Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Re-Upping the Stakes

Since you won't let me leave comments (even as an administrator I'm apparently powerless) I'll just post here. Anyway, two lovely posts down, and two more to go. How is the probation part of the punishment going? I'd say you should really give our readers an update, but let's face it, we don't really have any readers any more.

With that thought in mind, I'm upping your punishment slightly. Not that I need reasons, but here are several: 1) there's not much point in forcing your exhibitionism to an empty room, and this will help remedy that; 2) your last post was unreasonably short (If you hadn't asked me how long you had to write, I wouldn't care. But you did, I said 400 words, and you give me barely half that!?); and 3) you really haven't quite been following directions.

As I'd said:

And, to up the stakes a little bit... you must post here at least four different times, telling me something that you want us to do when we get home.
So far, none of your stories even involve getting to the driveway, let alone making it home. What's next, sex in the baggage claim? I've no doubt you're antsy, but as I've already assured you, you're not going to get to cum until at least Thursday night, even though I do plan to drive you into mild dehydration from how long I'll be keeping you dripping wet. So while you're welcome to pull off in a rest area, you're just going to end up torturing yourself--which is really my job.

So anyway, I be mean and just not count the stories so far, and make you churn out two new ones. But I think I've got some different tasks in mind. So to update your new chore list, you must do the following tasks, in any order, before I land:

  1. Finish writing and posting the other two essays of things you want to do when we get home. And I know you want to fuck, so be creative. And since you short changed the last one, make sure the next two are at least 500 words.
  2. Post on craigslist Columbus Casual Encounters. I haven't posted there in a while, and it would at least make some honesty of the blog. Doesn't really matter what you post. You can either explain that the posting there is part of a punishment of exhibitionism, or you can just share your (2nd person) fantasy there with a link back here. Of course, as a follow up, I expect you to post here the most interesting replies (funny, insulting, horribly written, etc.) Since people can email you directly, I'll let you keep the comments off. Oh, and of course link here to the post.
  3. Post on a few other quality sex or D/s blogs. Or just leave comments and links back (I know you know enough html). And of course leave links back here.
  4. Post something about not cumming. For as much as you'd complained about the last two tasks, I'd figure you'd be whining your head off about this one. So either you've suddenly decided to play the stoic, or you've just been masturbating as much as you damned well please (bad choice, by the way). In any event, you should write at least something about it. It's not much fun punishing you if I don't get to hear you whimper.

And as a reminder, in case I haven't been explicit the penalty for any failure begins with a severe paddling with the spoon. And in case I've not now made it abundantly clear, I'm a stickler for details.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Punishment 2

Normally I don't mind when you drive. "Mind" is a bit of an understatement. The main reason I'm looking forward for you to come back is so I can stop pulling on the shoulder to hyperventilate on the way home.

On a few, rather, on most of the long drives we've gone on, the conversation invariably turns to sex because I have a one-track mind like that. Knowing that we can steam up the windows in the car, without even touching each other, simply by talking about the depraved things we want to do to each other, is fairly satisfying. When we arrive to wherever we're going, I'm already turned on just by talking.

That said. When we drive home on Friday, I'm kind of looking forward to being the person driving. I'm not going to be as stoic as you can be when you have control of the car. Don't be particularly surprised if, after a conversation about how fantastic you are at licking my pussy or how much I missed playing with my clamps or the amount of fun we're going to have playing with the wheel, I pull into a secluded rest area, climb over you, and fuck you for all you're worth before starting on our journey again.

If nothing at all, it'll at least keep me from getting cranky because I'm driving.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Punishment 1

Right. Like I can think about anything but my clitoris right now anyway.

I don't know if I've ever told you, but in high school, I was pretty impressed with myself and considered myself way superior to all the other teenagers who were so cliche as to make out in cars so I didn't do it that often. (Remind me to tell you about this one time, though....) The result is a grown woman who is relatively obsessed with the idea of fucking in my car, preferably in a semi-secluded, semi-public area.

