Knotty Thursday: This Little Brat

I’m going to keep most of the reuniting-with-The-Shy-One details to myself, but it was one of the sexiest, sweetest nights of my entire slutty life. Fireworks. Shaking-down-the-house pleasure. Sweet snoozing.

And then! I decided it was time to tie him to the bed.

It wasn’t easy! He didn’t overpower me or get away, he was just adorably elusive, slipping one arm out of my grasp as soon as I had the other one pinned down.

“You didn’t know you were dealing with a brat,” he said, and his Sierra Leone accent plus that word equals swooning forever. I’ve loved being called a brat for as long as I’ve been kinky, but I never got such a thrill from saying it to somebody else!

My Little Brat!

Between all the sneakiness and the fact that I was tying in the dark, it was tricky to get the chain stitch cuffs on—good thing I’ve had so much practice!

During post-sex cuddles, I playfully spanked his cutest-ass-in-the-world and he held me tighter and sigh-giggled.

“Oh you like this.”

I turned him over (plenty of length on the bedpost-ties for him to flip over comfortably!) and sat on the backs of his thighs to immobilize him a little more. He was SUCH a good boy while I gave him sharp smacks on each adorable cheek, then, with an “Is this okay?” over the crack. This ass should have symphonies composed for it. Religions should rise up and build eternal monuments to The Shy One’s cute butt, I swear.

When it got to be almost too much, I turned him back over to cuddle.

“I’m all yours,” he whispered. I wasn’t sure what he’d said so I asked him to repeat it. All mine. Not mathematically correct, I know, but I took it to heart. Soft and sweet and well-behaved and just then, mine.

I let the praise flow as I held and cuddled and petted him:

“You must have all the flowers. And all the stars. Every cathedral. Every gem in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. Except the Hope Diamond, that’s mine.”

It felt so gently satisfying to just let the romance out, as he signed and nuzzled and was quietly content.

“Every cloud formation. Every sunset and sunrise. All of the art supplies ever. Every fireworks display. All the planets.”

I just kept listing every beautiful multitude I could think of. He really does deserve them all.

I’m so, SO grateful to have The Shy One back in my life, even if, when the start-saying-goodbye alarm went off, he sassily held up his arms so the cuffs fell right off. I told him later that I should’ve made him untangle them. He said he’d only have tangled them more.

My Brat. My Shy One. I’ll do anything always for him, be and do whatever he asks. I told him I’d be with him, if he wants me, however he wants me, for the rest of his life. He said that was good to know.

Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part Two

So I did my break-off ritual with The Song Sender: texted a (nice, I hope) goodbye, explained I was only blocking him to mitigate pining. Broke the connection on Instagram, wondered how long it would be til I could go back to my favorite movie theater.

But then I was like, why? I knew that he, like everyone, but moreso, was irreplaceable. I didn’t want to wait another eleven years for fate to intervene. I wondered why I hadn’t even tried talking to him about it, once the fight-or-flight wore off. We’d been so amazing at bad kink way back when, why just skip over TRYING to add better communication to the hotness?

Yes, stop sign street art, I know.

And he said okay. It didn’t take much talking-things-though until I felt secure again, until I asked his permission to reactivate slutty mode. We still need to make a good aftercare plan—there may be a checklist. Maybe next week.

Okay so I've sent the Song Sender TWO poems. He seems fine with it.

This humbling myself, the asking The Song Sender for what I wanted and letting go of my pride and defensiveness enough to give the connection a chance, it felt new. The not-fleeing felt new. We haven’t seen each other in person since things went haywire, but phone things have been lovely. Romantic in their smuttiness. I’m making him a playlist that’s gen-X dreamy as fuck.

So then, the dinner with The Shy One came around last week. I wore a modest not-sure-if-this-is-a-date-or-not dress, apparently a whole genre of clothing I need to have.

The Shy One, meeting me at a restaurant on his side of town, was somehow even more beautiful than before. The humility came easily to me this time, without the bitter edges I’m so used to having. I just wanted to give him whatever he would have of me. I would have sat at his feet if we weren’t in a restaurant and if he were a more PDA kind of guy.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I said. I’ll figure. it. out.”

He reached his hand across the table and said “Whenever you want me to come over, just call me and I’ll come over. Like I can come over this Friday if you want.”

