Penthouse lives with eight other guys.
This is totally fine, Penthouse has his own room.
Except, uh, until one of them starts blasting opera music while we’re trying to mess around.
True story: La Traviata and flogging don’t mix.
Word to your mother.
One of the mornings I was there, Penthouse had to go somewhere a few hours before one of my meetings. We had messed around in bed a bit and he took some rope and tied one of my ankles loosely to the bed-frame.
“Now, edge yourself and text Daddy all about it and you can let yourself out,” he said, kissing my forehead before grabbing his backpack.
I pouted as I heard the door click shut and reached down between my legs.
“I’m nervous,” I said to Penthouse as I pulled on my clothes and went to head out to a meeting.
He turned to face me, “how come?”
“Uh, because I’m about to go into an important meeting with the word ‘whore’ carved into my stomach.” I stared down at the shirt that covered it, willing it to stay opaque.
“Oh,” he smirked, “yeah. I guess that’d do it.”
Continued from here.
From the cabinet, Penthouse took out a string of plastic clothespins, spaced out on a thin piece of rope. “Do you know what this is?” He asked, shaking it a bit to try to untangle it. I groaned behind the ballgag, starting to feel drool well up on the sides of my mouth.
At the beginning of keeping me gagged, he had slid a buzzer from a Taboo game into my hand and told me to squeeze it if anything was starting to cross a boundary, as a sort of surrogate for a safeword. He told me to test out the buzzer once more before sitting down between my legs and clipping one of the clothespins to my labia.
I squealed into my gag, whining softly as he tried to untangle the line of clothespins, or zipper, with one attached to me. Once he had the next untangled, he clipped it onto my other labia and I winced. “You ready to tell me?” He asked.
I looked over the clothespins still on the line and smirked, shaking my head. I was enjoying how much it hurt. The rest went up to my chest, pinching the skin of my breasts and then my nipples. I whimpered softly as he gave the line a tentative tug and, when he saw I wasn’t going to push the buzzer, he gave a much harder one, pulling all of the clothespins off of me quickly.
I squealed loudly and he grabbed the nipple clamps, sliding them tightly onto my nipples before duct taping over them. I raised an eyebrow as picked up the riding crop and started cropping my taped nipples. “If you don’t tell me,” he said through my squeals, “I’ll move down to your cunt.” He taped it shut and moved between cropping it and cropping my clamped nipples.
Finally, I gave in, tugging hard on my bonds and telling him in a gagged slur that I would show him where the wallet was. He untied me and, with my nipples still clamped, had me fetch it for him and bring it to him.
“Good girl,” he said when I dropped it into his lap. “Now, was that so hard?”
Continued from here.
Penthouse tied me down to his bed, pushing my shirt up and tugging my pants off. He slapped my face and I groaned into the gag, feeling the spit start to build up behind the ball. My arms tugged hard at my bonds and I glared up at him as he slapped my breasts through my bra.
“Are you going to tell me where my wallet is?” He asked. He had passed the threshold of annoyance into sternness.
I shook my head and he reached down, slapping me once more.
“Ivy,” he squeezed my nipples. “Where is it?” I shook my head and he reached to the side of the bed, grabbing his knife and flicking it open. Almost instantly, I grew still as he started to run it over my skin. “Are you ready to tell me?” Despite the goosebumps that rose on the back of my neck, I shook my head once more.
He brought the knife down to my stomach and, pushing just hard enough to just leave a mark, wrote the word “whore” on my stomach in thin, capital letters. I’ve never been written on with a knife before and having to hold still through the entire thing was insanity.
“Now, let’s hear where that wallet is,” he said. I just smirked around the ballgag and he shook his head before getting up and walking over to one of his cabinets. “All right, let’s see what I can do to persuade you.”
(Blah blah my queue spat this out too early blah blah I guess I can start this story.)
Penthouse and I share an interrogation fantasy. I had articulated it to him for a while and had shared that the only time I had tried it, the guy was really half-hearted and was basically like, “one question now blowjob.” Which, I’m sorry, I love sucking dick but that killed it.
We were hanging around and I was messing with Penthouse’s wallet. “What are you doing?” He asked.
I smirked, “oh, I was thinking of hiding it when you weren’t looking so you’d have to ask me where it was.”
“Oh,” he replied, “I suddenly have something to do…elsewhere.” We both laughed and he got up and went to the other room.
Practically giddy with the fact that this was going to happen, I hid the wallet and waited for him to come back. When Penthouse returned, he feigned surprise at his wallet being gone.
“Sweetheart,” he asked in that Daddy-type voice that makes me blush. “Have you seen my wallet?" I just smirked and shrugged. He grabbed my arm, "did you hide it?” I shrugged again and he pushed me up against the wall. “Where is it?” I shook my head.
Suddenly, I felt him pull the ballgag between my teeth and buckle it at the back of my head. “Fine, when you’re really to tell me, I’ll take this off.” He shoved me towards the bed.
I made him worship my feet.
I hadn’t had a lot of experience with it besides a little bit of blushy messing around with Switch, but something just sort of persuaded me to do it and so I went on a hunch and did.
There was something really, really appealing about the look on Penthouse’s face while he did it. There was this sincere desire to please that literally got me soaked.
Too bad my feet are far too ticklish.
But, looking at a picture like this makes me want to imagine a guy kneeling below those shoes. So, I’ve been corrupted.
My toppy side came out and paid a visit while I was staying with Penthouse.
He had expressed an interest in trying it out and it was interesting to explore that sort of dynamic again.
I’d have to say my favorite part was when I was reading a certain something while straddling him and essentially ignoring him while he begged.
I’m not sure how I got quite so mean, but I’m pretty pleased with that fact.
Continued from here.
I cannot begin to stress the importance of aftercare.
After being hogtied on Penthouse’s bed, tied up in a lot of rope and having that crotchrope pushing the knot against my clit, I’d gotten pretty subspaced. I was speaking a lot of nonsense, I had trouble keeping my eyes open and I could barely sit up straight.
Penthouse untied me gently, held me close, was patient when I struggled to coherently express myself. He brushed out my hair and tucked me in. He checked in to make sure I was all right.
For as hot as the whole thing was, the aftercare really sealed the deal for me on the experience. Anybody can set up a situation like that, but to be able to care for a very subspaced girl is real dedication.
“No escape”
Photo by Jerome G.
Continued from here.
The Southern Gentleman has a theory about the types of men I’m into. Basically, they fall into one of two categories: a) charismatic Aryans and b) what he calls “effete feminists” but is honestly just cause-oriented hipster-types.
I told him I was going to see Penthouse and before I left he proceeded to ask me, “so, which type is he?”
“You’re a jerk,” I replied.
“Feminist it is, then.”
Thus, when Penthouse texted SG from my phone, he decided to include the fact that he straddled the two categories.
And then proceeded to solicit advice.
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
Penthouse smirked, “he’s saying to feign indifference.” He yanked on the rope, pulling my crotchrope tighter, and I gasped. “But I think I like this better.”