So. Although I won't actually do this because I have a neurotic fear of getting arrested, I like the idea of greeting you at the baggage claim, getting your bags, and walking back to my car. You unlock the door and toss your bags in. Turning back to me, you pull me closer to you and start kissing me roughly. You grip my wrist and twist the opposite way so that my chest is pressed against my car while your other hand reaches under my skirt and cups my pussy to cause my ass to grind into your hardening cock. "I can't wait until I have you naked and begging for my touch," you whisper in my ear, making me gasp with need. With a quick glance around to ensure that no one is watching, or, perhaps, to welcome the gaze of a passer-by wandering through, I move out from under you and get in the car. You get in on the passenger side and pluck the keys from my hand so I can't start the engine. I stare at you indignantly until I hear the sound of your zipper being released and my cunt responds as though she was trained by Pavlov himself. I look over at you and my eyes widen in shock at how hard you are. I giggle, "Give me my keys, you can wait till we get home." "You overestimate my ability to wait," you respond. You hold me by the back of my neck and bring me closer to you for a kiss. I reach out and start fondling you until you moan in my mouth. Your hand on my neck grasps tighter and tighter and starts moving up towards the base of my skull, squeezing it and pulling on my hair by its roots. Eventually and without a word, you press down on my skull towards your cock until it rests upon my closed lips. "Come on, honey, I need it so badly," you beg. I do nothing as your grip on my hair pulls tighter. "Please Mabel, open your mouth, just a little bit." I still do nothing; rare is the moment when I hear you plead with me. "Do you think you're in control here, you little slut?" you ask with fury in your voice before pushing even harder on my head and forcing your cock past my lips, past my teeth, and into my mouth. I start sucking as you pull my head back up and almost before I can gasp a breath of air, you push me back down again and hold me down with my tongue rubbing against your shaft. I start struggling for air and fighting with you to let me up but you let me exert myself for a few moments while you mutter to me, "Do you feel bad for earlier? Do you think you should have opened your mouth when I first told you to? Do you think you have a right to withhold the use of your mouth when I want it? Do you apologize for refusing me? Don't you think I'm entitled to make up for lost time with your mouth? Keep sucking like the slut you are." Breathing heavily through my nose I put a renewed vigor into the activities at hand until you suddenly pull me up, straight up, and through the window I make eye contact with a set of shocked parents walking their kids who are screaming about Disney World through the parking garage. We laugh and you had me my keys so I can drive home.

Friday, August 10, 2007


So you haven't either done the last two things I asked. I know, they were kinda hard and kinda mean, so I'm mildly sympathetic. And you did kinda almost try to do one of them--which I guess should count for something.

But you're right, there's no way you're off the hook. So I'm going to give you one last chore--okay, more like punishment. It's simple enough, but plenty difficult. It's direct and it's mandatory. It is simply this: You may not cum until you next see me. And, to up the stakes a little bit (wouldn't want you just to just occupy your time and not think about sex) you must post here at least four different times, telling me something that you want us to do when we get home.

You've wanted me to do more with orgasm control, well there you are. It's only five days, so it's nothing too cruel. And even though I know you're already looking forward to seeing me again, this will help to make it all the sweeter. I know I run the risk of you buying so many sex toys in those few days that we won't be able to shut the door (you really shouldn't shop when you're hungry), but it's a risk I'm willing to take.

Of course, if this seems totally unattainable, you can do both of the last two chores in lieu.

And remember, this is already a punishment, so you really don't want to find out what happens if you back out the third time, but it will make melting ice cubes with your tummy feel like a backrub. See you soon!

Thursday, August 02, 2007

I'm a naughty girl

I couldn't do it. I tried.

I laid the towel on my bed with the ice cube try next to me and started counting my blessings that it's been insanely humid and the the moment I took the ice out of the freezer, they started melting. I turned on my sex playlist, started imagining my favorite fantasy, and touching myself. After getting sufficiently turned on, I tentatively plucked out an ice cube and touched it to my nipple.

It wasn't the ice itself that was the problem but the ice cold thin droplet that ran down the curve of my breast, down the side of my body, and puddled in a pool of frostbite next to my armpit. I almost cried. So I held the ice in the palm of my hand to melt it faster and make it smaller and tried it again. Still no.

