I have this fairly interesting complex in terms of considering myself mature. I go through phases where I think I’m very mature, but in retrospect I realize I may have been acting very childish and as more of a caricature of maturity. Then I start thinking myself immature, until someone points out my maturity. It goes back and forth.
stockings
The first time I got tied up in an intimate situation, we planned it ahead of time. I counted down until that day with bated breath, the crawl of X’s across my calendar becoming more nervous and hesitant as it drew nearer. I was tempted not to show up that day. I shook when I showered myself. I could barely clasp my bra or pull on the tights I picked out as to pull off a skirt in the crisp fall weather.
He led me up to his bedroom and closed the door. We laughed uncomfortably. Expectation hung in the air as I removed my boots and then my stockings so they wouldn’t get runs in them. I smiled awkwardly as I stumbled out of them and folded them, placing them on his nightstand. Next came the earrings, my class ring, the cardigan I was wearing. I ignored the chill that had set over my body as I sat beside him on the bed.
I playfully put up some attempt at a fight as he set to work. He had my arms pinned behind me rather quickly and used my stockings to bind them in a knot that paid homage to his Boy Scout years. I fought a bit harder when he tried to thread one of his thick winter scarves between my teeth, but he finally won. The fabric was overwhelming and the knot held harsh against the back of my neck.
I groaned, I squirmed, I explored. I twisted my wrists about and tried to push the scarf out of my mouth with my tongue. I couldn’t. I let out a frustrated huff when he found my own scarf in my purse and set to work on my ankles. I wasn’t sure what I wanted at that point, but I’m fairly sure it was contact aside from the act of binding my limbs.
But, when he had finished, he merely got up and left the room for a few minutes. It was then that I noticed he had me positioned in such a way that I was looking into the mirror on his wall. I’m not sure if it was intentional.
Either way, the effect was sobering. I saw myself. My eyes wide over the scarf, my chest pushed out slightly from the way my arms were bound, my legs lined up neatly, my body covered in goosebumps and shaking slightly with each breath. He returned and I set my attention over to him briefly before returning my attention to my reflection. I was transfixed. I looked just like myself and nothing at all like myself at the same time.
I don’t know if it makes any sense, but it was almost as if I were saying goodbye. Or maybe it’s better described as “hello”.
Primping for Playtime
Model: Isabella Belden
Copyright: LoveBondageLadies.com
How you can expect me to dress when I come to work for you, Dacry darling.
He’s not going to even think about her until after he’s had his second cup, at the very least.
Well, followers, I’ve flown the coop and left the country.
Not to worry. I’m just here for my summer internship and I am not totally sure how reliable the Internet will be (if I get any). But, I made sure to stock my queue, so it’ll almost be like I’ve never gone.
<3, Ivy
He won’t tell her why she’s being punished, just that she is. She knows she hasn’t done anything particularly wrong. He knows it, too.
But he’ll still tie her down and call her all sorts of vile names as he shoves her panties into her mouth. She’ll groan as the fabric scrapes her tongue before becoming engorged with her own saliva. She’ll squeal as she feels the tails of the flogger trace over her exposed rear. She’ll tell herself she did nothing wrong at all. She’ll insist that she doesn’t deserve this.
Smack. She reminds herself how good she’s been. How sweet she is, how selfless. How she serves so willingly. She could not have possibly done anything wrong. She’s his good girl. His perfect little pet.
Smack. The hit lands square on her crack again. Tears warm the corners of her eyes and blur the sight of her bound wrist. She heaves a breath behind the panties. The familiar taste of herself is being dissolved by her saliva and the material’s new thickness nearly makes her gag.
Smack. She grunts behind the panties. Tears hit her cheeks, the bedspread. She’s a good girl. This is just proof of it. She’s enduring this for him.
Smack. She cries out around the cotton wedged into her mouth. Her body bucks forward violently. She’s done something, she knows it. Somewhere. She’ll make something up. She’ll identify something she’s already been punished for. She is willing to fill in the gaps for him.
Smack. She deserves this. She’s been very bad. This is her punishment. She needs it. She deserves it. She doesn’t need a reason, an explanation, an example. She just needs.
They keep her like that for hours. They reach around the stone to touch her. To squeeze her breasts. To tweak her nipples. To tease their fingers over her slit. She’s not even sure if she can call it a “they”. She’s not sure how many there are. She’s unsure if she’s reading too deeply into when she feels some hands are coarser and some are smaller.
She tries to study shadows on the wall, but the room is far too dark. She is left to rely upon the sounds of their steps as they enter the room, the feeling of those hands, the patterns that they take, and their all-too-quick departure.
It becomes her whole world. Those hands, those footsteps, the occasional grunt or cough, they’re just about all she’s got.
Holy hell. Murakami is my absolute favorite author. I just can’t even. I don’t know if I have it in me to disrespect him enough by knocking over these books to get to the lady, but damn.
Bring me Murakami, I will make love to you. Discuss Murakami with me intelligently, I will marry you. Tell me how the absurd, fantastical conflict in Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World affected you in a very real way and I will never, ever let you out of my sight. Ever.