touch

I had expressed to Penthouse before my trip that I was into being imposingly touched right before I went to sleep. It was more of a situation where I would be sent to bed and the other party would climb in behind me, wrap an arm around me and touch as if I wasn’t trying to sleep. It started here, when Switch had me tied up during the whole abduction thing and started groping me.

Penthouse and I went over safe words, a necessity if you’re playing around with concepts of feigned reluctance or consensual nonconsent, and tried the same thing.

Except, I wasn’t tied up. So, I could playfully try to swat him away and tease him by rubbing back up against him immediately after. And then whine and pout when he persisted anyway and rubbed my pussy through my panties, squeezed my breasts through my shirt, slipped his fingers into my mouth.

“I’m trying to sleep,” I huffed as he pulled my panties aside, “you’re being too handsy.”

He hushed me and murmured in my ear, “then sleep, I’ll just take what I want.” He dragged his thumb over my wet slit.

Naturally, I didn’t go to sleep.

Fuck Baseball, Part Two

“I want to hear what you like,” Craftsmate said after he had finished listing off what he wanted to do. I was aroused, I could feel myself blushing and I was having trouble thinking totally straight. Not to mention I find having to name the things I’m into totally humiliating.

“Why don’t you just read my tumblr?” I whined, “it’s all right there.”

He laughed and reached up, looping his fingers through my hair. “Because I want to hear it from you.” I attempted to turn my head away and he twisted his hand, pulling me back and forcing me to look up at him. “I want to hear it from you and I want you to look at me while you say it.”

I tried to turn my head once more, but he pulled it back roughly by the hair. Squeezing my eyes shut, I managed to stammer out, “I…ah…I like getting tied up and used.”

“Open your eyes and say it again.”

I huffed and shook my head. “I can’t.” He pulled my head back and I gasped, opening my eyes. “I like to be tied up and used.”

He grinned, “used how?”

“Roughly,” I choked out, thoroughly humiliated but glad the ordeal was over.

“Good,” he smirked and patted my head. “Now, what else?”

Fuck Baseball, Part One

Craftsmate and I had determined that for every three times he had threatened to do something, he maybe carried the threat to completion once. This was, of course, in reference to whenever I was a brat while we were playing around.

And, naturally, we were having this conversation while I was tied up beside him on my bed, lying on my stomach and resting my head on my pillow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, he started laughing. I blinked and craned my neck to look up at him. “What’s so funny?” He shook his head, but I persisted. “Come on, tell me. Come on.”

“I’m just thinking,” he finally said, “about all the stuff I want to do to you when you say I don’t do what I threaten to.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He reached down and stroked my shoulder. I cannot remember the entire list or even begin to do it justice when I tell you it was some of the hottest stuff just sort of casually spelled out in a list.

Maybe if he’s really nice he’ll write it out and I can reproduce it here.

I realized that I never actually mentioned what happened with that guy from my frat beyond a sentence in some post. Mostly because I was a little conflicted about it, but I feel sort of equipped to share now.

Simply put: it was a really hot but really confusing encounter. And most of the people I have told about it agree with the hot stuff and don’t totally understand why I’m all hung up on random details.

Call me a traditional sap, but the asshole don’t kiss me.

To be fair, it didn’t fit in completely with what we were doing. He came home with me and one of my friends had fallen asleep on my carpet. So we were sort of quietly sitting up on my bed and talking.

It’s been a while, so I forget the context, but I remember telling him that I didn’t know how to place him because I didn’t know what he wanted.

“You know what I want,” he said, “but it’s more fun not giving myself that.”

And he held me down, eased my skirt up, and proceeded to edge me like I never have been before. He was firm but still sensual. The whole time I was desperately attempting to stay quiet and, just as I was teetering right at the edge, he stopped. He grinned, pulled the sheets up, and tucked me in.

“See?” I could see his smirk in the darkness. “It’s a lot more fun when I just tease you.”

And he left. I laid there in shock for a while, frustrated and awed.

On a ton of levels, I find that whole interaction incredibly hot. But I guess there’s still part of me that’s stupidly hung up on insecurities that he must not respect me, even when I know that isn’t true.

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.

I’d like to imagine that if he weren’t holding her that way, I imagine she’d just fall right into the mirror he’s holding her in front of. And that would be no good at all, it would just get her off the hook from having to watch those little faces she makes until she can finally appreciate them.

I love that feeling when that very last piece of clothing is cut from your body and it flutters to the ground. There’s such brutal finality to it, it’s almost poetic. It’s the point of no return, the crossing of the Rubicon, a thousand different clichés of that nature rolled into one experience.

Because, of course, the only reason a cliché is a cliché is for the harsh obviousness of its truth.

“I was taught that at the heart of all people, all things, lay raw self-interest. Sure, you could dress a person up nice, put pretty words in his mouth, but underneath the silk tie and pressed shirt was an animal. A territorial, hungry animal anxious to satisfy his own needs,“ Megan Mayhew Bergman, Birds of a Lesser Paradise.

I’ll kick your butt, Daddy. No lies. I’m hard candy.

You don’t want to know the things he made her do to get that lollipop.

Ivy

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