So I figured I'd rush through and see if I could handle a spot better than another. I couldn't. I got to my belly button and realized I'd never been more miserable in my life. The sanctity of Rule 1 had been trampled on to the point where it was a bare memory of what it once was.

I've now dismissed two demands of yours and offered you nothing in return. I do have a couple of ideas in mind that I'll try to write over the weekend but I'm simply too tired to write anything interesting.

I anticipate that you're going to punish me severely when you get back, as well you should. With that in mind, which would you prefer to punish me with? Do you see something else you want me to get?

Oh the possibilities
Pretty please?
Better than rope

Monday, July 23, 2007

Fear Factor

So Mabel's back home, and has informed be that for the time being she's just going to balk on the last one (granted, she left the rope here, so she's got an excuse, just not a great one). So since that one was too much for her, rather than back off, I think I'll go the opposite direction combined with bringing out another fantasy she probably doesn't know I have. Not that it'll surprise her much, because I like tormenting her in all sorts of ways.

So for some reason the other evening I was watching Fear Factor. This is not to say that I want to get Mabel to eat maggots or jump across moving train cars. The scope of my thought that relates to this post is much more narrow—people, even those not inclined to do so, can overcome their natural shortcoming tendencies to seek pleasure and avoid pain. And really, Joe Rogan must have some D/s fetish to enjoy his job as much as he does. Even without trying, the things he shouts out are full of sexual double entendres: “Choke it down,” “Don’t slow up you’re almost there,” “Don’t let your partner down.” Maybe he doesn’t get off on it, but if we read in the tabloids that Joe Rogan was force-feeding earthworms to a prostitute, I called it first (okay, probably not first, but relatively early).

But back to the topic at hand, I have the next chore for Mabel. Knowing her, more than anyone, being what I’ve planned definitely falls under her list of fears. Having done admirably at pushing her limits at things she enjoys, I figure I’ll push the limits at things she hates. So she might need to use a towel for this one, it could get a touch wet.

Buy an ice cube tray. Freeze some ice overnight. Break the cubes free and dump it in a small tub or something.

In your room, undress completely and lie on your back on a towel. Turn yourself on, and start masturbating with your hand. This chore is not just one of overcoming your reflexes, but also timing and orgasm control.

While continuing to touch yourself with one hand, grab an ice cube (#1) with the other hand, and reach across your chest to massage the opposite nipple. Leave it in contact with your nipple until it completely melts. When it does, switch hands and nipples with cube #2, let it melt entirely.

After your second icecube, massage the third in between your breasts. After that one #4 gets balanced in your belly button. You may touch it with your hands only if it falls out of place. All the while you should still be masturbating.

After #4 is gone, flip over onto your stomach. Laying on one hand, continue to masturbate. Use the other at the same time to massage the fifth ice cube into the meat of your left buttcheek, followed by the sixth into your right.

The seventh you can use to massage your back, however you choose.

Clench the eighth between your ass cheeks, letting it slowly drip down your ass as you rub yourself. Again you can only use your hand to put it back into place if it slips. And of course you can adjust your position however you need to keep it in place.

After that one, you can give yourself another backrub with number 9.

Flip back onto your back ,and rub number 10 against your clit and pussy until it melts.

For icecubes 11 and 12 massage your nipples, but make those last icecubes last, because as for orgasming, you may not cum until you’ve gotten to cube #10. If you don’t cum by #12, you must repeat the whole process the following evening (don’t forget to refill the ice tray). Practice makes perfect. Even if you cum you may not quit until you’ve finished all dozen. As usual, no vibrator

There are some rules, although they’s pretty obvious: 1) you may not remove ice cubes from your skin in the location that they’re supposed to be put in, 2) you can’t drop cubes, 3) you cannot go more than a few quick seconds transitioning between one icecube melting and the next. Keep count of each rule you break, and I’ll come up with a suitable punishment—or maybe just have you repeat the whole thing until until you do it well. Perhaps you think this is a touch on the impossible side, and I encourage you to tell me so and why. But I just watched a girl choke down 12 ounces of roach and fly milkshake, so I’d be hard pressed to accept that it’s more than you can bear.

