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!

Knotty Thursday: Good Girl, So Pretty

 

It's taking me FOREVER to write about my second first date with The Song Sender, but spoiler alert, he is now a very nice dom who knows how to praise! Superswoon! 

And he's lovely text company, sexting and otherwise. Last night, rope practice was extra fun because I was showing off for him. I chose this mermaid tie because I'm practicing to bind his arms with it, but he insists that's not going to happen.

Gold star to him for making my hot rope time hotter, what a good sweet boy. And gold star to me, he's right about the pretty! 

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh: Part Two

I still consider it such a miracle that that Walkout Monday ended like this: Me leading Gilmore Guy upstairs to fresh sheets and fluffy pillows. My cat, the shyest little cat in the universe, letting him pet her and hold her before running away to her spot behind the dryer. Me trying to undress Gilmore Guy and finding out what shirtstays are—I told you, he’s a little dandyish.

It felt so comforting to welcome him into my bed, all kissing and warm and ready. His skin was so gorgeously soft and he had an earthy, minty smell like natural soap. Sooooothing.

And finally, I had the chance to do what I’d been fantasizing about the most.

“Get on your knees next to the bed,” I said, and he complied.

“How do you feel about calling someone Ma’am?” I asked. (A flash of fear went across his face in the middle of that sentence…)

“I feel…good.”

“You feel good…what?”

“Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

            I spread my legs in front of his face and pressed him to me, pushing his shoulders down with my hands and then with my legs. I lay back in ecstasy and power, dissolving into joy. He did a very good job and I told him so as I pulled him up onto the bed and held him prone.

“It’s just…will I always be calling you ma’am?  I don’t think I would like that.”

“No. I don’t like anything all the time. That’s why I’m a pansexual switch.”

“Oh, okay, good.”

“Oh, okaaaaaaayyy…”

“Ma’am. Okay ma’am.”

(Writing this part down really makes me miss him and wish it had worked out. I really like the way it felt when he called me ma’am.)

Since he’s so new at kink and I’m sooooo far removed from any rope practice, I tied him up very gently (and pretty unconvincingly) with the pink fuzzy belt of my robe. I only tied him by one wrist, but it was such a thrill to be over him, his body warm and vital and delicious beneath me, playing this game and feeling my own strength against his. Though the title of this series might connote revenge on men, it could not be more opposite. This was a loving power, a kind exchange of equals. This night, I’ll say again, was such a gift and a miracle in the middle of so much bodily and national turmoil.

“What will I say if I need you to stop?” he asked.

“Just say stop.” I answered, in what felt like a new kind of commanding voice. I felt such power and peace, such connection. I felt grounded in my body and in my soul, in pleasure. He was so sweet and kind and such a gift, and in that moment, he was mine.

Oops, I Accidentally Got a Crush on a Men’s Rights Activist, Part One

I remember when this blog used to be mostly cuteness and sexy adventures. I hope it’ll be those things again someday, but it’s 2018. Dietland is a show, I write to congress so much it’s starting to feel like a diary, and I have new stupid story about clashing with an ignorant white dude about once a week. So here we are.

About two months ago, I started working at a nearby university bookstore in the mornings. I mostly loved it—my commute was only three songs long (meaning, for several belty weeks in a row, the first three songs of George Michael’s Faith…) and the work was emotionally neutral. Best of all, hooray, the assistant manager was a cutie-pie pansexual guy with a great talent for iterating entire (original, not remake) Will & Grace episodes and an ability to endlessly process the new season of Kimmy Schmidt with me.

Unfortunately, the whole staff seemed to have a gentle South Park vibe, a we-pick-on-everybody kind of casual prejudice, but I was new and I thought I could change the culture with friendship, kindness, patience and love. Did I mention the three-song commute?! I had Faith indeed and I thought I could avoid blowing up about prejudice just this once, that the culture of the place would change if I just patiently explained what was wrong, little by little. It was a self-serving mistake, and it bit me in the ass. At this point, spoiler alert, I’ve realized I can call HR just as often as I call congress, though I don’t think they’ve invented any cute Resistbot-style apps for it.

So I bonded with Cute Pan Assistant Manager and indulged my sincere love of stacking textbooks—there really isn’t a better workout in the world. Despite the giggly blush of new friendship and reminding myself this could never be like the Mister Makeout Music situation, there were hints that our pop culture bond didn’t transcend CPAM’s general lack of awareness. A few days into the new position and already DEEPLY in friend-crush territory, I was sad to overhear him chitchatting with other members of the team about “the obesity problem”

I haven’t weighed myself in a while, but last time I checked, I was hovering around 300 pounds. At 5’10,” that places me squarely in the “extremely obese” category on most charts, and that’s what it says on my medical records, but this has never rung true to me. I’m healthy, active, and the problems that arise from being fat come more from the outside than from the inside.

