sharing – Ivy

The Party Sub, Part Four

While I was busy watching a girl getting a pretty thorough flogging on her back and ass, Sir had gotten my wrists cuffed behind my back and was still talking to the girl beside him. In the process of cuffing me, he had revealed that he had not only made the handcuffs, but that he had a whole arsenal of things that he had brought along that were homemade.

He set to showing off his floggers and crops, explaining what was what and how he’d gone about each. The girl was being really nice and super respectful, so I got brave and consented when she asked for a demonstration. However, I requested that we go to another room.

Smirking, Sir grabbed a handful of my hair and walked me along that way through the party. I tried to act as casual as I could about this, but it was really pulling at my submissive thread and I felt myself starting to unravel. By the time we found a basically empty room and Sir had bent me over in front of a futon, the combination of the fact that I was going to be used as a demonstration with the cuffs and the way he had hauled my along by the hair, leaving me to make awkward eye contact with a few other guests, I was feeling fairly pliant.

He started with the flogger and, with this girl watching, I felt tempted to take more than I usually would. I wanted to make Sir proud and I was sure I stayed bent over, breathing deeply through my nose to keep myself centered.

“Could I try?” she asked and Sir turned to me.

I nodded and I felt her hand rest on my hip, tentatively. She swung the flogger and hit me squarely across my left asscheek. Looking to Sir for some sort of approval, I watched him grin as he stated that I really should be thanking her.

“Thank you,” I gasped out. It was kind of clear that the girl had significantly more chemistry with Sir, which made the whole thing a little awkward, but she was super sweet when she finished and thanked me for being such a good girl for her.

Though she wanted to be shared, she was frightened at the prospect of someone new having control.

And so, when the time came that she was to be given to someone else, he sat with her. He played with her hair, he stroked her cheek, he whispered encouragements. He grounded her when everything else seemed so foreign and terrifying.

Even though she could not see him, she felt safe, if not a little bashful for how much she was enjoying herself. And when it was done he held her and they both, in their own ways, were proud.

“Every time I write, every time I open my eyes. I am cutting out parts of myself to give to you. So, shake the dust and take me with you when you do. None of this has ever been for me.”

There’s a lot I could say about this. About ideas, about sharing, about writing, about the human experience. About who I was when I first saw this video and who I am now. But I’m not going to sully it with anything further of myself. This is all yours as much as it is mine.

(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)

Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.

You’re a fabulous idea.

It’s funny how you can grow before me, grow on me. I have not suffered entirely getting to know you, I think. Maybe I’ve blushed a few times. Maybe I’ve felt a bit disoriented by some of those long, deliberate silences. Maybe I’ve stumbled over a few words when I’m not nearly as careful as I could be.

But you’re harmless as just an idea. You’re nice to think about. You grow in a different way when I simply think about you. Not nearly as dynamically, but in a way that I can tend. Until there’s you and there’s the idea of you. And you’re a wonderful idea. But you’re much better when you’re not.

Because perhaps the only thing stronger than an idea is when that idea takes shape, however sufferable. As the pieces fall together, I like you better than the idea of you. It becomes harder to remember you as you were before you existed, because I seem to enjoy more the fact that you exist.

I’ll admit part of me swooned when you referenced Mauss. But part of me almost felt violated.

I sometimes feel too well-known when people read the same books as I. I feel like they have a part of me that way and I, by extension, have a part of them by knowing what they’ve read. I start to associate them with the work. They become part of it

It’s not the same with movies. There’s just something about books.

But that’s the very spirit of the gift, isn’t it? You give me part of yourself and I’m indebted. I give you some of me and you’re in my debt. And you know how I feel about power exchanges.

It’s funny to remember you as you were before you existed, subtle visitor. You know how I’ve suffered getting accustomed to you.

I like and am simultaneously completely intimidated by the prospect of being shared between two men. I know it’s super silly to be like “damn that’s a lot of penis”. But, really, damn. That’s a lot of penis.

I guess it’s totally the same as a man and a woman in terms of having two people to pay attention to. But I guess I am just vaguely overwhelmed at the prospect of how much penis that is.

This 2 am penis anxiety brought to you by the people at thinkivykink.

