Asking for directions

Oh, lighten up a bit. Not everything has to be about D/s.

I heard a joke recently: I changed the GPS voice to male, and now he says, "Just keep driving. It's somewhere around here."

In our version it would be somewhere along the lines:

Me: May I punch in the address into GPS?
Him: No, I know where it is.

The jokes about men not willing to ask for directions, it's like beating a dead horse, but still, I wonder if someone out there wrote a thesis or two about the psychological roots of this fascinating phenomenon..

I have to admit that with years I became more tolerable as a backseat driver, now just occasionally inquiring if he is training for the next Formula 1 race, when he switches lanes not according to my definition of normal. Or asking gently not to cause me a heart attack on the road, as it would be a great inconvenience to him.

What kind of backseat driver are you?

What matters/Inspection

This post was inspired by Kink of the Week (KOTW), and this week's kink is Inspection! I clicked on the red lips on lovely Fondles website, and voila, here I am, rambling about inspection...

How did I miss it, oh how did I forgot to mention all these little things in my recent recollection, My Submission. 

Inspection, such a cold, clinical word. Inspection, if he would only know, how all the little things he does are called in the world of kink, he would freak out, step back, clam up. My journey so far is one-sided, taking and gratefully accepting whatever he doles out, without putting any labels on it, without calling it what it really is.

Inspection, his gentle fingers graze the contours of my face, my nose, eyebrows, my mouth. Like in the movies, when they always check that the newborn has all ten fingers and toes, they can see it but still always count. He slides the fingers inside my mouth and pulls it at the sides to open wider, touching my tongue and my teeth, and I start sucking at his fingers in earnest. 

His fingers poke into my nostrils, not to deep, just mockingly check if they are clean enough. Then the same with my ears. The fingers squeeze and mush my cheeks, with intent but without causing any pain.

He checks on the hollow of my navel, if it's washed properly. Full confession, I used to skip, or more like neglect it, and an occasional tiny bit of lint would get stuck in there, bringing up an aha! reaction on discovery. Not anymore, the navel passes the inspection with the flying colours.

He smells my armpits, and it will depend how late in the day we are, since I last took the shower. No, he doesn't like me to take the shower right before, always quoting Napoleon's letter to Josephine, “I will return in three days. Don't wash!” 

By that point my smell changes, it always changes when I'm aroused, to the one resembling the smell of a skunk or weed. Haha, I'm Mary Jane, I'm Spartacus. He laughs it off with a fake disgust.

He grabs and squeezes all my curves, including not the sexiest ones, hello tummy, that's so hard to get rid off, and sometimes I protest, hey, everyone has extra curves when they lay on their side, riiight?

Through moans and giggles he turns me into a ragdoll, his ragdoll, and he didn't even touch me down there yet. That's reserved for the main course, we are not done with the appetizers.

These undeniably possessive touches that claim me without marking. That proclaim, you're mine, louder than any words spoken. That take me and make me his, while giving so much. That remind me of who's-who and what matters.

Rein in

“I know that when you come home, you check it in at the door, but the power, the dominance, it's oozing out of your pores, Nick. Like in the movies, when an alien pretends to be a human. Some glitch happens, and, pouf, there is an extra arm or a head. The same with you.”

“I won't mind an extra arm or a head.”

“You're loving and caring and gentle, but when that glitch happens, at the same time I hate you and love you the most. Let it go, Nick. Sometimes you can just let it go with me, to be in control the way you always are in the outside world, to run the show called Izzie, for a very limited slice of time, to truly pull the strings and rein in.”

Bloody Green

Believe it or not, the picture is of a label on bedsheets. 

This story happens more or less at the same time as May I have another?  

For all the stories in chronological order click on the Almond Croissant (top right). Pun, isn't it? Top is always right. 

Aaaand, spoiler alert, this story mentions a Dom drop, you don't see it often. So read on and drop me a line in comments.

Nick stands in the bathroom doorway with a toothbrush in his mouth, staring at the back of Izzie’s head that sticks just above the couch. With her straight spine, long neck, her hair in two high pigtails rolled into two small buns, she does look like a meerkat, not as horny now as before but still always ready to go.

Izzie stares at her phone screen with their latest banter:

Me:

Bathroom before bedtime?

                        Nicky:

                         Sure.

I want more rough.

                        Rougher. I want more brattiness.

Screw you.

                        You. Gladly.

Nick takes the toothbrush out and clears his throat. No reaction from the meerkat beside a small jerk of her head, the one you bestow on an annoying fly. He wishes he could nuzzle into that soft spot on her neck, but, no, this has to wait, he has a job to do first. Nick whistles softly, and Izzie turns around with a frown.

