It’s been a while since I’ve been tied up face-down on a certain someone’s rug.
pretty
Once upon a time there was a pretty girl who used to send me to work and drive me wild.
I hope you’re well, lovely.
(And check your email already, busy bee!)
What I could’ve done in the past two hours: Written a good chunk of a paper.
What I did instead: Looked at pretty bras and panties on the Internet. And maybe made a purchase or two.
It was brought to my attention that these panties, which I had previously declared impractical, are indeed practical for one thing.
It’s the little pink bow that I really like about these panties.
It just gets me.
My first meeting was Friday morning and it went exceptionally well.
I was tired, nonetheless, after having stayed up with Penthouse the night before. So, when I got back to his place, he ushered me into his bedroom.
“You’re taking a nap,” he said.
As a child, I was terrible at nap time. My teacher in preschool had to give me another activity to do after I would stay up and try to get the children around me to stay up with me. So, unless I am falling all over myself tired, I don’t take naps even now.
I pouted. “I can’t just nap."
He made sure to watch me get into bed and went to the door. "Close your eyes, I’ll join you in a little bit.”
I curled up in his bed and sighed. Outside, I could hear him talking to a few of his roommates. Blushing, I turned onto my stomach and closed my eyes.
Sometimes I get a little miffed and fist-waggy at all the “preparing her for Sir/Master/Daddy/An orgy of strangers/The Grand Poobah”. Because, sheesh, why can’t the woman in question just be preparing her partner for herself? The lady has needs of her own, I can assure you.
Not that a good threesome or hierarchy isn’t welcome, but there’s such an abundance of them that it makes me want to read one caption somewhere that details some eager girl in cute panties having some fun on her own with her little girlfriend.
Yeah, yeah, I’m picky. I’ll get off my soapbox now.
I would very much like the opportunity to be very, very mean to a boy again.
Please and thank you.
Once, I made Switch watch me touch myself.
There were some rules: he had to keep his hands behind his head and kneel, he couldn’t speak unless spoken to, and if he looked at me too lewdly I’d stop and he would be in big trouble.
“You should just be happy Pretty’s letting you watch,” I chided when he huffed.
That made him straighten up in what I presumed was an attempt to gain some favor. “Yes, Pretty, thank you so much,” he stammered out.
I wanted to stay stern, but I just want to giggle when I make him nervous or see him blush. There’s just something about being able to crack someone just the teensiest bit.
I made a show of playing with myself to make it difficult for him. I sat on the bed right in front of him, legs spread, letting myself moan and gasp. I have to give the boy credit, he held still even when I eyefucked the living shit out of him and even when I turned around and leaned back against his chest and touched myself against him.
Unfortunately, I felt a little silly when I kept saying that I was going to get myself off on my own because I didn’t think he was worthy or capable of getting me off and then I wound up not being able to get myself off. I played it off like I was rewarding him when I let him take his hands off of his head and touch me, but I think he may have caught on. I just got myself entirely too worked up. When that happens, I need someone else to ground me, to take over and make me focus when I’m far too wound up in myself and how everything feels to be able to just get off.
So, I guess we both have little exploitable cracks that way.
“You know, you’re very pretty,” that guy from my frat said as we waited for drinks.
I chuckled and looked over my shoulder at him, “that’s it? You’re not terribly poetic, you know.”
“Oh, come on, Ivy,” he feigned dismay. “I do science. I don’t do overtures. You want a metaphor, fine? You’re as pretty as a Diels-Adler reaction.”
“A what?”
“A Diels-Adler reaction. It’s when…” From here, he explained something scientific that went completely over my head. Noticing my confusion, he cut himself off and said, “it’s really pretty. There. There’s your metaphor.”
I moved up closer to the bar and shook my head, “that’s a simile.”
“Okay, Ivy, okay, a simile,” he placed his hand on my hip. “You’re pretty like a barium cloud.”
“That’s another simile."
"It’s beautiful, I promise,” he said and used his free hand to grab me a drink.
I smiled, “I’ll take your word for it.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
I guess we all have our own sorts of poetries.