PSA: Looking for An Old Story

Asking for a friend. No, seriously. A mutual on Tumblr asked for help on finding this old story. I know that many of you have good deep archives or equally good memory. Any leads greatly appreciated. 

Here is his description:

I've been searching for this smut for a long time. If I understand it correctly, the original writer had it taken down everywhere online because he was trying to get it published. It was very well written. It was called "The Lottery Winner" but the only name I have for the writer was his handle from back in the BBS days, "Nightwind." The story was about a man by the name of Paul Renner or Renier or something like that who won the lottery. Used his winnings to create a harem of women from around the world. Of course there were smutty parts but the writing was so exceptional even in the vanilla parts I have no doubt they could have gotten published. I have no problem paying for the work, but I've not been able to to find it anywhere. There was a newsgroup post with maybe 20 chapters of it, from the middle. But, not the whole story.

My most heartfelt thanks

He bent me over the balcony railing, skin pressed against the rough concrete, heated up by the scorching tropical sun. I squirm uncomfortably, and he brings a towel to put under my shoulders, to protect me from scratching against the hot concrete. The balcony is facing the ocean, there is nothing but the mesmerizing turquoise blue with the white stripes of the waves. It's windy today, and the waves are loud, so is the music by the pool. No one can see us, but no doubt, the ocean and the music will not cover my screams. It's not polite to bother the neighbours, he says and offers me a washcloth to bite on.

I'm wearing nothing but a soaking wet bikini and fluffy hotel slippers, because the ceramic floor is too hot too. Comfortable is the name of the game, comfortable everywhere but. The wet bikini bottoms hit the floor with a splash. He folds my arms and tells me to keep them on the small of my back. 

I know what he's staring at, my new tan lines. Starved out for the sun in the midst of our dreadful winter with three-feet tall snowbanks, on the first day here we spent too much time on the beach, and I fell asleep on my stomach. Sleeping on my stomach is a second habit, you know. Besides, I was still sore from the whipping he gave me right before we left for the airport, a sound reminder to keep me on my best behavior while on vacation.

He traces my tan lines with his thumb, a white triangle surrounded by the pink of the burnt skin. In a few days my skin will get so dark that no one will notice the bruises. I bruise easily, but the red marks fade fast. There will be nothing to admire in the mirror tomorrow morning, unless he will add more. I wonder how much it will hurt on the sensitive burnt skin. He just lovingly rubbed my butt with the lotion. I heard the evil smirk, we both know the lotion only makes it hurt more.

We didn't bring any implements because, hello, airport security. We smuggled in a small plug. We decided to say that it's a ring holder, if the security asks. He joked, if I misbehave, I will fly back plugged. Have fun explaining that! Funny how all the hotels still have the landlines and phones in each room. He yanked the phone cord from the wall socket. The cord was long enough to fold in four and turn into a formidable but silent brat tamer. As much as he loves my witticisms, I could feel since morning that he was about to announce the inevitable. We were both itching to retreat to the room, so I can't say I didn't see it coming, if it was my own doing. 

Silent but vicious, only a few swift lashes, and my hands fly back to protect my poor bum from the onslaught. As always, he's quick enough to stop mid-air and not hit my fingers. But the bikini top comes off to securely tie my wrists. Another few, and I yelp, and the washcloth falls on the meticulously landscaped lawn underneath the balcony. Oops! We both burst into giggles, and instead of bringing another washcloth, he drags me inside the room. With my hands tied behind my back and those oversized hotel slippers, I stumble over the metal ledge, and he picks me up gleefully to carry over to bed. 

The balcony door shut, the ceiling fan turned on, hands untied, he commands me on all four and to take him in my mouth, the best silencer. I know he wants me to hold still, but with each stroke my muffled moans make him harder and harder. I arch my back and roll my hips back to meet the menacing cord, the same way as when he takes me from behind. 

Abruptly, he pulls out and lifts me up to lick my lips, to taste himself on me. He whispers the words of praise in my year, while pressing my head against his shoulder and rubbing my butt. We both shake, from the heat of the moment, from the need to give to each other what we crave the most, for him to give me this pain and for me to take it for him. He jumps off the bed, and I know that we're far from done. 

