as she went. She turned around, and there was another one on the kettle, dangling from the handle.
There was more written here. Enough that she knew that this wasn’t innocuous, that he really did intend to follow through with it. That she was standing there in the kitchen, and he was somewhere close by, waiting to see how she’d react. Her mind blanked, got stuck five seconds ago and hadn’t quite caught up with where she was now, didn’t, until the pounding of her heart in her ears suddenly became noticeable.
If you’re ok with that, get undressed.
That’s what it had said, what it still did say, trembling in her fingertips as it was. Except it wasn’t the paper that was shaking, it was her, and she quickly looked around herself as if expecting him to jump out from behind the doorway, put a bag over her head and be done with it.
And then… nothing. Just a minute of silence, for her to think and consider. She didn’t know what he was planning to do, but she knew him well enough not to worry about it, not properly. That didn’t stop the anxiety, the fear, the concern and trepidation to shudder through her body with all the force of a chilblain. And it certainly didn’t stop her from thinking about all the ways it could go wrong, if it hadn’t been his handwriting gracing these little scraps of paper.
Taking off her work clothes felt like a surrender. There was something of the prisoner about her as she did that, as though she’d been caught and was being summarily incarcerated. She did it slowly, methodically, and with great hesitation, folding each item and placing it on the counter in a neat little pile. She stopped at underwear, and then turned around.
He wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure why she necessarily expected him to be. Maybe she was counting on that same prescience that he’d displayed with the notes to tell him when she was ready, but it had apparently not managed to carry him this far. So she walked out of the kitchen, wandered down the hall.
She stumbled into the next note on the back door, sitting pretty on the frosted glass. It was teeming with words, each of them vying for space until there was almost more black than pink. She leaned forward, squinted, read.
On the other side of this door I’m going to abduct you. I’ll put a blindfold over your eyes. Tie your hands. Put you in the boot of the car. And then take you somewhere. If it gets too much, you know what to say. Don’t hesitate. Love you.
Somehow that reassurance made it worse. It had the effect of smelling salts, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck and hurling her towards the surface, so that she couldn’t sink happily into the mystery and lust of it all. She needed to be present, at least for that moment, so that she knew what she was getting into. She knew this. She knew, too, that what he was doing was good, and right, but she couldn’t help but resent the sudden formality of it all, if only for a second.
So she waited. For the moment to come back, to slink around her and pull her under. It was like being hypnotised, just waiting for your mind to become occupied with the pageantry of it all, and then suddenly she was there, trembling again, riding that exhilarating line between aroused and terrified.
She turned the handle and opened the door. Stepped out, and waited to feel his hands.
Ughhhhh please and thank you.
Overwhelmed, Part Three
Sir and SG returned to the living room. I didn’t look up, staying in the position they’d left me in until Sir grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up until I was holding onto the back of the couch. He pushed down on the small of my back until I dipped my ass out, biting my lip in anticipation of the pain that I knew was about to come.
“She was mocking me the other day that I didn’t get to give her any birthday spanks,” Sir explained and smacked me across the ass with the tawse. I yelped and jumped up a bit before he eased me back into position. “But now that we’re somewhere nice and private, I thought you might like to help."
I looked over my shoulder as Sir grabbed onto the loop between my cuffs to hold my hands out of the way. SG had picked up the riding crop and swung it hard against my ass, as if to gauge my reaction to it. He’s not the sort of guy to use anything besides his hands, but he was clearly enjoying himself. "That sounds like a good idea,” he replied to Sir.
“So we’ll alternate, then,” Sir said, taunting me by tapping the tawse against the top of my ass. Suddenly, as if something had occurred to him, Sir set the tawse down and tugged me back by the cuffs on my wrists. He slipped down beside me and slid a pair of nipple clamps into place. I pouted and he put me back into position. “Are you ready, dear?”
“Uh huh,” I replied around the bit gag, already starting to feel drool gather at the corners of my mouth, drawn out by the way my head hung.
The two began to alternate hits, counting as each made contact. Sir mostly stayed on my right buttcheek with the tawse and SG with crop, but a few hits wandered more towards the center. I cried out with each hit – they were getting progressively harder – and I felt my eyes well up with tears, felt drool puddle onto the top of my breasts.
By the twentieth hit, Sir rubbed my shoulder. “Are you ready, baby? Three more.”
“I can’t,” I whined behind the gag. “I can’t, it hurts so much."
I should preface this moment by saying that I have a safeword, and it’s not "I can’t.” Sometimes, I want a push, I want to be reassured that I can continue to take this sort of pain. I want to build that tolerance and get into the endorphins and feel proud of what I’ve taken. And because I’ve been in a relationship with Sir for a year – and been playing with him longer than that – I trust him to know when to push and to draw the line where I just can’t take any more.
“You can,” he reassured, mussing my hair. “Are you ready to keep going?"
I nodded and the two resumed, delivering the final three hits. I collapsed against the couch, whining in the pain glowing across my rear and the dull throb of my clamped nipples. Sir pulled me upright and kissed my temple. I could tell that he was very proud. And I felt so incredibly strong and resilient that I was thrilled with myself.
But Sir was right, he called it. It only got messier:
You said you wanted to be pretty. You said you wanted all the attention. Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart, it may be messier than you expected.