Also, Pup gave me a task to do this week and it’s the first non-bedroom D/s-type thing we’ve ever ventured into doing and it’s a little humiliating and I don’t know if I can actually bring myself to do it and that’s the best part.
Ugh, and of course Sir is totally on board with the idea. Whine.
Honestly, some of the most fulfilling stuff I’ve done with partners has been giving dominants aftercare. I really dislike how the whole idea of aftercare is so centered on submissives, and totally doesn’t take into account the dominant’s experience and feelings. While it’s not always the simplest thing to do, it’s important and rewarding to sit with that partner and be like, “hey, look, I’m fine and you’re a good person and we both had fun.”
That Time Pup Was Celibate For A Little Bit, Part Ten
Before the whole break from messing around thing, Pup used to grab my face like this all the time. (He still does now, sometimes when I’m being a brat, sometimes when he’s fucking me.) When I went to show him out that evening, he did it again as I was mid-way through some bratty little comment.
Before he left and after he’d torn my tights up, Pup had gotten up to his feet and stood over me. I was teasing him, making some comment about how I didn’t want to sully his “sacred vow,” when he lightly applied pressure from the heel of his foot into my diaphragm.
(Hey readers: Don’t try this at home. You’ve got a bunch of fragile-ass bodily infrastructure going on in there. When I say lightly, I mean really freaking lightly. Pup was massively careful with this and I don’t want any of you hurting yourselves on my account, okay?)
I coughed. No matter how hard I tried to breathe in, I couldn’t. I could take little shallow puffs of breath if I really tried to, but otherwise I was effectively cut off. I’d never experienced breath play like that before, and I gasped for breath when he drew his foot away.
“Are you sorry?” He asked.
I couldn’t help myself. I felt my mouth spread into a smirk. Pup’s foot lowered back down and I gasped for breath.
“You’re a little bitch, you know,” he said and lifted his foot for a moment. I had barely enough time to catch my breath before he moved it back down. “You’re selfish. You deliberately provoke me. You’re a disgusting slut and I am going to ruin you.”
It stopped about there. My eyes were starting to get glassy with subspace. He read the signs and helped me sit up, talking me out of it.
And still, when he went to leave, I made a bratty comment. That’s how I knew we were back to normal.
“He’s so damned nice and he’s so awful. He’s my sort of thing.” – Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises.
Because I’ve got an app now that lets me watermark photos so I don’t even need to put them on my computer.
And because I promise I’m not letting my crazy ruin an amazing evening.
And because this might be my favorite (dirty) photo of us.
That Time Pup Was Celibate For a Little Bit, Part Three
I should preface this part with the fact that a running thing Pup and I had before the whole celibacy thing was that he would jokingly threaten to show up at my office during my office hours and make me suck his cock. The idea of that kind of degradation made me endlessly blushy, and I would pout and insist that he would never, ever do that kind of thing. Obviously, he wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop him from using the idea to make me wet.
Once, he’d been over my house and, while we were sitting on my couch, brought that threat up because I was being a brat. His hand slid up my dress and he touched me while I begged him not to do it and apologized for being such a bad girl. He smirked and stopped before I could get off from it. When he left, I found myself embarrassingly wet.
Anyway, that evening I had agreed to meet up with Pup and do some work at a cafe. The place was crowded, but we found a row of counters facing a wall and sat down beside each other. Pup seemed to be doing all right, all things considered, and we more or less went about our work for the first hour or so.
Then, at some point, I’d made some bratty comment to Pup because the first rule of everything is that I’m 200% brat.
“I swear to God,” Pup said. “One day I’m going to come to your office and do whatever I want with you.”
I laughed. “You can’t. You’re celibate now. I wouldn’t want to tarnish your purity.”
He reached under the counter and put his hand on my leg, easing my skirt up a bit. “When I’m not anymore. I’m going to make you regret it.” He teased his hand over my thigh, “and you’re going to be very sorry.” His hand stayed there, no matter how much I pouted.
And that, my friends, was how I awkwardly left a little bit of a wet spot on a cafe chair. (Which I like totally wiped up and it’s a metal chair so it was fine okay.)
This is like the ultimate challenge for me. I’m an absolutely horrible multi-tasker. So when it comes to this, I just utterly fail at it because I can’t focus at all.
I get to see him in a few hours. I can’t wait. I can barely wait.
I get this so soon.
But, as always, it’s not soon enough.
“I become such a monster when I miss you,” – Clementine von Radics, From the Ocean to the Moon.