mischief / (ˈmɪstʃɪf) /
- wayward but not malicious behaviour, usually of children, that causes trouble, irritation, etc
- a playful inclination to behave in this way or to tease or disturb
- injury or harm caused by a person or thing
- a person, esp. a child, who is mischievous
- a source of trouble, difficulty, etc. e.g. floods are a great mischief to the farmer
As a child, I was definitely what was known as “a mischief“. In fact, I was “a right, proper wee mischief“. It wasn’t that I was bad or especially naughty, I just had a penchant for doing things that my elders didn’t always approve of. The “Oh Morag! We’re not angry, just disappointed…” thing, said in a weary, resigned tone whenever my misdeeds were found out, was a near constant refrain growing up. I was never one of those genteel, girly girls; I was very much the tomboy and tearaway; preferring to muck about with the boys than be one of the girls.
Of course, mucking about with the boys took on a slightly different meaning when I moved into my teens, but that just simply added to the opportunities for mischief and, very often, that mischief felt very good. I might allow a boy who done something particularly nice for me to feel my boobs or I might stroke their cock through their jeans, marvelling at how that made it stiffen. Later of course, I would move on to stroking their cocks under their boxers and letting myself get fingered. The mischief stakes were frequently being upped. Eventually I would have my first orgasm at the hands of another person, give my first blow-job, discarded my virginity and get my arse fucked. All of these things were just a natural progression as I experimented with the naughty things I was discovering that I liked doing.
My student years introduced me to threesomes and group sex and I was already dabbling with kink, although, at that stage, I didn’t consider myself to be submissive, I just knew I liked toys, occasional restraining, and getting my backside tanned every now and then.
Over the years, my tendency towards mischief has, if anything, only grown stronger as I’ve got older. This, I suspect, is largely because my relationship with Master C has given me a framework within which I can be my mischievous self so long as I am aware of the consequences of my actions and know there is a price to pay. As such, if I’m on a night out and see someone I fancy, so long as I am willing to accept that any dalliance with that person will result in a thrashing from Master C’s belt, the number of lashes to be determined depending on what form the dalliance takes, then I am free to lick/stroke/suck/fuck whomever I feel inclined to do so.
Of course, there is also the fact that I enjoy receiving Master C’s discipline/physical chastisement and my inner brat is always pushing limits and looking for ways to be on the receiving end of some much needed correction.
As the saying goes, I’m not really a very naughty person, I’m just a person who really enjoys doing some very naughty things, and I really enjoy the consequences that arise from them.
Am I a brat? Yes, without question.
Am I a right, proper wee mischief? Definitely (well, maybe not quite so “wee” any more), and I hope I always am…