Head down, ass up, and plugged, I don't need a silencer any more, the moans are those of pleasure. Besides, he wants me to count the final fifteen, thanking him after each five. He slows down, taking a pause after each strike, letting me absorb the pain and get back in the position. And these thanks are the deepest, most meaningful and my most heartfelt thanks I ever gave.

Two Hundred and Sixty-seven (Stuart - 2)

To read Stuart - part 1, please click here: The Day She Showed Up. There are still some plot holes that need to be fixed. Yes, I know what I deserve for leaving them out there. But I really wanted to post the second part. So, here we go...

It was nice to be here, in the back seat of the car, to be driven, instead of driving it. That's why Stanley is who he is. When Stuart barged in into Stanley's office, despite the screaming protests of his secretary, and asked for a car with a siren, he just took one look at his, Stuart's, face and said yes. Then being Stanley, he improved on his offer and sent a car with a siren, to get out of the city fast, and a driver. Granted, that was to guarantee that the aforementioned driver will drag his, Stuart's, arse out of his whorehouse on time and get him back, on time. Because he, Stuart, cannot be one minute late today or else. And, yes, Stanley had no doubts about what kind of "emergency" he had at home. Stanley dealt with Nick's emergencies of a similar nature on a daily basis. Is that clear, Chef? 

The car hits a bump, and the shallow carton box from this morning vegetables delivery, now overflowing with takeout containers, shifts off the leather seat. Stuart catches the corner just in time to prevent the food from spilling all over the floor. What a mess and a waste that would be! While he was talking to Stanley, Sarah packed some obscene amount of food, cold and hot, from today's staff dinner and from whatever they will be serving later on tonight, including two bloody branzinos. When did she have time to prepare all this, that minx? Did she fillet and sous vide it first? Sarah texted him to come by the kitchen and didn't say what for. Silly goose, she was afraid that he will refuse to take it. Bollocks! Firstly, it was the staff meal time, and Stuart was hungry already. He didn't even know, when will be the next time he will have a few minutes to grab some food, definitely not while at home with Sherry. 

Hold that thought! The smell of yucca fries, sprinkled with Sarah's own secret spice mix, coming from the top container, was driving him up the wall. And the small plastic cup with yuzu mayo got all warmed up from the fries, and now was adding its own tangy undertone in this divine cacophony of smells. Stuart dug into fries, as he kept looking what other finger food is there. Bingo! Mini arancinis stuffed with asiago and mushrooms. Any real protein, perhaps? Here we go, the famous bison meatballs. Now, all set, munching through all three, Stuart could get back to his train of thought. 

No, he's not wasting one fucking minute on food, out of two measly hours he is left with. Sherry can take a bath and eat later, after he will leave. Or, maybe, they will still have time to hop in the shower together. Stuart shifts uncomfortably, should have rubbed one off, but he didn't have a bloody minute to spare, since he got her message, the fateful message that set in motion all this kerfuffle. 

For some strange reason, at that point Stuart recalled a seemingly insignificant incident that happened a few days back, right after Nick  appointed him as a scapegoat, responsible specifically for  feeding and plumping up Izzie. Stuart just personally delivered a piping hot dinner upstairs and chatted Izzie up. She was getting all squirmy and jittery, when she finally blurted out that Nick will be back any minute. That was definitely Stuart's cue to skedaddle. To avoid bumping into Nick, Stuart took the back stairs. Lo and behold, panting and skipping three steps at once, here he was, Nick himself, tie undone, jacket in his hand, unbuttoning his shirt further down and pulling the hem out. With that particular look on his face, the same look that Stuart is sporting right now. Exhausted and frisky, depleted and horny, tired beyond any measure after a fourteen-hour day but still ready to devour her, the one so impatiently waiting for him upstairs. Two men just nodded to each other, acknowledging the unfortunate fact of getting in each other's way, and that was it. 