Thursday, July 05, 2007


This is what I'll be thinking about on the plane:

  • You forcing your cock in my mouth and down my throat, grabbing my hair to hold my head steady while you fuck my face.
  • You licking my clit and not putting a finger inside me until I've adequately begged you for it, but forbidding me to come until, again, I've convinced you that I need it.
  • Being tied to your bed, spreadeagled, blindfolded, gagged ... dare I hope for earplugs? Complete sensory deprivation. Then, you slowly, slowly, so slowly tease me with your cock, Never putting it all the way in or pulling it all the way out.
  • Deep throating you. It's a goal.
  • Laying over your lap while you spank me with the threat of additional spanks if I protest too much.
........... and I'm boarding.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

What I Like About You + Storytelling

Bummer about the period, but it’s probably best to get it out of the way before you’re stuck on an airplane and understandably cranky. I’m mildly afraid that you’re going to think so hard about not getting a yeast infection that you’re going to give yourself one though. Vaginas are weird.

Of course, I love most everything we do together in bed. I hope that by now you believe me when I say it. There is indeed something incredibly hot about pulling the rope through your piercings. I think it’s the face that you make—as if it’s almost unbearable, but completely ecstatic at once. I still don’t know if you enjoy it or hate it, and what’s more, I’m not sure if you know. But watching you suck air through clenched teeth, as you timidly pull the rope through your legs turns me on so much.

Of course, I also like spanking you. Again, it’s your face as you get simultaneously build pain and arousal that makes it extra special. The few times we’ve added it to mild role playing, generic as the scenarios have been, has really added to it. Something about the way we both change to treat the spanking as something you deserve mysteriously adds to the authenticity of the charade.

As for fantasies that I still have that we haven’t done, there’s probably plenty, and I’ll try to share them all in time. You know about the age-play thing, but understandably want to balk. To be honest, I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be too weird to keep up. Again, I assure you (and perhaps myself) that it has nothing to do with fetishcizing children. I love the idea of you as more than submissive, but that you would expect me to take care of you—pick out your clothes, help you dress, help you undress, bathe you in a tub, and tell you what you can and can’t do. And you would test the limits, and I would put you in your place. Perhaps there’s a way to make it just caretaker/takee and not make it age-play related at all—just a hint of helplessness and dependency added to the backdrop of submission.

I suppose I can confess that there’s part of me that would like to play out a rape fantasy. I know you don’t believe that there’s such a thing, as you can’t fantasize about non-consensual sex with someone whom you want to have sex with. But isn’t that the case with any role-play? Perhaps we could add authenticity by adding a weapon. To have you suck me off while I’m wielding a kitchen knife near your neck might add enough terror to create the effect. Or to force you to felate a cocked (unloaded of course) handgun while I fuck you. Perhaps the rape fantasy idea in my mind has more to do with the idea of contriving an atmosphere of terror. Or just the joint taboos of weapons and pseudo-forced sex. Of course, for a milder version, you could just struggle more when I tie you up.

The last fantasy I have is one that’s been with me for a while. I haven’t exactly figured out how to make it work, and it’s sorta weird to bring up, especially in the moment. But the gist of it is to combine sex, punishment, and gambling. For some reason, I’ve always had sexual fantasies about playing games of chance (or skill) with the prize being sex. Do you remember (or perhaps I’m making this up) in the Story of O, when the girls had to draw colored marbles to determined who would be caned and who would have to brandish it. I remember reading it around age fourteen, and now it’s about the only part of the book that I recall.

I’ve never played strip poker before, but some of the best foreplay ever was when my guy friend, the two girls, and I we had over played a game of strip nine-ball. When the person behind you sank balls, you got points (extras for the nine-ball). When you got enough points (weighted by skill... we were very fair), you took off clothes. When you ran out of clothes, you got spankings instead. When we were all naked, we ran out into the snow and dove into the hottub. Good times.

So I guess what I want to do with you a game of chance or skill, in which to the victor go the spoils. This is to say, if you lose it’s your ass.

Perhaps as fun would be a way of determining your sentence by chance. I’m recalling, again from my early/mid teenage years, a short story about kids determining spankings by a dice game. (A little Googling later, and I was able to find it here). There was something about each die determining duration, clothing worn, implement used, position and probably a few other things. The writing style wasn’t anything special, but the idea stuck with me. Didn’t I pick up some dice somewhere?

