touch – Page 22

Sometimes I get a little miffed and fist-waggy at all the “preparing her for Sir/Master/Daddy/An orgy of strangers/The Grand Poobah”. Because, sheesh, why can’t the woman in question just be preparing her partner for herself? The lady has needs of her own, I can assure you.

Not that a good threesome or hierarchy isn’t welcome, but there’s such an abundance of them that it makes me want to read one caption somewhere that details some eager girl in cute panties having some fun on her own with her little girlfriend.

Yeah, yeah, I’m picky. I’ll get off my soapbox now.

In an effort to actually finish up stuff like I promised, I thought I’d share a story about the time I gave Switch a lap dance.

We’d made a bet and I had totally, kind of embarrassingly considering the circumstances, lost. So he told me he wanted me to dress up sleazy and give him a lap dance. Which made me laugh, initially, because I dress a little cutesy usually (lots of florals, skirts, sundresses, etc). And so half of it was extracting anything vaguely trashy from my wardrobe and constructing some vague semblance of an outfit for him.

“Can’t I just wear something lacy instead?” I texted him in frustration, “I’ve got lacy."

"Nope,” he had replied, “you’re not going to get out of dressing up like a whore. You’re just lucky I’m letting you do this at my place and not making you walk over here dressed like this.”

So, I threw together this one vaguely slutty top, a pair of short-shorts, a ridiculously high pair of heels, a g-string and a pair of fishnet thigh-highs, put it all in a bag, and called it a day. When I reached his place, he left me to change into it and encouraged me that strippers wore a lot more makeup than I had on. I shook my head, took out my makeup bag, and proceeded to essentially crayola my face.

“Can I come in?” He called through the door as I was finishing up.

“No,” I whined, “I look silly.”

We both started laughing as he let himself in, but the second he saw me he kind of froze and the corners of his mouth curled up into one of the most indescribably sinister smirks I have ever seen in my life. “Well, look at you,” he murmured as he went to put his hand on my hip.

I slapped his hand away playfully and pointed to a chair. “No touching. Sit down.” My efforts to keep a straight face were fasting waning.

Even if it was something for him, I’ll admit I got a little bit toppy – or maybe it was just bratty – when I was giving him the lap dance. I ground slow, I took excruciatingly long to take my clothing off, I teased myself over him, I kept pushing his hands off of me and telling him it was against the rules. We both nearly broke down laughing when he shoved a dollar bill down my panties. I was having trouble taking the whole thing seriously.

When I was down to my g-string, he reached down and tried to shove it aside. His fingers found my slit, stroking over it before trying to push up inside me. I feigned shock and stumbled away, attempting to straighten out the g-string. “You can’t do that,” I said as I turned to him, pouting. “It’s against the rules. You’d get kicked out.”

He got up to his feet, gathered up my wrists in a hand, and shoved me up against the wall. His fingers shoved into me once more. “Gonna get in trouble?” He asked.

“No,” I choked through a gasp, “but you are.”

He pulled his fingers out and spun me around, pushing me once more up against the wall. My cheek and breasts brushed the stucco roughly. And, as I felt his hand loop into my hair, keeping my face pressed into the wall, I started to take the game seriously.

Believe me when I tell you – no matter how hard I push – that I fight to lose.

I like the moment where hair becomes a liability. Where it sticks to foreheads and temples, where it slides and clings between fingers. I like the fact that somehow we want to get barer, to shed just another hindrance until it is us at our most basic and needy.

I like the shoving of limbs that comes with that. The folding them up and the stretching them wide. Suddenly, even the most essential things have suddenly become dispensable, excessive. At one point, they were the very things we caressed, lingered on, drew from them painstaking and labored admissions of desire. And, now, like our clothes, we attempt to toss them aside.

It’s interesting to me that for how extensive foreplay and physical upkeep can be, for how much we know prolonging and lingering enhances this, our bodies creep toward a singleminded desire, removing the excess and diving forth into the necessary.

You said it had a lot to do with where our blood was at the time. And where it wasn’t. And how we were thinking based on its distribution.

I can be the queen of terrible foresight. I’m the master of closing doors, of burning bridges, of taking exactly the worst opportunities. For someone who spends a lot of time thinking things over, I can be so thoughtless. I seem, sometimes, to be ruled by an ever-fluctuating logic of rules that continue to change when I never even knew the original doctrine.

