I realized you all never got to meet Sir’s deputy.
Well, we match today.
me
Almost two years ago, at my twenty-second birthday party, one of my good friends tied this piece of string around my wrist. I’d worn these kind of wish bracelets before and expected it to fall off in a couple of months or so.
It stayed on for almost two years. I’d worn it doubled around my wrist for two years. It got thinner, it wore in some places. I got used to fidgeting with it. I got used to it.
Arbitrarily, with nothing provoking it, it fell off of my wrist yesterday. I was in total shock. I had kind of resigned myself to thinking that it would just stay on there at this point.
It’s silly and petty, but it reminds me that I don’t like change. And it reminds me that I look for meaning in everything. My wrist still has a little line on it from where it was, but it’s fading fast.
Of course, I can’t even bring myself to throw it out yet. This stupid little piece of string. I am so terrible at letting go.
This is a little harsher than what I usually post up, but consider it an ambitious start to Topless Tuesday and a way to show a certain inquisitive follower the ballgag Sir made me.
Here’s a photo of my problematic boobs to break up all the text and vitriol on this blog today.
My favorite impact tool is the cane.
She hates it.
So I’m having fun at Sir’s or something.
Hmph.
Hanging with thinkivykink and NymphoNinjas at the Feminist Porn Conference. Loving the passion, sense of community and inspiration!
True story: We took this picture when I was about to leave to catch my ride out. I slipped just about halfway out of my coat to get the name tag into the photo. Heart was squatting and I was on tip-toes. Don’t say we never work hard for you all. 😛
Behavior correction case file #440 UPDATE: Ivy. While the subject has shown marked improvement under treatment so far, recent indications are that progress has plateaued. It may simply be that we have reached the limitations of what can be achieved by coaxing and instructing, and need to move on to working directly with the subconscious.
Simply put, Ivy will be put on overload. Each week, her chart will be updated with a randomized stim schedule, with staggered rest periods at irregular intervals to disorient her and induce repeated fugue states. She will spend the majority of shifts in some form of sensory deprivation combined with vibration, penetration, focused impact, and utilitarian bondage or encasement. She will never know exactly who is using her body, how long a session will last, or whether she will be permitted (or punished for) orgasm. Any information she gleans about her current circumstances will be drip-fed and incomplete. Monitor pulse levels, and feel free to switch things up to keep them high.
Between these sessions, Ivy will be folded into a small case and transported to the recovery chamber on level 4. She will spend recovery time unbound but collared, and dressed in minimal decorative garments, which are to be referred to as “pretties.” She will see a small, consistent set of supervisors during these periods, who have already been briefed on treating her gently but addressing her in diminutive and reductive terms. Soothing, petting, and cuddling are encouraged. Subject is to feel as if she is receiving special treatment (which is in fact true), but also in firm and careful hands.
Until, upon waking, she finds herself at full use again.
The overarching goal in this case is to simulate a fractured reality. The subject should come to believe that her stim sessions are a dream when she is in recovery, and that her recovery is a dream when she is under stim. The alternating stresses of this contradiction should provide opportunity to examine and manipulate her psyche to an otherwise unattainable degree.
The closest we have come to using this form of therapy in the past has been as a punitive measure against hostile actors bent on harming the Institute. The intent for those subjects was to break them. With Ivy, however, it must be clear that our intent is pure and therapeutic. We do not expect her to break; we expect her to blossom.
Be careful what you wish for.
Disclaimer: I gave him permission to write this post and to use my photos. Please don’t reblog me and leave gross commentary like “hot teen ass” (though I’m kind of flattered, as I’m not a teen anymore.)
Also can we discuss how perfect the panties my Daddy got me are?
More photos to come, but I’ll stop spamming you all for the time being.
So orchestrating this one took entirely too much work.
Since my face had to be out of frame and I couldn’t see what I was doing while I videotaped. (Tumblr gifs were cramping my creativity.)
But I think it turned out cute.
(Fixed itttt.)