In a way this seems to combine the earlier two ideas. This idea of helplessness and dependency on that which is completely left out of your control, along with terror of the possibility that you’ll have your bottom lit up for more than you can bear. Hmm, kinda makes me feel like trying to draft some fiction based very losely on the linked story. I haven’t decided if I like it or not yet, so let me know what you think. Enjoy.

Saturday night, Mabel sat on the edge of the bed in a skirt and tank top. In the candle lit bedroom, she and Dante sat around a small wooden box top that held six old, wooden dice. It was a ritual he invited her to follow every Friday and Saturday night. Each die would determine an aspect of her spanking. She would roll them one at a time into the box top, and each would indifferently determine her fate.

The first die would indicate the position she would take during her spanking. A one would mean Mabel would be in bed on her stomach. A two meant she’d be on her hands and knees. A three meant he would spank her while she stood nose in the corner. With a four she’d have to kneel on the seat of a chair and bend over its back. Tossing a five meant she’d take her spanking standing while grabbing her toes. And finally a six meant he would beat her in the diaper position, with her lying on her back with her butt just off the edge of the bed, holding her own legs up in the air. It was this position she dreaded, as Dante insisted that she keep eye contact with through each swat. Watching his cold gaze as he sized up her butt in methodical fashion before delivering each licking dissolved her determination quicker than normal. Longer sessions usually ended up with her feet bound together and fastened to the ceiling.

She picked up the first die, and paused not at all before chucking it into the box top. They watched together as it came up a four. Without being told, she went to the desk, pulled out the large oak chair, placed it the middle of the room, and returned to her seat on the edge of the bed. They were sucker for ceremony.
The next die determined the implement used on her ass. From lowest to highest on the die, she had her choice of his hand, a small wooden ruler, a light leather flogger, a riding crop, a wooden spoon (named Asterisk), and ping-pong paddle. The game was designed to put them in order of intensity, but Mabel had come to fear, hate, love, and yearn for each of them. And through practice, he had learned to deliver a similar quantity, yet different type, of pain from each.

The die she rolled came up a six. Mabel knelt down beside the bed, and pulled the old trunk out from underneath. She opened it up and removed the red leather ping-pong paddle Dante had bought her. He had drilled out from the center the pattern of a little heart shape to add to its charm, velocity, and bite. She sat back on the bed, and handed him the paddle with both hands before returning to the dice.

She picked up the next three, which crucially determined the number of times the ping-pong paddle would impact her ass. The first two dice were added up and multiplied by the last one to determine her fate. And although it was a large range of possibilities, the chance of a serious thrashing was what added the real risk element to the game. Mabel knew from agreement that there were no safe words and knew from experience there would be no lightening up for unfortunate rolls.

The first die came up a three. She took a breath before rolling the next. A six. She swallowed hard, and visualized doing better. She rolled the last one between her hands while gazing into the box for several seconds. She let it go and clasped her hands.

“Fourty-five,” calculated Dante, before she could bring her eyes to focus on the five she rolled. She swallowed hard again.

The last die rolled would determine the time of the spanking. Were she lucky enough to roll a one or two meant total amnesty, and that her bottom would be pardoned for the evening. They were decent odds, but Mabel knew that she could never count on them when she needed them most. A three or four meant that she would get the spanking right away. A five meant that the spanking would come with the next morning’s dawn and would haunt her dreams until then.

A six meant that her spanking would come as a surprise sometime over the forthcoming week. Sometimes it would come right after work - sometimes after dinner. Other times right before bed. Once he had caught her coming out of the bathroom and had made her kneel on the bed to take 25 paddlings before rushing off to work. Once he had abducted her during her lunch break and given her a dozen swats while she stood nose-in-the-corner of the car garage. Whether anyone else ever saw she never knew. Secretly, they both usually wanted the last die to be a six. Although spankings sometimes seasoned the rest of their foreplay, the spankings merited out in this game could come at any time and the perpetual state of fear that preceded the spanking made the rest of Mabel’s week a little brighter; planning the perfect time to take her off guard made Dante’s.

