Twenty-two and in need of a spanking.
Which makes my birthday different from every other day in this past year solely on the basis that I’m now twenty-two.
That other part’s pretty constant.
stockings
Easing out the Kinks, Part Eight
After I kissed Craftsmate’s cheek, the two pushed me down onto the floor.
“I don’t think you’re allowed on the furniture,” Penthouse explained, “I didn’t hear either of us say you could sit up here.”
“Kneel,” Craftsmate said, moving me back down to the floor when I tried to get back up.
“Sit up straight,” Penthouse added, “legs further apart.”
I can only imagine how much I was blushing. But it wasn’t as much as when we were leaving and Penthouse told Craftsmate to “make sure Ivy is housebroken” the next time we came to visit so I didn’t keep climbing up on the furniture.
As we left, the two agreed the day turned out much better than they had thought. I huffed and went to interject, but they were quick to reply that I had gotten exactly what I wanted.
Touché.
As a child, I resisted naptime. I thought there were better things to do. I figured I didn’t have time to spare to just relax and close my eyes.
I got in trouble in preschool for waking up my classmates and trying to get them to skip naptime with me. As a result, I was essentially banned from naptime.
Now, I still have that problem. But some very different methods have been implemented to resolve it.
Some of the stuff I ordered got hereeeee.
My gosh, I am an overexcited child.
But, whatever, I have new pretties.
It was this really lazy Sunday morning and Craftsmate had slept over my place after a party. We had fairly tamely shared the bed and besides some cuddling that degraded into groping, nothing had really happened.
We had started to mess around a little in the light that filtered through the slit of window not covered by blinds. I had worn a pair of my gym shorts to bed without any panties and Craftsmate had started to tease me through the material. Eventually, I was rolled over onto my stomach, my ass pushed up into the air, his fingers rubbing through the fabric, my body quaking gently against one of my pillows.
They were the kind of gym shorts that were a sort of mesh material so they could “breathe”. This translates to, eventually, my wetness literally leaking out of the shorts. Craftsmate leaned in and I could hear him chuckling as he looked at the growing wet spot on my shorts. He brought his hand away from my cunt and I whined.
“Look at that,” he said, dangling his fingers in front of my face. They were wet. “You’ve soaked right through.” He pushed them into my mouth and I licked them clean. His fingers returned to my gym shorts once more, but only long enough to coat his fingers again. He sniffed his fingers and commented that they smelled like something he likes to eat (yeah, we’re that far back in the timeline).
Eventually, he had gotten me pretty close to the edge and just flat-out stopped. As I squirmed and whined about him being an asshole, he climbed off the bed and replied, “I’m getting a glass of water. I’d change those shorts if I were you.”
I’m not sure how I would handle being made to go to a party, looking totally normal, save for the bare feet and the cuffs on my ankles. I’m not entirely certain that I would be capable of maintaining eye contact or coherent speech.
Oh my goodness what’s going on, what day is it?
My toppy side came out and paid a visit while I was staying with Penthouse.
He had expressed an interest in trying it out and it was interesting to explore that sort of dynamic again.
I’d have to say my favorite part was when I was reading a certain something while straddling him and essentially ignoring him while he begged.
I’m not sure how I got quite so mean, but I’m pretty pleased with that fact.
Both Craftsmate and Penthouse had expressed to me that they were not particularly into knives or knifeplay when I first met them.
Today, both of them texted me on separate occasions to let me know that this is no longer the case. They’re in deep enough that Penthouse has kindled a book on it.
And apparently this is all my fault.
Sorry I’m not sorry?
I like to engage in acts of creative destruction. Never to truly hurt you but rather to startle you into feeling alive.
Photo (by {E}mma)