A pang of jealousy washed over Stuart. It was not the fact that Nick was in a hurry to see Izzie. Stuart's own fling with Izzie was ion years ago, way before these two lovebirds met, and, truly, after being friends with benefits, they became just friends, real friends for life. That shit does not happen often, whether Nick likes it or not. It was the fact that Nick and Izzie had this hunger for each other in their lives, and he, Stuart, did not. Well, he did, but the object of his affection lived thousands of miles away. That was about a week ago. 

Right now, in the back of this car, skillfully whisked away and out of the city, finally, on the country road, he could exhale and think of Sherry, who was not thousands of miles away anymore. 

Stuart replayed in his head the last conversation he had with her two days ago. 

"Are you still counting, the extra swats?" she asked. 

She was referring to the extra spanks that Stuart had assigned for mentioning Clayton, her spineless cunt of an ex that abandoned Sherry at her most vulnerable. Long story to be told some other time. By all means, the spanks were not meant to be a punishment of any sorts, as Stuart did not want to discourage her to vent out. But, dear God, at first, it was non stop, Clay this and Clay that. So, to curtail the nasty habit, Stuart jokingly offered five spanks per uttering of the C-name. Sherry didn't seem to worry and did not slow down one little bit. When the total number climbed up into the second hundred, he took a pity on her bum and unilaterally reduced the sentence to three per occasion, instead of five. 

Stuart kept his math silent, but Sherry occasionally asked about the total. Mind you, with her living on the West Coast, the chance of Stuart ever collecting his debt were slim but not none. They did talk about her visiting but never ventured into the logistics of it. After all, Stuart's days were ridiculously long. It could only work, if he will get a few days off, but then she wouldn't need to come over here, they could meet anywhere. 

"Naturally. We are at two hundred and sixty-seven." 

"Oh... Are you sure?" Her enthusiasm audibly deflated at the number. 

"Most definitely. Not to worry, mon cheri, I can split it, say, into three visits to the woodshed? Ninety-ish each?" Stuart tried to present his spanking math in the most  casual manner, maybe with a good dollop of sarcasm. While he was the bottom feeder in the sarcasm food chain when it came to Nick and Stanley, right now he got the upper hand, and Sherry was folding. 

"You mean, your woodshed?" she squeaked. 

"The proverbial woodshed, Sherry. My humble woodshed doesn't have any suitable furniture in it. But, if you wish so, I can always bring over a chair or even a--" 

"Ninety? Did you say, ninety? Clay would never--" 

"Too bad. That will be two-seventy, ma'am." Stuart dropped the new total. 

"Fuck off, Stuart!" screamed Sherry. 

"That's exactly the bloody problem, Sherry! If you would've been here, in this room, you would be right here, bare arse up in the air, begging for mercy in fifteen seconds flat, yes, hard and fast. And then whatever swearing is still left in you, along with that spineless cunt's name--" 

"Stuart!" Sherry was an American and didn't take the word lightly. 

"My apologies, darling, I meant, coward. That coward's name, I will fuck out of you for as long as it takes." Surprisingly, Stuart didn't raise his voice and kept his calm to the end. "These pouty lips of yours, unless wrapped around my cock, will be sputtering one name, Sherry, one name only, mine!" Crap, that last word came out a tad louder. Maybe, a lot louder. "Sherry? Hello?"

... and I will stand up

Saturday morning edition, a fresh batch of some pun and dad jokes, all by yours truly. See yesterday post for the previous batch. Yes, when life gives you lemons, make a key lime pie. 

I have an accounting joke, it might cost me too much.

I have a librarian joke, can't find it. 

I have a surfer joke, it whooshes over.

I have a carpenter joke, but can't nail it. 

I have a plumber joke, but it can leak.

I have an excavation joke, just digging it deeper. 

I have a trader joke, but it can fall short.

I have a makeup joke that can make you blush.

I have a fisherman joke, the one that got away.

I have a bartender joke, but it's a tall order to fill.

I have a race car joke, but it disappeared too fast.

I have a baking joke, but it might not rise to the occasion.

I have a whiskey joke, but it's too old. 

I have a gun joke, but it might backfire.

I have a relationship joke, but afraid to let it go.

I have a masochist joke, only it's hard to bear.

I have a sadist joke, it's smart as a whip. 

