nude – Page 9 – Ivy

Trapped, Part 4

After securing my arms to the headboard, Switch pulled my legs apart. On the sides of his bed, he had already set up belts that he looped around my ankles and pulled taut. Spread and bound, I squirmed around on the bed and tested the strength of the belts. I had about an inch of give either way, I could barely move.

Switch ran his hand up the back of my thigh and chuckled, “can’t fight me now, can you?” He slapped my ass and laughed so more when I gasped and lurched in my bonds. “No, I think I’ve got you to myself now.” He sneered and grabbed my ass, shaking it slightly, “and we’re going to have so much fun.”

I continued to pull against the bonds and shake my head. “Come on, let me go.” I didn’t want to give in too easily. Switch reached up and grabbed my hair, holding my head still and trying to push his fingers into my mouth. I bite down, not too hard, to voice my protest.

Switch pulled his fingers back, dropped my head and said nothing. He walked over to the other end of the bedroom and I heard him putting his sneakers on and grabbing his keys. I pulled hard on the belts. He’d left me tied this way to his bed before (I’ll fill you in on that story at another time, I promise), leaving the knot at my wrist within reach so I could let myself out if I needed.

“Please, don’t go,” I begged with sudden enthusiasm. “Don’t leave me here. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”

All I heard next was the door close behind him.

Trapped, Part 2

The issues with my abduction fantasy lie in the execution. Part of it has to do with fear.

The text above is from the caption I’ve had on this post for a while in my drafts. I keep putting off writing it because I don’t know how to articulate myself properly about the whole thing. I was just never sure it could be pulled off. I wanted to be scared while still feeling safe and I wasn’t sure if those two things were genuinely possible in the sneak-attack type method I wanted my “abduction” to take place.

But, this was somehow working so far. I had a safe word. I knew it was him and still I had been taken very much by surprise. The way he was groping me was a far enough departure from the way he normally touches me when we first start messing around, before stuff gets a little kinky. But, this time he was rough, possessive.

I remember having mentioned having this fantasy once. It was very off-handedly, I hadn’t expected anything would come of it. He had told me about something that he was into that is literally impossible to carry out and I replied that I knew how he felt, because I could never be kidnapped the way I wanted without it being too dangerous for me to enjoy or too safe for me to get excited by the risk involved.

And yet this felt like a good balance. I was at this really happy medium where I was just scared enough to not find it either cheesy or traumatic.

Meet Switch, Part Four

Switch claimed he’d never spanked a girl before. At first, he tended to go a little light. I urged him that I could handle harder. “Really?” He’d ask and then I’d hear the smile in his voice, “awesome.” Somewhere between impressed and inspired, he worked up rather quickly to hitting hard, to the point that I finally pushed one of my hands down to block his.

“You know, Ivy, I’m torn whether or not to move that hand and keep going,” he said. I didn’t reply. I was going to let him explore this.

But, instead, he moved his hand back down to my cunt. “I don’t think you want me to stop. You’re soaking wet.” I blushed as he ran his fingers over my slit, “now, why are you so wet? Only dirty fucking sluts get wet from spankings like this. Look at this.” He grabbed my hair with his free hand and jerked my head up. He brought his fingers in front of my face: they were coated, shining. He moved them back down to my cunt.

I practically cried out when, after teasing over my slit for a while, he finally started rubbing my clit. My gaze became unfocused, I was reduced to a series of “oohs” and moans. He chuckled, “you’re getting even wetter. You filthy little thing.” He kept going, saying things that made me blush, that made me feel simultaneously precious and degraded.

He brought me back into the moment when he slid a few fingers into me. His hands were big, his fingers large and long and imposing. I gasped a bit and lurched forward. Still clothed, still composed – a stark contrast to myself – Switch just pushed them deeper and laughed.

What if she just gave you everything? If she allowed you inside of her in a way in which the metaphor is even stronger than the physical manifestation. If she just showed you every point of fragility, every joint worn weak, every bone turned brittle.

It’s often hard to be bare, even though we’re born it. We deviate from so many of our initial notions in an attempt at maturity, such as demanding care with such unabashed fervor that it seems to be nurtured is an essential part of being human. Yet, vulnerability will be difficult for her. To become oneself seemed to mean to build up walls not solely to keep invasion out but to deter those sincerest, most intimate forms of care as well, all for the sake of some structure to lean upon.

But, what if she could break down some of those walls? And she followed your lead, arms out, palms wide, fingers trembling with an almost rudimentary trepidation.

Photograph submitted by jeunefille18.

Sometimes, you just want her all at once. You realize that you’re not capable of such a thing. You bring her close but you can never quite bring her close enough. You press yourself into her with such force that you suppose that perhaps you’ll finally just fall into her.

The top layer of our cells are sloughed off. It’s a little disgusting to think about, but there’s something romantic about the idea that we leave a little bit of ourselves everywhere we go and on everything we touch. And so you can figure that part of her is on you, part of you is on her.

And you figure maybe that’s a huge part of intimacy: not being sure what’s you and what’s her anymore.

“In one way or another I’ve always suffered. I didn’t know why exactly. But I do know that I’m not so scared of suffering now. I feel more than I’ve ever felt and I’ve found someone to feel with. To play with. To love in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers too. And that I want to love him.” – from the film Secretary.

I’m not nearly as fragile as I’m allowed to be. I’m given permission to collapse, to surrender, to let the cracks deepen until the secrets and fears and insecurities come oozing out. But, I’m nowhere close to being that breakable.

I’m sensitive, but I’m not inconsolable. I’m submissive, but I’m not codependent. I’m pliant, but I’m not weak.

To no one in particular, but perhaps to a good crowd: real domination is not grabbing someone by their insecurity, it’s grabbing them by their strength. It’s not about using or patching up vulnerability, it’s about allowing something unyielding and independent the opportunity to surrender. And there is the prize: controlling something that can very well control itself.

L’Accès ..*

“I’ll be anything you want,” she said, “so long as I’m useful.”

She hated when people like them got over the top. She hated the pushcarts and the pony play and the ornate arrangements of flesh made to be something of use. She wanted to be used simply, to be reduced to function and not form.

And so he turned off the fuse box and blamed the storm. And she went to get a book of matches.

“What did you get on your SAT?” The Southern Gentleman asked me the other day.

I sighed, “let’s please not get into this. It’s so silly. It was like three years ago.”

After some badgering, he finally got it out of me.

“Fine,” he conceded, “you have the higher score. But I still control the sex.”

We’d struck a balance of sorts.

“This is more for you than it is for me, really,” he told her as he straightened the headphones over her ears. “I know where it takes you.”