The Southern Gentleman asked to see my porn last night. No, not a porn I’ve been in (there are none). Rather, my porn collection. He wanted to see a video from the stash of things I watch.

I don’t watch a ton of videos, but I have a few gems I go to. The issue is he wanted to see “my favorite”. I don’t have a favorite, but the one that instantly popped into my mind presented a few problems. It was very kinky. It included James Deen, so it was kind of male-focused as well. Despite his proclivities, SG doesn’t watch a lot of kinky stuff (according to him). He also tends to focus on stuff that is really female-focused.

Not to mention I was uncomfortable. Sharing your porn is like sharing a piece of yourself. It’s a reflection of your taste and your libido. I was worried he’d be weirded out by it. But, he coaxed me into it. I was coaxed, not coerced. I mentioned that I was actually experiencing anxiety over him liking it. I’m rarely that insecure about my sexuality with him. To which he replied, “calm down, I’m sure I’ll like it.”

I was also juggling some feelings of ambivalence after his recent breakup. Sure, they had been poly and that wasn’t their undoing, but I wasn’t sure how to maneuver the waters after the entire thing. I didn’t just want to swoop in, but I wanted to show support. So, this was the first time we’d been vaguely sexual beyond kidding around after the entire thing.

We started the video. I was blushing at first and we were awkwardly making jokes about it, constantly sort of checking in to make sure the other was actually enjoying this as well. We then sort of switched into a sort of director’s cut mode, making more definitive commentary about the way James Deen was acting. He was impressed with the guy. Impressed.

And then he suddenly got serious.

“Ivy, I want to humiliate you like this,” he said, “I want to abuse you so casually.”

He got it. He got the dynamic right on the head.

Then came the flood of filth, the dirty-talking, the threats, the promises. The “do you own any rope?”, my “nope”, the “oh, I will”. He was inspired. Damn you, Cosmo, for being right. It is helpful to watch porn with a guy. It’s like when Caesar visited the statue of Alexander the Great. If you weren’t already ambitious, you are now.

He used the word “invoke” at one point. Please don’t tell me that’s not hot. Please.

When it ended, there was a sort of awkward pause. We kind of laughed about it. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Now what?” he asked.

I shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“You want to watch another?”

On the topic of sharing:

I go back and forth on whether or not to get too personal on this tumblr. Sometimes, I do. I share silly things I’ve experienced with friends, sexual forays I’ve taken part in, and even sometimes when something is bothering me. Sometimes, I share stuff without being too overt about the fact that it pertains to me. Others, I just put it all out on the table.

It’s weird for me to sit and try to pinpoint why I started this tumblr or what I even use it for. I could get into the deeper discussion on why people even write in the first place, but frankly I don’t want to bore any of you with this already boring post by getting into the even duller and more repetitive, circular discussion of why we read/write.

Rather, what I’m trying to get at here is I’m not totally sure what a) you all are really expecting and b) I’m supposed to set as a boundary for sharing. To tackle the latter first, there’s definitely a degree of privacy I’d like to uphold. But part of me likes the ability to be cathartic here.

Which brings me to the second point. I don’t want anyone to feel like I put too much here. My posts that are just pervy prose about the pictures get as much positivity as my personal ones as my ones that are just excerpts from books and songs. So, maybe I’ve struck the right balance. I don’t know.

In the earlier days of having this tumblr, I shared a lot more stuff than I do now. This is partially because I was, while abroad and while at home for the tiny sliver left of my summer, not getting any. And, also, I just get concerned I’ll be recognized or I’ll upset someone by sharing stuff about them.

So, not totally sure what this post was about. But, yes, I get torn about sharing sometimes. And it’s hard for me to say well, okay, this blog is for me. Because there’s a possibility I could be found. And that would be just plain awkward.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with Heart about when she revealed her own little taboo experience and we got into how strangely freeing and comforting tumblr can be. The car story I’ve been writing about is probably only known by two other people than those involved and one part, specifically, no one has heard. I’ve been debating putting it up here.

But, either way, I suppose what I’m getting at here is that the catharsis that this site offers is simply marvelous (provided no one I know finds this and figures out it’s me).

erospainter:

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
— Anaïs Nin