I’ve spent a good chunk of this year looking at #fatshion for ideas about how to femme it up, listening to the She’s All Fat podcast, (https://shesallfatpod.com/) answering all of the questions in The Body Is Not an Apology (https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/) and reading/watching/obsessing about Dietland. (https://www.amc.com/shows/dietland/full-episodes/season-01/episode-01/episodes-1-2)  I’ve gotten in the habit of Instagramming myself in cute outfits and tagging @whatfatgirlsactuallywear. So I have no patience for the way that talking about the “obesity epidemic” lends a sheen of science to prejudice and serves to legitimize diet culture, that creepy little cousin of rape culture. I’ve had quite enough of any and all efforts to make women smaller, literally and figuratively.

I was little-kid hurt that my seeming new friend would other me that way, especially at work, so I gently pulled him aside about it. “I just want to be treated like an equal,” I said, and though he denied having said anything, it felt like he heard me. I ended the conversation with “It’s not you, it’s the patriarchy,” and we happily went back to debating whether or not Erasure is a good band. (OBVIOUSLY THEY ARE)

We were happy and giggly together. Though it seems really weird now, it felt like we were a ridiculous new kind of soul mates. He was a close talker and sometimes a chat really felt like a cuddle. At least I know I still turn into a complete fool-o-rama when someone is cute, it gives me hope for better days.

I taught him what the word “unicorn” means in poly slang, and he kept me up to date on all of the cutie-pies breezing in and out of his life. Work days felt charged with compersion for his exploits and it reconnected me with a need for warmth I hadn’t felt in a while. It felt sweet and dangerous and I don’t know why this always happens to me at work—there’s really no excuse.

It SOMEHOW came out (because he brought it up) that we were both switches and I happily acknowledged inwardly that I would know exactly how to order him around in a non-coworker version of the world.

Next Time: Micro(and MACRO)aggressions are not cute.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Two

The more we walked through the fountains and gardens and woods lit in hypnotizing and artful ways, the more playful we became. He dared me to push him up against a tree and I giggled at first and then shoved him with all my strength. He exhaled sharply, pulled my arms up so they were around his shoulders, and gave me a kiss that made me feel as if I was flying and falling at once.

We made out on many benches in that garden, but the last and best was on an unlit path behind the trees where a lightshow of birds taking flight was being projected. (I have to be awesome at life to have lived that sentence.)

He kept trying to feel me up, even though I pushed his hands away over and over—we may have been in a secluded spot, but it was still a family park. I may have been ridiculously, dizzily turned on, but I still wanted respect. I told him about wanting to be valued for my whole self, and he said, don’t you notice me enjoying every inch of you? Charming and clueless at once.

We wrestled a little, and he caught my wrists behind my back with one hand, bent me forward by the hair with the other hand, and had his rough way with my nipples though my pretty satin floral dress. I let out a groan and a “Huh!”—it was spot-on and not-okay at once. After just a moment, a deep “Stop.” came up from my belly and he let me gather myself. “Good boy,” I said, and patted him on the head.

As we walked out of the woods, chemistry-drunk and holding hands, the lights, the music, the flowers, it all became too much. I couldn’t take any more sensations. I was hungry and in need of coffee, so we got directions to a nearby diner and I agreed to follow him.

I put on The National’s High Violet and was prepared for more dreaminess, but also was headachey and having trouble concentrating. We got lost on the way to the diner and I ended up following him down dark country roads. The sky was full of stars and it was the week of the Perseid Meteor Shower, and I hoped to see one, but didn’t. We did see some leaping deer. We were lost for a long while, a good forty-five minutes. My headache got worse and I had the sensation that I was following someone who did not know where he was going. I found out later it was a while before he even checked his GPS—why didn’t I check mine?

When we made it to the main road, the only thing we could find open was a Hooters. I had the thought that if we ever became a thing, this would be a funny part of the story of how we got together. I am utterly amazed by my brain’s ability to hope, to let romance bloom, and I hope that doesn’t change.

I ordered cake as an appetizer and he had Key Lime pie. We fed each other and I drank weak coffee and we both felt sad that the waitress felt compelled to address us in a baby voice.

He asked me out for a fortnight from then (He has the kids every other weekend and had apparently not yet discovered the existence of babysitters…) and I agreed that that should be when I come to his house and jump in his pool. And then, alas, we got onto the subject of our exes. His divorce was fresher than mine and he talked about her in such a demeaning way. He told me she was depressed and I immediately suspected that he had made her that way. He even called her “dense.” I said, “I don’t like this. You can’t talk about her this way.” I kind of accused him of gaslighting her, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong.

We left the restaurant and sat in my car to talk. “I really like you, but you’re scaring me.” I said, and he kept talking, about money and housework and the ins and outs of insurance. I’m not a small talk person so I do tend to learn all kinds of things about people, but I laid down the law and said this was by no means second-date talk. I said that I could just see her, trying so hard to please him and never getting it right, I said I could see the same thing happening to me and I never wanted to be in that position again. We kissed gently and hugged for a long time. I was horrified and put off but I also didn’t want to let go. He was very hard to let go of.