(Eeeee!)

“Okay, but I still super love you.” I said. “That hasn’t gotten any less. You’ll just have to deal with it.”

So that’s what I’m submitting to: kindness, curiosity, love. I want to submit to the most generous parts of myself and hush the rest. It feels tenuous to try keeping my defenses down, but I also feel deeply helped, like I’m tapped into something much bigger and more reliable than myself. Love. The Universe. Fate. Definitely something kaiju-sized and divine.

 

Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part One

 

Later in the story I text this to The Song Sender and then I'm like OMG I SENT HIM A POEM WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! But he got what I was going for, I think.

After that second first date with The Song Sender went SO well, my perspective shifted. Softened. Scattered like light. Opened up. If my life has THIS much possibility in it, if fate (and, okay, my very goal-driven sluttiness) could offer me The Song Sender after these very long eleven years, and if that could make SO MUCH SENSE, even just for that one night, why couldn’t I find a way to be in touch with The Shy One, too?

So I texted The Shy One on that full-of-submissive-clarity afternoon, to ask if he would accept my apology and try for being friends with benefits. I didn’t think he would write back, he had every right to have blocked me, but he hadn’t. He did text back.

He said we could be back in touch, but he was taking the summer off from dating to reflect on how he wanted to handle his poly life. I didn’t think he had done anything wrong, definitely thought he shouldn’t be depriving himself of snuggles, but I was so touched by the pause he was taking. I have this terrible habit of thinking I have no effect on people, that I’ll fall out of their consciousness as soon as I say goodbye, but his planned summer sacrifice humbled and chastened me.

Convinced of how much I’d meant to The Shy One, I vowed to figure out a way to be in his life, however he would have me. So haltingly and politely, with some good ol’ Downton restraint, we started texting some. We talked on the phone and it made me sad, made me long for him and doubt I could make it as a platonic friend. But I put aside time to feel that sadness, and stayed determined.

We sent pictures of flowers and “happy Friday” and I confided in him when a date didn’t work out. The Shy One and I planned a dinner for mid-July, but before we got to there, The Song Sender cracked me open even more. Though he, generous and sweet Sir that he is, would probably say I did it all myself.

For my (second) second date with The Song Sender, I think he meant for us to have a date-date, but I was lazy and it was hot so I decided to just take him home to play. He helped me put some flowery street art up first—I liked seeing him pull the silk flowers off their plastic stalks. Good muse.

There was gorgeous, wonderful, THOROUGH hotness, which I’ll get to in a different post, but there was also a fight. During aftercare time, a couple of misfired jokes stirred a wild sense of abandonment into my reeling and breathless body and mind. I got rage-quiet and kicked him out. Well, I drove him home.

“At least it was a good sequel,” I said. I am kind of a jerk.

There was a big, hazy supermoon in the sky that seemed like it was a little bit mocking me with its naked romance.

“Thank you for letting me drive you home,” I said, “It would be too sad otherwise.” He caressed my arm softly and I felt so much regret about things being over (re-over) already.

“Hug” he said kindly when we pulled up in front of his girlfriend’s apartment. There was a car waiting right behind us so there wasn’t time to aim the awkward car hug. It was more like we just bonked our heads together.

This story makes me miss him, makes me sad even though we figured it out and he’s still very dearly in the picture. I would have to go to that humble place some more, let down my defenses, and maybe, maybe, MAYBE (please please please) just get (at least some of! A LOT of!) what I wanted all along.

Knotty Thursday: Sheer Lashing (Kind of)

I opened up the knots guide to a random page and here we are. I think this will be superpretty on some arms! 

I have lots of stories and updates, but they will have to wait, because The Song Sender says I have to hurry up and text him some fantasies. And! He says I can call him Sir while doing so! :D 

Knotty Thursday: Heart Harness and Princess of the Orgy

After! Blurry again sorry, I have no discipline.

The Song Sender is SO much fun to show off for. The pictures I've taken for him show me a different version of myself, prettier, more brazen, more bold. I have no idea how he does that but I've LOVED IT.

Monday night, I was supposed to have a date with The Chef but he rescheduled, so all of that energy had to go somewhere! I decided to get ahead on the week's ropework, and asked The Song Sender if he was available for praise. He was running the projector for the local weird movie club, but he could manage both.