The reason this spanking had weighed so heavily from the beginning was that the night before the game ended (which is to say the foreplay, although not the evening) in a five. This morning she had woken up this morning, with Dante rolling her on to her tummy, pulling her snowflake covered pajama bottoms, and black panties down to her thighs. No sooner were they in place, then he fell into a rhythmic cracking of the crop on her pink bottom. True to form, Dante placed each swat from first to last with a consistent heavy force, and each one struck the palest patch of ass, one second’s pause, and then the next stroke hit – 66 in total.

Not once did he slow or pause. When she tried to jump in shock at the first stroke, he pinned her back. When she tried to kick around stroke ten, he kneeled on her legs. By the time she tried bucking at swat 23, he had to sit on her back, with his left leg pinning both of hers. Immobilized, she turned to alternating between pleading and cursing him. By the time she tasted the fortieth bite of the crop, she had lost the ability to coherently complain, and fell instead into teary insipid pleas for mercy. To her complete lack of surprise, there would be none. Up and down the crop went, again and again. She lost count and ceded struggling long before she reached the last stroke. After she realized it had ended, she blubbered a “thankyou” into the pillow, and wished she could return to her sleep.

Having let her cry herself out for a while, Dante helped her into clothes and into the car and before noon they drove off to a coffee shop. He peppered her with banter about politics, current affairs, nonsense about work and generic trite conversation. She kept pace well, being as pleasant as she could be, but spent a good deal of time shifting uncomfortably in her seat in the crowded coffee house.

“Your ass hurts,” Dante half asked, interrupting her attempts at candid conversation.

“Yes sir,” Mabel responded meekly, annoyed to find herself slipping into a subspace in a public place. But good God did it ever. Although a close contender, it hadn’t been the worst she’d received. She would probably have worse to come too, she figured. She sipped at her latte.

“Maybe you’ll have better luck tonight.”

She realized that his words and tone hadn’t exactly wished it for her.

Eight too-short hours later, here Mabel was, holding her last die and hoping that it contained her salvation. She didn’t want to let go of it. Her bottom still ached bad from this morning. Even without another spanking, she would still feel the last spanking throughout Sunday. She looked at the ping-pong paddle he clutched and thought about the way the top point of the heart cut into her ass when it struck.

“I can’t,” she eventually proclaimed. “There’s no way I can take this spanking. Not with this morning’s. It still hurts so fucking badly. Maybe if I had rolled something better, but there’s just no way.”

Dante was unfazed. “Fine.” He went across the room, picked up the trashcan from the corner, and brought it back to her. “If we’re done with playing games, you can throw the dice away.” He gathered up the other five in his hands.

“Huh? No, I want to play, I just can’t right now. I just cannot take another spanking like the last.”

“Right, no problem. Which means the game is over.” He held up the trashcan to her, and she clutched the antique die tightly.

“No, it’s just—”

“How many spankings did you get last weekend?”

“Huh? Uhm. None.”

“And what did I tell you when you begged me to spank you last Saturday night.”

“Uhm. That you wouldn’t...”

“Couldn’t,” he corrected. “And why?”

“And that it was part of the game we were playing. And that it wouldn’t be fair, even though I needed one really badly.”

“And would it be fair if you rolled a one now, and I didn’t paddle you?”

Mabel clutched the die harder still. She shifted on the bed, and felt the heat and pain still trying to subside. She didn’t answer.

“So, if you want to keep playing you can roll,” Dante said. “But it’s not much of a game to play if you can renege. And I’m not going to play with cheaters.”

She sniffled slightly both in the embarrassment of her tentativeness and in fear of her potential butt-blistering. She resigned herself to carry on. Mabel shook the die in her hand and looked into Dante’s eyes. “Promise you’ll go easy on me,” she plead.


She closed her welling eyes and rolled the die into the tray.