And so I suppose a lot of it is just instinct. Everywhere else, I am thoughtful, careful, prepared. But, in this domain, I’m ruled by where the blood is, by the way the hair stands up on my skin, by the sort of electricity in my bones that you sometimes feel just after it has rained and, now, more often I tend to feel around people with stormy forecasts.

It’s strange that I can look at an image like this and actually feel longing. Because I’ve been taken fairly close to there before, and when the person with me knew how to handle it, it was incredibly satisfying. It’s hard to describe without sounding needy or fucked up or dependent or a lot of the other critiques of people who identify as submissive.

But, it’s just in the way he holds her, the way she leans on him, how the chain doesn’t come off. He’ll assure her of how good she was and how proud she made him. She’ll have the opportunity to just let it out. There’s an arrangement there. There’s intimacy.

“We danced too wild, and we sang too long, and we hugged too hard, and we kissed too sweet, and howled just as loud as we wanted to howl, because by now we were all old enough to know that what looks like crazy on an ordinary day looks a lot like love if you catch it in the moonlight.” – Pearl Cleage, What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day.

Humbled, Part 7

When he had finished with me, Switch allowed me a drink of water and untied my hands. He made me keep the outfit on when I brushed my teeth and got ready to go to sleep. When I came back in to his bedroom, he put my blindfold back on and led me back over to his bed. My exposed ass was still sore when he sat me down on it to tie my arms in front and my legs together.

I still had not gotten off and, while it was not the first time I had slept in his bed tied up, it was the first time he had made me go to sleep without letting me cum. “But, I was a good girl,” I insisted when he made me lie down.

“So?” he chuckled and traced his fingers up my thigh to the lace at the hem of my outfit. I shivered under his touch.

“So, I want to cum,” I pouted, “I want you to untie my legs right now and make me cum.”

I heard him turn off the light and felt him climb into bed beside me. Unlike the last time, he didn’t touch me beyond looping an arm around me and pulling me close. “I said maybe in the morning.”

“That’s too long,” I huffed.

I heard the smile in his voice. “Good night, Ivy.”

It’s funny how sometimes little elements of your dynamic bleed over into other things in fairly subtle ways. Take, for instance, the night Switch and I went out with a bunch of our friends to see a band. At one point, he and his friend went off to get another drink and, as he was leaving, he reached up a mussed my hair a bit. It was this barely noticeable thing, fairly benign. But it was this breaching of a very subtle line, this display of vague condescension that he knows I enjoy. It also had this teensy drop of the little girl dynamic that I’m fairly sure he doesn’t even know I’m into.

It came back again a few nights later, when I had a nightmare and apparently gasped and woke up with a start. When I told him what was wrong, he pulled me into him and stroked my hair and whispered, “eyes closed now, go back to sleep”. More of the little girl, more of the placing me down on a level slightly below him in a way I enjoy.

I don’t know. It’s just funny how these things start to manifest themselves. And how being sweet in a certain context can be just as domineering as being rough.

Trapped, Part 5

It felt like an hour had passed by the time I heard the door opening. I strained to look over my shoulder through the darkness as Switch crossed the room. I heard him suck something through a straw, set a cup down on the table, followed by a bag. I groaned and pulled back on the belts once more. There was no give.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured when I realized he wasn’t about to acknowledge me. “I’m very sorry.”

Switch walked back over to the bed, “I bet you are.” He reached down between my legs. I shivered at his touch. “You’re wet, you shameless little whore. Here you are asking me to let you go, you’re enjoying this.”

I blushed and turned my head away from him. He moved his fingers up to my mouth. “Let’s try this again. Lick it off.” My face was flushed as I licked my wetness from his fingers. “You taste that?” he asked as I did, “that’s the taste of a kidnapped slut who’s enjoying herself.”

Switch reached over to the bedside table and looped a blindfold over my eyes. He knotted it tightly and adjusted it, ensuring that I could not see despite the darkness. A few moments later, I felt the fabric of my panties being forced into my mouth. I resisted a bit, but he managed to push them in.

“Now, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a bite to eat before I get back to you,” he grabbed my face, shaking my head slightly, “be a good girl and maybe I’ll let you go soon."