I have a comedian joke, and I will stand up. 

Bam! 

Friday Night Fun

My dear readers, I'm really sorry for disappearing. I had my reasons, one day I will tell you more. Short version: betrayal, death in the family, and a vicious threat. All in a span of a few days back in September. 

But today, I just want to cheer everyone up. I wrote a bunch of Dad jokes today and want to share them with you. They are truly all mine!

Yours, Sore

I have a shibari joke, but I forgot how to tie it all together.

I have a D/s joke, but don't know where to submit it.

I have a DD joke, but nowhere to Head with it. 

I have an S/M joke, but it's too painful.

I have a little joke, but Daddy won't listen. 

I have a spanking joke, but you will end up red. 

I have a primal joke, but it has a bite.

I have an M/s joke, but it was hard to Master. 

I have a cooking joke, but it might burn or get roasted. 

I have a fishing joke, but it might get off the hook. 

I have a history joke, but no Friday night dates.

I have a chemistry joke, but it's missing elements.

The Day She Showed Up (Stuart -1)

Part 1 - The Day She Showed Up 

Stuart will never forget the day she showed up. It was not the first time women would show up on his doorstep. After all, he was a minor celebrity for at least three years now, and the famous Australian accent lured the innocent maidens, like the Piped Piper in the old fairytale. Except no one could find him here, since he bought and moved to this small farm in Virginia, close enough to get to DC under one hour. The farm in Virginia was Izzie's idea, she yapped so much about it, that one day Stuart thought, why not, and just did it. If Izzie would ever buy a farm in Virginia, it will be the size of that mansion in Hudson Valley, complete with a sizable tobacco plantation for all Nick's cigar needs. Sorry, not within Stuart's budget. His own five acre farm with a small but relatively new house on the top of the hill was exactly what the doctor ordered.

He blinked again, as he stared at the same text, "What time are you coming home?" Of course, he panicked. How could he not? A woman he met online three months ago just casually asked, when he's coming bloody home! He stumbled into his small office and slammed the door. That didn't stop Sarah, his sous, to knock on the door and step inside without waiting for his permission.

"Are you alright, Chef?" The plastic container with ice water she brought with her meant one thing only, she noticed everything. Everything he tried to hide.

"I need five." Stuart takes a sip but the cold water doesn't help a bit. Stuart counted on his fingers, one hour there, one hour back. Ahem! "Actually, I need three hours, better four."

"The service is in four, you can't leave it on me. What the hell is going on?" Sara's hands planted firmly on the edge of his desk, her head cocked inquisitively. 

"Someone is at my house." Stuart tap-taps his phone, eyes downcast. 

"Like broke in? Do you see anything on camera?"

"Right, the camera. Thank you, Sarah." He flips through the apps on his phone, three times back and forth before he finds the bloody camera. The porch camera that is pointed towards the driveway. And there she is, sitting on the ground, back against the mulberry tree, hot pink sneakers propped on the blue carry-on. Hot pink, her favourite colour, same as the dress on that picture she sent him a week ago. Whisky Tango Foxtrot, as Nick always says!

"Do you know her?" Sarah picks over to get a better look.

"Sort of." Good question, what did he really know of her. Somehow he's not surprised to see her. The trail of crumbs he kept dropping, intentionally and unintentionally, the town news, the street name, three mulberry trees in the front. She joked once, that there was only a handful of homes on his short street, and probably, if she will zoom in, and look for a house with a swing on the front porch, not too far from the road to watch his jogging neighbour Jess, and the old white woodshed in the back. But that would be too creepy, right? Fuck, she's getting a major spanking, as soon as he gets his hands on her. Oh, the things he will do to her, when he will get his hands on her... 

Stuart clears his throat, "Sarah, I think I left the stove on. At home, that is."

"Yeah, right. Stuart? You're so fucked, you can't leave me alone, not today. When will you stop thinking with your dick?"

"Cock! Don't raise your voice or you will spend the rest of the day prepping vegetables!"

"I thought you need me on the pass, Chef," Sarah snorts. "So you can go home and fuck her." 

"How can I leave her there? May I remind you what time we finish??" Stuart roars loud enough to bring in another spectator.