He got in his car and we headed toward our respective homes. There was no reason for me to follow him anymore. I turned Mumford and Sons’ “I Will Wait” the way up, sped up in as tough a way as a Yaris can manage, and passed him. I was pretty sure that was it.

Next time: And yet.

Being a Switch is Awesome Part One: Being an Excellent Spanky Winggirl

I had a very hard week last week—my job is seeming impossible at times and my body spent the whole work week fighting the urge to run away, leading to depressed exhaustion. I’m going to try and advocate for some changes, but over the weekend the only way to make it better was to spend time feeling competent, safe, and happy. So off to the dungeon I went.

I’m not usually one for costumes, but while I was out running some sex-toy errands I saw the above angel wings and satin cuffs and got inspired. I didn’t have any good-girl white underpants though, so I just went with my lucky ones. Actually, I think all of the underpants are my lucky ones lately.

It was Winggirl One’s birthday and she’d asked me if I knew any Doms I could introduce her to. I didn’t, but it occurred to me that if I invited my Asker-Outer guy from last week, I could test out his spanking skills and then pass him on to her if he did well. He had other plans but liked the idea of me coaching him into the local kink scene. Of course I’m almost as new at it, but I know what I like and I think I can show him—I got a warm feeling in my belly from that plan and assured Winggirl One that she would at least get spanks from me.

Anyway, so when I got there, I was happy/sad to see Cute Master and Pretty Slave at the bar. Even though I know it was the right thing to break things off with them, I felt terrible about not having that connection. She buried her face in my glitter-covered cleavage and I just wished I could whisk them away. She’s so pretty, you guys, I can hardly stand it.

Apparently, she felt the same, since she said: “You’re too pretty, go home.”

“You’re too pretty too! Let’s all go home.”

And we all wished we could but agreed that I oughtn’t fall for them. Supersigh.

The Fireman’s Girl (you may remember her draped pinup-style across the Huge Handed Fireman at that Labor Day party I loved so much…) was there too, and was, somewhat appropriately, waiting in line for fireplay. She convinced me to join the line, too. I’d run across a street fair with fire-juggling earlier in the day (as one does) and had been hankering to be set lovingly on fire. There were four fireguys working that night, none of them the Fireguy from this story. I love that the Fireman’s Girl was egging me on so encouragingly, what a good influence!

Winggirl One came over to watch and wait with me. A cute guy was watching next to her so she said hello, and I saw my chance to instigate some fun. “It’s her birthday!” I said helpfully, and from there they took it right to spanking. It was agreed that I would warm her ass up and then he would take it from there. Huzzah! Winggirl mischief managed. I asked one of the fireguys if I could be next and when his response was (ha) lukewarm, I decided I was bored of waiting.

Winggirl One’s new friend and I led her over to a kneeling bench and had her strip down to her (my) Hello Kitty nipple tape and sheer teal panties. I promised to remember this time that she doesn’t like wedgies the way I do. The DJ was having such a good ear for spanking rhythms, and after I asked her to give me a hand signal if it got too stingy, I got right into the rhythm of it.

Everyone should have the experience of spanking somebody while wearing lingerie, pretty shoes, angel wings, and a halo. I’ve never felt hotter. The more I got into the beat, the bigger my grin got. Joy was just shining up through me like a beam of sparkling light. It was a charge not just of power, but of I-can-do-this. I loved that my friend was smiling big and everyone who was watching was smiling too. I figured she was warmed up and handed her over to the guy, high-fiving him with my not-sore-yet left hand.

But I wasn’t done. The Puncher’s Girl had told me she’d take all the aggression I had, so I aimed to sneak up behind her, grab her by the hair, and pull her over to another free kneeling bench. She caught me, though, and I led her over in a more civil manner. She told me to hit her as hard ad I could and wiggled her ass with joy.

She looked beautiful, everybody. She was in a blue lace leotard and had matching bright blue eyeshadow. Her long, dark, wavy hair was streaming over the bench like a princess. When I wasn’t yanking on it, I was smoothing and arranging it to look even more princessy.

“You look so pretty and you’re being so good. You’re such a very nice young lady.”

She smiled and cooed and wiggled some more and I pressed her against my front to hold her still. I hit her harder and harder until my hand started to hurt and she offered to go get me a paddle.

“Are you sure? I’ve never used one before. Will you tell me if I mess up?”

She assured me that she would and went to their toy bag to get a smallish paddle.

“It’s just like a hand, but wood,” she said.

I tested it a little and found a good spot.

“Right there,” she said “If you have any rage you want to get out, that’s the place to do it.”

It’s hard to be mean to someone so sweet but I went ahead and let it out, let myself lose control a little bit, even if I couldn’t help checking every so often if she was okay. I love hitting her. She feels so lovely underneath me, my right hand pressing down on her back between her perfect shoulder blades, my left hand wielding the paddle. Sweat dripped down. I felt like a goddess. I pulled her up, hugged her and thanked her. She said that if I wanted to, I could use her ass to learn all the tools.

Next: Fire tickles!