This is what it would look like if Sir and I made porn.
little
So, recently things have been a little weird between my stuffie (Sir’s deputy) and me. Mostly because I totally figured out while grinding on pillows does nothing for me because of their volume, he is actually the perfect size.
One day I just kind of rolled over and ended up with him between my legs and thought, “hmmm.” And now stuff’s a little awkward between us.
The other day I was talking to Sir on the phone and mentioned my stuffie. Without missing a beat, Sir says, “I’m surprised he still talks to you after you raped him.”
I turned bright red.
Sweetheart, feeling very, very grown up.
When I was a little girl, my mother told me that you always had to “rise to the occasion.” There was this idea that no matter how you were feeling, when you had somewhere to be, you had to pull yourself together and act like nothing was wrong and be entirely present and accommodating.
Growing up, I judged other people when I saw them call off plans or not meet standards because of how they felt. I considered them weak. I was angry because I had always been expected to be able to be 100% myself when the situation called for it, to deliver regardless of what I was going through.
“But who’s really expecting that of you?” my therapist asked me recently.
I’m learning more and more that sometimes it’s just okay to retreat into yourself and that it’s not always the best idea to just put your face on and go. I was supposed to go out for a party tonight. I’ve just felt off all day. So, I’m having a burrito and staying in and taking care of myself. I offered to buy the host a drink another time and I’m not going to linger on it anymore.
Here’s to – sometimes – not rising to the occasion and making yourself the priority.
The Exam, Part Three
The study lasted—well, they later told her it was six weeks. She’d lost count by day four.
She returned to the doctor’s office each morning, and since Daddy had to leave early for work, most days she got belted into the back seat in her slippers and nightie and sleepy fuzzy hair. She always got put in a gown (and usually taken out of it) as soon as she arrived anyway. And it didn’t matter if she’d just had a bath or not; they always stripped her down and scrubbed her clean before they started.
Oh. My god.
Just read this walking home from a party.
Words can’t even…
Maybe there’s something a little sick about it. The fact that I gravitate to pastel colors and bridal lingerie for play parties or that I enjoy feigning innocence in the midst of doing something depraved. I like being the one sweet little outfit in a sea of leather and fishnets. I like feeling impressionable and corruptible. I like how there’s something inherently a little more perverse about an outfit like that than a mesh bodysuit.
I’ve spent a lot of time shaming myself about the stuff I’m into or finding places to draw arbitrary lines where “this” is okay and “this” isn’t. I’ve done a lot of useless work of sorting through which taboos are still acceptable and which are simply just too far. Frankly, it’s just gotten counterproductive and exhausting.
So, yeah, I’m a little sick. But I am getting better at accepting these facets of myself.
I really do cling to that whole corruptibility/grew-up-too-fast narrative.
The Exam, Part One
She squirmed a little on the crinkly paper of the table. “Daddy,” she said in her smallest voice, “I’m scared.”
“Nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart,” Daddy said, stroking her hair and adjusting her headband. “I’ll be right here the whole time. And we’re only here to do what’s best for you.”
“That’s right,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him and flipping through her chart. “I’m sure this is all going to be quite routine, young miss. We’ll get you taken care of in no time, and then your daddy can take you out for a treat. Won’t that be nice?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
So doctortease is an amazing writer but also like a total meanie.
So, I don’t know. If you wanna go support a meanie, go read this story because maybe I touched myself to it and then noticed the tag at the bottom and was like “you fucker” whatever maybe not who cares.
I’m trying to be a brave girl, so I’m going to a munch on Monday.
Naturally, I’ve already picked out my outfit.
Lately, he and I have gotten better at meeting each other in the middle.
The last time we had sex before I left, I did some of the things he liked. I talked in the third person, calling myself “this slut” and “your girl.” I let him go harder than usual, not just respecting the different things he liked, but embracing them. He fucked me until I was totally sore. I’ve never seen him cum that hard, ever.
As a result, he’s been opening up to some of the gentler things I like. He let me sit on his lap while he brushed my hair. He’s been letting me get kind of Little when we talk and I sense him even enjoying it.
I can feel us sort of settling into this thing with each other where it’s becoming less of this is for you and this is for me and more of us finding this place where it’s just us doing us.