"Chefs?" Ricardo nudges the door open. "Where do you want the branzinos?"

"Up your bloody ass! Yours and anyone else's who will dare to open this door!"

"Put them in the walk-in, Ricardo. I will be right out." Sarah closes the door shut before Stuart jumps Ricardo's throat. "Doesn't your neighbour Jen have an extra key?"

"Jess. Brilliant. What would I do without you?" Stuarts leans for a quick peck on the cheek, but Sarah swirls away from him. He dials Jess. No answer. "Fucking voicemail!"

"I ask myself the same question every fucking day, Stuart. Show some appreciation."

"Jessica dearest," Stuart holds his hand up as he coos into the phone. "There is a lady in front of my house. Would you be so kind to let her in and show her around? I will owe you a four-course dinner, and if you will feed her, I will... Hiiii, Jess, I was leaving you a message. Yes, the dick next door, that's me. Nope, you're not in charge of the brothel I'm running. Yes, absolutely. I swear, it's the last time ever."

The last time ever. His own words hit him like a brick wall. He looks up at Sarah and smiles like an idiot. "Ask anything."

"Croissants from Bouchon every morning." Sarah snaps back without missing a bit.

"No can do. Besides, Antoine's croissants are better. Anything else?" Stuart wiggles one eyebrow, the way only Stuart can. 

"Just go, and fuck her faster, or whatever you straight people do." Right, talking to his disappearing back again.

"Yes, ma'am." Stuart hollers from the hallway.

My lovely readers, sorry we didn't get to the actual spanking part yet. 

I'm trying something new. Though, Chef Stuart and his sous Sarah were already part of Nick and Izzie verse, Stuart deserved his own love interest. That deserves a looong spanking. So, sit tight for the next instalment.

Happily Submit

Forgive and forget. Let go. Don't dwell. Don't recite all my wrongdoings till the cows come home. Don't blame all of our failures on me. Don't yell at me. Control yourself first. Own your mistakes. 

Lead. Take responsibility. Make me feel safe and secure. Protect me. Watch me. Don't let me go by myself after dark. Don't encourage harmful habits. 

Laugh with me. Read with me. Watch me dance. Leave silly notes for me. Cook with me. Share a meal not food. 

Don't put tomatoes in the fridge. Don't try to sneak a pair of black socks into the white laundry. Change that lightbulb without a gentle weekly reminder. 

Tell me, I got you. Call me a good girl. Take care of me like no one else before. 

Braid my hair. Pull me onto your lap. Hold me tight. Fall asleep with me. Kiss my forehead in the morning. Check on me. Don't let me drop. 

Look me in the eyes. Hold my chin to look into yours. Touch me for no reason. Pin me. 

Buy me an almond croissant once in a while but not too often. Make me presents that money cannot buy. 

Listen to me. Support me. Inspire me. Lift me up. Don't refer to anything I'm into as crap or bullshit. Believe in me. Cheer me up. Root for my success. Be proud of me. Cherish me. 

Accept me for who I am. 

Then, I will HAPPILY SUBMIT. 

PS Yes, it's so much easier to pour my heart out to complete strangers in hope that maybe, just maybe, my words, this instruction manual, will make a difference in someone else's life. 

PPS That’s Ralph Marvell and Samantha Woodley on the picture, and the still is from a Shadow Lane video (thank you, Erica, for identifying). A famous photo, popular in the community, mercilessly cropped by yours truly (unintentional pun) in order not to get nuked over one picture. No, I will not send you the original. What, you haven't seen enough red bottoms already?

Lithuania

“Where did you go, you silly kid?” Huh? A slightly overweight blonde boy calls out Little Eddie in a so familiar drawl. No fashion sense. Ugh, his swim shorts pulled up all the way to his belly button. I have no idea how old he is, can be eight, can be twelve. I can’t tell how old Nechami’s kids are, have to ask shamelessly every time.

“This is Martin, he’s from Lithuania,” says Eddie. You’re joking with me, right?

“Do you know where Lithuania is?” Martin repeats in a perfect sing-song London accent.