I love the before picture I sent him so, SO much. His version has my face, 

After I sent him the after picture, I asked what should I do now that I was all tied up.

He typed back, "You should cum for me. And tell me what you were thinking about when you did."

I don't always hang on to text threads, but friends, I might have to keep the transcript on this one. Oh it was BEAUTIFUL. I'll keep most of it for myself, but there was this:

"I tell them you are a good little slut. and that you are mine.

And because you are such a good girl you get to pick two to play with you.

...

While I hold you down and tell you how pretty and good you are."

And THEN:

"I can be meaner with you later. (kiss emoji)

You get to be the princess of the orgy."

There are still some kinks (ha) to iron out, but so far The Song Sender is an absolute treasure. I am the luckiest slut/princess/whore/good girl in the universe.

 

Knotty Thursday: Half-Hitch Corset, Plus Welcoming The Chef!

 

Is Knotty Thursday a holiday? Because I feel like there's soooo much to celebrate! I mean, look at this pretty! It's such a solid, stable corset that even after I had my way with myself, I just laid around for hours playing dragon-themed phone games and listening to pop culture podcasts. (And flirting with The Song Sender, who continues to be a praise-y treasure. I really need him to beat my ass and bite me a bunch before too long please, universe! If the universe is who makes his schedule at the movies!)

Here's how to do the corset--I'll have to learn the Alpine Loop another time. 

But even more excitingly! I had a supercute date the other night, and here's where it went:

The Chef is a supersweet switch, and his cock is the kind I'll be tempted to write epic poetry about. He's such a willing and playful rope pal, I really like what I did with him! Here's hoping for more nights like this!

Second First Date with The Song Sender, Part Three

I’ve already written about the ropes part (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2022/06/knotty-thursday-teachable-moment-with.html?zx=9c690ff8ebd71852) so let’s talk about the being held down. The consensual violence of him, with its new give and take. His hands ventured to my throat where they weren’t supposed to be and I swatted him away and cursed and dug in my nails. The smell of him. The softness of his fuzzy chest whenever he relented a moment and just snuggled me close.

In the years since the first time around with The Song Sender, I’ve been dominated of course, spanked and restrained and so many different (I almost typed every, but no) flavors of rope and shackles and fire and hurt, but none had this special something. His dominance brings a sweet, reverent feeling, the soft release of being wholly and willingly overtaken.

“No one else can dominate like you.” I sighed. “They all say they’re doms but they come over here and they’re just mine.”

“Ah. That’s because you’re a bossy little bitch, aren’t you?” He wrapped me up in a hug as he said it. I wriggled and cackled with joy.

I laughed when the Downton Abbey theme came on my summer playlist, but The Song Sender did not laugh. He put his heavy arm around my shoulder and held me down, pushing open my legs to manhandle my clit. He pressed so hard that it hurt but it was also a perfect dream. I yowled and sighed and he made me/let me come exactly in time with the last notes of the song. Silly and perfect. Just-friends romantic. A new kind of home.

(Talking about Downton in this context makes me feel both slightly disloyal to the Shy One and like I want to tell him all about it. We’re in the bittersweet process of building a platonic friendship, but that’s a whole different post.)

When it was time to drive him home, I remembered a cup of coffee (It was pretty late.) but forgot my whole phone. I’d have to find my way back without GPS, but I was fairly sure I could figure it out.

I petted his hand as I drove, and he made happy animal sighing sounds. We listened to Nirvana’s Nevermind so I wouldn’t get sleepy.

I found my way home easily. When I woke up in the morning, I was sad and a little bruised, but was more sure of everything than I’d been in a while. I felt like a person who knows how to run her life.

Whatever happens with The Song Sender, and who knows, I want to keep a place in my calendar for submission, for basking in the beachy softness of knowing I’m not in charge for a little while. That feeling has been such a stranger to me, and I’m happy to welcome it back.

Second First Date with the Song Sender, Part Two

I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago.

We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise? Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.

I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous, powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.

I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer album.

About halfway home, just before we got to the most winding part of the drive, I said:

“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”

He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck, tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the way centered and calm.

“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,” I said, silly with happiness.

Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table, chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.

It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.