"Did you just whistle?" she scoffs aghast.

"Uh-huh," he grins.

"Care to explain?"

"Feels better than to text you. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah. And?" Someone ordered more brattiness? Bring it on.

Nick disappears in the bathroom. She can hear the sounds of him rinsing his mouth. "You have ten minutes to turn in. As per our rules, remember?" He reappears with a towel, wiping his face.

"And if I won't, what will you do? Let it slip again?"

"Watch it, young lady!"

"You watch it. I'm reading."

"No electronics before bedtime. Eight minutes."

"Alright, alright, I'm up. I'm up!" She brushes against him on her way, nudging him out with the bathroom door.

Nick waits till he hears the toilet flushing and opens the door again. "Someone needs an attitude adjustment, don't you think?"

"I'm here, it's eight minutes. Duh!"

"I said, attitude. Maybe to give you a little taste of how it will feel like, when I won't let it slip, as you graciously worded my shortcomings." He grabs her chin and forces her to look at his reflection in the mirror. "Colour?"

"Green."

“Green who?” he quirks an eyebrow.

“Green, sir,” she corrects herself quickly. No hesitation here.

He folds her arms on the vanity top, the wide part of it in between two sinks, and pushes her shoulders down till they land on her arms, while his other hand peels off her shorty shorts and white lace panties. Smack!

He bends over to whisper in her ear. "I will tan your hide regardless, but will it be the good girl tanning or the bad girl's?"

"Good girl, please."

"As you wish."

In her three-inch espadrilles and shoulder wide stance, her small bum sticks up high in the air. Nick kicks her feet back closer together, always thinking forward, not to hit accidentally between her legs, only to confirm how impossibly different he is. He sets into an unrelenting pattern of an open hand swat and squeeze, swat and squeeze.

"I don't think that will do, because you were not a good girl today.” Smack! “You were a complete brat, that is.” A harder smack! “A very disrespectful brat." He pauses to rummage through the vanity drawers and picks up a hairbrush.

"No, not the brush," she jerks away. The hairbrush reminds her of the self-spanking days, not a trigger but kind of off-limits. Ah, what the hell, it was worth a try and to add some spice to the otherwise orchestrated scene, thanks so very much.

Smack! "Are you telling me what to do?" He promptly drops the hairbrush back in the drawer and slams it shut. "Bad girls don't get to choose." Smack! "Bad girls get what they deserve. Hold it there."

Nick leaves and comes back with the belt. Izzie rises up while locking eyes with him in the mirror, gleefully in sync, and he pushes her shoulders down again.

"Colour?"

"Bloody green."

"Blood is actually red. Let's try it again. Colour?"

"Green, sir."

All said and done, they are in a so familiar embrace. Nick perks on the wide edge of the tub with Izzie curled up on his lap. He pulls a plush towel from the towel warmer on the wall and wraps her in it.

"Thank you, sir."

"Hope the thanks were for the warm towel."

"You know they weren't."

"Can you drop it already?"

"You like your buzzwords and rituals, I like mine."

Nick nods at the array of bottles and jars on Izzie’s side. “Which bottle can I use?”

“Anything but that expensive face cream.”

“I think that's exactly what I will use. Your sore bum is no less important.” Nick hums contentedly their own Bottom Song to the tune of some long-forgotten lullaby, while spreading some cream over her reddened cheeks. But the pause between the chorus lines is getting longer, his hand just hovers over her bum now. Nick, only surviving there, a wind-up toy with no juice left, the last splash of energy spent on moving them back in the bedroom to crash onto the bed.

"It's over, Nicky. It's all good. You did so well. I'm so proud of you." She coos as she strokes his hair, caresses his cheek, his soft stubble, traces his eyebrow.

"We are not normal, aren't we? Isn't it I'm who's supposed to praise you?" he sighs with a little glint, a sure indication that he’s coming back to life.

She reaches under the covers to check on him. More of a perfunctory check to switch his mind to what's coming next. "Mmm, you're ready for the fun part." She reaches over for the lube bottle and puts tons of it on the only place between her legs that's not wet yet.

A whiff of coconut with some flowery undertone hits his nose. "What's that smell?"

"Coconut lavender. You like coconut, I like lavender, so I made the lube myself."

"You made it??" This woman will never seize to surprise him.

"It's not a rocket science, you know, just added some oils for the scent. I should run a workshop, make your own lube."

"Please don't," his voice finally soft and calm. "By the way, oils are not safe for condoms."