Saturday, June 30, 2007

Just wait

Went to Home Depot. I looked at the rope options and wrapped a couple around my wrists to see how they felt and yeah, ended up choosing the same one we got last time. I saw a guy who worked there walking by so I asked him to cut the rope and he said, "Just a moment" and walked up the guy behind me also in the aisle and said "excuse me sir, do you need help?" and the guy asked some extremely important question that couldn't wait, apparently. I stood there out of shock and to see what would happen. After the guy helped the other guy, he came back to me and said "so what can I help you with?" and I said "well, I eventually I need 20 feet of this rope but right now I want to know why you helped that man." And he looked at me, I looked back, he looked at me, and said "..... he looked like he needed help?" and I said, "Really? That's odd because you'd think that the person who asked you for help to begin with would be the one to get helped. Can't help but notice that he's a man and I'm a woman." And then I left.

I have major problems with Lowe's business practices so I couldn't go there. Fortunately I knew where an independent hardware store is so I went there. I really should have gone there first. I bought 50 feet of a pretty pink/white rope in a bag. It was cheap.

I got home and was feeling pretty lonely and miserable and insecure and pms-y. So I decided to get stoned. I was very stoned. Very, very, very stoned. And I was in no situation to attempt to move. I tried but I lost my will. So I sat in my chair and listened to music and enjoyed it. Right now, I'm still pms-ing plus I'm freaking out 'cause I haven't done laundry or packed for my trip. I'm on my period. And I'd rather not risk another yeast infection before I see you. So although I know how much you love dragging rope through my ring, I think it'll have to wait until I come back. Hopefully airport security won't confiscate the rope.

In the meantime, I have something for you to do. Maybe a couple things. The nature of our relationship is such that I can't think of something for you to perform for me, so I want you to write me:

1. I want you to tell me what your favorite memory of us having sex is. Tell me what I did, what you did, what you liked about it, and why you liked it.

2. Then, tell me something that we haven't done yet that you want to do - whether something benign and impossible to occur (I'll bet you have a secret Rhett Butler/Scarlet O'Hara fantasy) or something you aren't sure you want to try but you still think about it or something you'd like to do.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Chore 3: The Long Walk

That story was pretty hot, especially considering she says she doesn’t like writing fiction. And I’m really looking forward to getting home to Asterisk—whether or not Mabel is I’m not sure. Of course, I feel like paddles are something that need saved for special occasions. Too bad I’ll miss her birthday.

Privately, Mabel’s been complaining that the last two chores have been a bit hard, at least the writing aspects. So I’ll give her a break from writing much creatively (aside from the experience and fantasies she has while performing the next chore).

Go to Home Depot. (Sorry, this one requires a small purchase too. I’ll pay you back next time I see you.) Buy ~20’ of the white thin rope (and the same length of the black thick rope, if you want it... just for fun when I return.) I know the thin one cuts your wrists a little much, but I think if we have a longer length it will be easier to tie comfortably. Besides, the rest of the chore won’t work with the other type.

Ideally you should perform this chore each night this weekend. At very least twice before you write about it. I want you to spend a day anticipating it having already gone through it. In fact, I like the idea so much, I might have you do it again while with me watching when I get home.

When you home, take off all of your clothes, and thread one end of white thin rope up through your clit ring, and up through your belly ring. Tie this end to securely to the door knob and throw the other 19 feet, coming from your clit between your legs and behind you, toward the bathroom, being careful not to tangle it. Obviously you’ll probably want to turn yourself on a little bit, but then again you probably don’t want to be too sensitive before you start. Up to you.

Blindfold for extra credit. Put your hands on your head and leave them there while you slowly walk (waddle) back toward the bathroom. As you walk, the rope will slowly pull through the two loops, from time to time slightly catching, tugging against your clit and tummy. You may not turn around to watch the rope, or use your hands, your feet, or anything else to position or guide the rope through the rings other than the pull of the doorknob. If it hurts, irritates, or turns you on too much while walking, you may only slow down, but may not stop inching away from the door. You must keep your hands on your head.

When you’ve reached the end of the rope, take your hands off your head. They’re still not yours to do what you want with though. Tie the lose end of the rope around one wrist. Slowly walking back toward the door, wrap the end tied to the door around both wrists, binding them together. When you’ve up against the door, with no slack left, and your wrists wrapped together, stop walking. Only now may you touch yourself, presuming you can find a way to reach, stretching against the rope. You can untie yourself only after you cum. Be creative. No vibrator.

And bring the rope with you when you come visit me next week. Love you.