See, I could use this kind of discipline right now.
I could also use the kind of discipline that would make me work on my gosh-darn term papers.
nude
The little girl play I engage in is so beyond just the “taboo"ness of it, like most of the other practices I enjoy. (What’s the point of shock value in the privacy of your own room, even with the thin walls?)
It’s the feeling of being nurtured that accompanies it that draws me in. For a masochist/submissive, I tend to freak out if I am not able to hold the reigns on my life and completely know what’s going on and what the outcomes of things will be. The unknown doesn’t scare me so much as the surrender of control of things which I realize are so completely out of my control.
While I certainly experience this release of control while submitting generally, there is something about being a "little girl” that gives an even greater release. I feel little. I feel dependent. I feel this overwhelming surrender to the powers that be and an amazing sense of letting go without incurring the sort of consequences that I am afraid of coming across were I to become less disciplined and control-oriented in other areas of my life.
In the role of the “little girl”, I’m forced to let go in a different, maybe even deeper way, than when I simply submit. I’m cared for, I lose my control, I no longer have responsibilities. It’s an incredibly relaxing experience.
Forniphilia: Form and function.
He introduced me to the idea of “little girl” play without even realizing he was into it.
It started with him calling me a sweet girl before I fell asleep. Then a sweet little girl. Then just a little girl. And I didn’t really process it at first because I was tired. I also assumed that we were not going to be the sort of people who would be into “that stuff”.
I was very, very wrong. It really picked up from there. We started putting ribbons in my hair. We even put my hair in pigtails. At first, I did it because I knew he liked it and I didn’t mind it. It was sexy seeing how excited he got. But, soon it got incredibly arousing for me.
Then came the idea to start calling him “Daddy”. Not all the time. Just during those scenarios. Of course, this brings up the issue of if I have Daddy issues or something. I don’t. Seriously. I don’t want to have sex with my father. I don’t equate calling him Daddy to having him be my father. It’s just a name with some connotations of power, rather than incestuous undertones.
Now, I love it. I can’t get enough of it.
Mmm. The line between privileges and rights is this sexiest thing ever.
Pepper’s outfit at home is a collar, and nothing more. it suits her purpose and status just fine.
But I’m a fairly nice person, and let her wear one of my old plaid shirts as well.
She knows it’s an act of kindness and not a right.
I’m all for breaking down gender stereotypes and traditional definitions of relationship dynamics, but the following exchange got me a little trembly.
Friend of a friend who had never met “lesbians” before: So, um, is like one of you “the man”?
My (at the time) girlfriend: Oh, me.
This was a point-blank delivery. No hesitation. No looking at me. No chuckles. No eye rolling. Hooooly crap.
Oddly enough, when I see arms pulled back this stringently, the first thing I go to is the fingers. There’s like this writhing tension there that’s just kind of been put in shock. And I’m soaked.
Licking off the salt, darling? I’ve heard salt cravings actually mean you’re thirsty. Good thing my boyfriend’s got something a little more satisfying for you to lap up, dear.