Most of it is waiting on those kinds of days. Hearing them walk through the house, hearing their conversations, hearing the water run, the doors open and close, the dishes slide into the washer. Hearing their phones ring, hearing their keys clack against the table, hearing chairs being pulled out, pushed in. And waiting.
thigh highs
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.
Truth be told, I am the queen of pouting when it comes to being punished. Some find it endearing. Others, not so much.
“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.”
— Dorothy Parker
That little brat.
By the look on her face, she had been told not to wear those shoes again and she had seen it as a welcome opportunity to earn some punishment. She’s one of those, the kind who misbehave for the sake of receiving the spankings and attention they crave. She had positioned herself on the floor there on purpose, knowing her Master would pass by on his way to the kitchen.
But, today, he’s sick of her behavior. He’s tired of the control that she holds, the hand that she has in when she receives his attention. She thinks she can steer from the backseat, but the brat’s earned herself a spot in the trunk, to be neglected and ignored.
Not literally. To give her the satisfaction of throwing her in the trunk would be far too good to her. Instead, he’ll just ignore her. He’ll go about his business until she, upset and confuse, cannot handle the neglect. She’ll come to him humbled, willing to show complete obedience. No more deliberate provocation, no more brattiness.
And only then would she fully be his.
These old things? Totally for everyday wear!
It does save the gasoline that would fill those leaf-blowing tractors. How are you going green?
Grinding the leaves off the path.
Dear Mr. Grey,
While I understand my placement on academic probation does not put me in particularly good graces with the administration of the Grey Academy, I do have a few concerns about my pairing with Heart in your new mentoring program.
While I do find her to be a fine role model, her reputation does seem proceed her and she certainly lives up to it, perhaps even exceeds it. Moreover, although I am truly grateful for this opportunity, I do find her methods to be, to say the least, a bit unorthodox.
Thank you for your time and attention.
Sincerely,
Ivy