"Thanks for the PSA, Mister Know-it-all. I made it for us. Ready?"

His eyes squint in a triumphant smirk. "I'm not done with you, you insolent brat. Hands and knees. Now!"

My submission

He says things like, don't tell me what to do, or don't argue with me, and I don't find it odd. He always scolds me, when I raise my voice. He doesn't let me swear, and yes, bullshit is considered a swear word. He gives me The Look, when I pick on unhealthy snack, freeze with a phone in my hand, or in general, do something that I shouldn't. I get The Look a lot, and it usually pulls me right back, like a tight leash.

He obviously opens and holds the door for me, walks between me and the road, I walk upstairs first, as he does downstairs. Ordering food is tricky as he doesn't like to do it, so he explicitly delegates it to me, to navigate through the menu while juggling all his idiosyncrasies of what he would and would not eat.

I got into a habit of showing him three outfits to choose from. He was puzzled at first, I said, when I choose myself, you ask me to change too often, better to show you the choices in advance.

I cook the food and serve it to him. We like to have the appetizers mezeh style, small plates with salads and dips to nibble on before the main course. I make sure his main is hot enough, as he likes it super hot, plate it for him, and bring it to the table. I won't start eating, until he takes the first
bite.

He doesn't like bones in anything, I make sure to debone all his meat and filet the fish. He hates garlic in any incarnation, I learned to cook without it. When I make him tea with lemon, I pick all the seeds from the lemon slice. But enough about food.

He likes to bite me and suck on the spot, like a horny teenager, leaving his marks of ownership, and I love it. I squirm and wiggle when he bites me too hard while holding me down, not letting go, until he moves to the next spot, and I love it. It doesn't have to be during sex, sometimes he bites me just because.

Needless to say, he's dominant in bed, gentle, caring, but yet still so dominant. Honestly, I never liked being on top anyway. I like how he pins my hands above my head, how he pushes my legs apart with his knee, how he's always on his elbows, never putting his full weight on me, till I specifically started to ask for it, till he realized I'm not as fragile as he thought.

Sometimes he places my hands above my head and just I hold them there, the same way as if he would've pinned them there. He burns my skin with his short stubble. He guides me with a firm hand on the back of my neck.

When I ask to switch positions, not when I'm uncomfortable, but just for fun, I never know if he would do it or not, he won't say a word, no explanation, the final 'say' is always his.

He is patient and generous, every time he brings me over the edge, I supress the urge to thank him. When for some reason we skip a few days and I get myself off, I feel guilty, because in my mind all my O's belong to him.

I feel guilty when I hide things from him, when I disappoint him, when we fight. Makeup sex is good, but I feel like something is missing, I know something is missing, something to clean the slate completely, to let us both move on.

No, he doesn't spank me, maybe an occasional possessive swat, like I swat because I can.

We never discussed our little quirks and habits, they do not have a label, that's just how we live our life.

Dominance and submission can take many forms, I think, and if this all is not it, then what is?

How can he be so blind not to see it?

 

Paint it red

"I'm ready. I think I'm ready," Nick announces half-way out of the door. 

    "Oh. What, today?" Izzie's eyes go wide, and he can't read, is it out of excitement or something else. Dropping the bomb and leaving suddenly doesn't look like a good idea. He closes the door and steps back in. 

    "I don't know, what, today no good?" 

    "If you say today, it's today. What time?" she asks, like setting up a time for a business meeting. 

    "When I come back? Iz, are you ok?" he probes with caution. 

    "I'm getting my ass whipped tonight, of course, I'm not ok," she bites her lip. 

    "That.. that's not exactly the reaction I expected." 

    "What did you expect? That I would jump for joy?" she lashes out again. 

    "Kind of. You've been grilling me to do it for so long." 

    "Not long enough." 

    "No? What do you want, Iz?" 

    "Beside world peace?" She turns away to hide the rollercoaster of emotions. "You didn't scream 'language'." 

    "I don't scream. When?" 

    "I said 'ass', you didn't say anything." 

    "Iz, what are we doing?" both hands are buried in his hair. 

    She saw a modern sculpture in a gallery once, a mighty lion, its taut body ripped in a powerless silent roar of grief or despair. That's what Nick was now, a wounded animal, and she couldn't help him, he had to step up himself, had to take the damn plunge, to call it. 

    "No! No wiggling out of it," she launches into a new brazen tirade. "If you said today, then so be it. After you come back tonight, so be it. If you say, every Friday before bedtime, so be it. If I'm yelling at you like this, that's an extra trip to the couch, right there and then." 

