like a brisket – Page 2

Like a Brisket, Part Three

When we got to Penthouse’s place, we played a game of show and tell.

Craftsmate went first and produced from his bag a series of floggers he had made, including something Penthouse had essentially commissioned him to make. When he took out the flogger he had hit me with, I had to chuckle. That thing and I had a history.

Penthouse showed us this giant leather glove he had been using to essentially flog people with that didn’t hurt very much but made one hell of a noise when it made contact with anything and his new riding crop. However, the highlight of his show and tell had to be this absurd wooden toy sword he had found and bought because he figured it would be good for paddling people with.

Leave it to kinky people, right?

Craftsmate let me try out hitting him with it and Penthouse made some room in his kitchen to allow me a good swing. To play fair, and out of pure curiosity, I turned and allowed Craftsmate to hit me back.

I shrieked when it made contact with the fabric of my sundress and my rear. It was probably one of the hardest hits I’ve received on the ass from anything. My experience with paddling is fairly slim, so I was walking around the kitchen, holding my ass, and whining for a few minutes after the hit. It stung like crazy.

“Turn around,” I said, “I want to look at my butt.”

I looked over my shoulder and just saw red. With a huff, I told them to turn around. “You’ve seen my butt already anyway,” I cracked before turning and lifting the bottom of my dress once more, “take a look at this.”

Penthouse chuckled, “there’s a line on your butt. That’s kind of awesome.” He looked over the toy sword and smirked.

“Sorry, Ivy,” Craftsmate said, “but, yeah, line on your butt.”

Like a Brisket, Part Two

Naturally, the old shame reflex kicked in fairly soon into the afternoon when Craftsmate took out a cuff he’d made to show us at the table during lunch and I all but ran away right there.

When, after lunch, we went to a sewing supply store to pick up supplies for the kinky arts and crafts component of the mini-munch, I essentially put my sunglasses on and tried to hide when Penthouse and Craftsmate stood there and loudly discussed d-rings. I nearly died right there when Craftsmate took the cuff out again to compare.

“Oh, would you calm down?” Penthouse said when he saw me hiding by the iron-ons. “We’re right near (neighborhood synonymous with some pretty alternative lifestyles), everyone here’s kinky. For God’s sake, they keep the rope next to the clothespins and rubber straps at the Home Depot near here. They know their customers.”

And, yeah, logically, I can look at the situation and know that nobody cares. But, I still felt out of my element and I felt a huge tug on my impulse to feel ashamed and anxious. Craftsmate had joked the other day that online I was a “gung ho goddess with a rapper attitude” about all this, but in person I was awkward as all get-out about kink. With almost all of my kinky interactions being incredibly private and in the context of a relationship, I was very much out of my element in this setting.

So, I was endlessly relieved when we left the store to head to Penthouse’s place.

Like a Brisket, Part One

So, Craftsmate and I met up with his kinky friend from high school who now goes to a different Ivy than us just in time for lunch. I had found out that morning that the girl from Ivy University who was supposed to be joining us was going to be a few hours late and that fact made me a little anxious. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Craftsmate or his friend, but I figured it was a little awkward to sort of be sandwiched between two people who’ve read my blog with no neutral party.

“So, is pizza okay by you?” Craftsmate’s friend, who I’ll call Penthouse (and assure you all, on his behalf, that we all had a ton of trouble coming up with a nickname for and I promise it’s less urban elite than it sounds, really), asked.

I laughed. “Have you not read my blog?” I figured I should at least hit the awkward on the head early in the afternoon. Acknowledge the facts and move on. I had already dispelled most of the discomfort with Craftsmate through this method.

“Seriously,” Craftsmate chimed in, “she’s big on pizza.”

“I don’t read it as a food blog!” Penthouse exclaimed. "Besides, if it were a food blog, it would be about two foods.“

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New editorial story in Gypsé Eyes Magazine by Wolf189 (@wolfphoto)

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