    "Which couch?" he asks just to break her monologue. 

    "That couch," an angry finger points in the direction of the couch. "Bare bottom, paint it red. No discussion."

    He nods absent-mindedly, no discussion, that's the key, that's what she wants. He sheds off his suit jacket without looking at her. He fumbles with the cuffs, then decides to leave them be and just pulls the sleeves up as far as they go. In the corner of his eye he sees her gulp and drop her head. 

    He gestures to the couch with his chin, and that's enough to send her in motion to get over and ready. For the first time, to lower her panties in front of him, not for sex. 

    She holds her breath through a few hard no-swing swats, knowing that this barrage won't go on for long, few seconds, and his near-zero pain tolerance will take over. 

    "How will you shake hands? At least, use your left hand," she pleads. 

    "Don't tell me what to do,"  he grits through his teeth, and yet, he switches the sides to deliver a few with his left hand. 

    "You can't use your hands. Use your belt."

    "Shush!" He collapses with a yelp next to her, cradling both hands and almost crying out of frustration. Her bum is the slightest shade of pink, and he saw the pictures, when she said red, she meant red, crimson red. 

    "Nicky, you're killing yourself." In an attempt of a hug, she pulls his head to rest on her shoulder, but he brushes off her hand. 

    "You don't say." He reaches for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and gobbles up two of his painkiller pills. "That was a downpayment for tonight." He pats her bum and gets up on his feet. "I'll call you later." 

    "Nicky?"

    "What?!"

    "Thank you." 

    "Oh please, spare me." 

To be continued

Azotarme duro (It's time - part 2)

For 'It's time - part 1' click here.

"Izzie, my love, look at me," a very different worried voice calls to her through the daze of her nightmare. Eyes wide open, she jerks up, missing Nick's bespectacled face by an inch.

    "I can't tell you," her hands fly up to cover her face in shame. "I can't. I need some fresh air." She jumps out of bed, springs to the closet to emerge in a parka. "Some real fucking air."

    "Language!" He slaps her butt over the coat.

    "You think I could feel it?" Drops the coat on the floor, now only the thin nightgown hugging her curves. "Do it again."

    "No," he steps back.

    "I want you to spank me for real," she blurts out in one burst.

    "Say what?"

    "Hard and long," she blushes the same as in her dream.

    "As a kink or something?" Nick rubs his forehead.

    "Or something."

    "Oh, hello, darkness." Nick lets out a sigh of relief, like he was holding his breath for a deadly verdict, and now, it’s out, the cat is out. "Wait, I'll get dressed. I think my brain can also use some extra oxygen."

    His old hiding place, the balcony where he spent countless hours looking for her on live cameras. If someone would've told him that his life was simple back then, he would laugh in his face. And yet, she is here with him, sitting cross-legged on the same patio couch, and he tucks the blanket around her bare legs, trying to remember to breathe.

    "The Azotarme shorts, back in Ibiza," he nods.

    "You remembered?"

    "You flashed me with the Spank Me shorts, how could I not?"

    “Azotarme duro. Duro means hard. It said, spank me hard.”

    “I get it!” he yelps in frustration.

    "Did you think about it, since then?" so much hope in her voice, it hurts.

    "Not till this moment. You disappeared, remember? And after you came back, we had too many things to deal with. Is that what you saw in your nightmare?"

    "No, not telling you," she shakes her head. "It was much worse."

    "What can be worse?"                 

    "So many things. Will you?" Again, those tearful eyes stare at him, full of hope.

    "Right now?" Stupid, so stupid, but what do you say in a moment like that, when you say the first thing that comes to mind, the stupidest thing. He is not going to spank her now if it kills him. It is killing him, the thought alone.

    "No," she shakes her head. "When you say, it's time."

    Neither of them willing to admit, to go back to that single moment back then in Ibiza, when upon seeing those pink Azotarme shorts, he asked if it's a deal breaker, and she turned it into a joke. Deal-what-deal, she snorted. Right, who brings it up in the middle of a one-night stand. Wrong again, both of them knew from the very first moment, that it wasn't.

    She finally spit it all out, the wait is over. Whatever he was dreading, just had happened, yes, it will always be in the back of her mind, brewing, slipping into her dreams and her nightmares, in one form or another. Now it's all on him, to digest, to learn, to apprehend the impossible, and eventually, to give her what she wants, what she needs.

    Nick falls back on the pillows spread around the massive patio couch, dragging her down with him. Things will not be better tomorrow, but right now they both need to pause, till it's time.