“Say what?” I swoon and suppress a giggle at the same time. How is it even possible, to swoon and giggle, that is?

“Li-thua-ni-a,” he repeats, syllable by syllable. Up-up-down-down. Four round notes form a pleasant melody. No wonder all the greatest musicians came from there. How do they do it, so effortlessly, unaware of what it does to us? But most of them know. Nick knows too well, that bastard, and milking it. Out of all them, he milked it to the highest degree, all the way to the White House. No wonder I have to beg him to do the accent.

“Of course, I do. Baltic Sea. Do you live there?”

“No, I live in London.”

“Were you born in Lithuania?” I ask more inquisitively this time.

“I was born in London.”

Bummer, should I tell him? If any girl, woman, chica, bird, even sheila, don’t see too many of those here, asks you ‘where are you from’, for the rest of your very long life, you will answer, ‘I’m from England’! I get it that your parents want you to remember their roots and traditions, but, darling, we are not deaf. You open your mouth, and I can pinpoint your accent down to the city. You open your mouth, and I smile like an idiot, sorry, like a numpty. Nah, no more meddling for today. He will figure it out on his own in about three years, maybe even earlier. Those Brits don’t waste time.

“How old are you, Martin?”

“Eleven.”

“Martin, it’s quite grand of you to take care of young Eddie here. See you around, boys.”

Just a short snippet today, no spanks, no smut, maybe a tiny smidge. The scene is happening on the beach. A quaint day on the beach, Izzie is drawing a little boy Eddie, when another boy Martin comes over looking for Eddie. The very first days of Izzie and Nick story. 

Is anybody still reading it?? 

Not a Monster (Irrelevant p. 2)

"Before you disappear into the bathroom, order some food, will you? And leave your phone here when you're done." 

"Can I order sushi?" Izzie asks a loaded question, without looking up. And in response, Nick clears his throat. "Sorry. May I order sushi?" 

"Darling, I didn't mean the grammar but the raw fish."

"Pretty please? It's completely safe! They know that it's for us. They triple check every piece that goes into our order. The last thing they need is to poison me." 

"Alright, order sushi."

"Thank you! And chicken teriyaki for you?"

"Salmon teriyaki, time to live dangerously."

"Your salmon is cooked."

"I'm not a monster, Iz."

"You are not, Nicky."

"I didn't mean sushi."

"I know. Still, not a monster. Just a Big Bad Wolf."

"With his Little Red?"

"Yep! And they lived happily ever after. Eventually. For what time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"For what time to order sushi?"

"In an hour? Will we be done in an hour?"

"Are you asking me? It's your show, Nick."

Sorry, it's super short and dialogue-only but with a lot of feelings, doubts, and hesitation, and also, moving the story forward. Isn't it just the best thing, after the spankings, of course?

Submitting last minute to Saturday Spanking Blog. Picture from Tumblr.

Irrelevant, a spanking story

Izzie nudges the door open and tiptoes into the bedroom. But alas, a familiar voice, now unbearably curt and stern, calls her from the couch at the bottom of their bed. 

"Go pee first and come over here. Chop-chop." Working, always working, Nick quips without looking up from the laptop. He pats on what he called 'here', and the distinctive sound of his bare hand hitting the leather surface sends shivers down Izzie's spine. 

It's the New Toy, that's how they christened it. A huge massage block for pregnant women with three hollows for belly and tits, a lovely idea by itself, that allows her to lay down on her tummy, a forgotten pleasure, and to Nick to lay down on top of her, full weight and all, and fuck her brains out. But now, wedged against the armrest, it meant one thing only. And if that wasn't enough, the double-folded belt, laid right next to it, completed the picture.

"Don't you want to ask me how was my day?" Izzie chirps. 

"How my day was." Nick has to correct, a stickler to the proper grammar. A stickler to proper everything, and this conversation is only another proof. "I'm pretty much aware of how your day was, especially where you spent it." Nick unlatches his wary eyes from the screen and switches to her, taking her in, from the soles of her flats to the messy bun on the top of her head. "We spoke at lunch, but it didn't cross your mind to mention that you were a few hundred miles away."

"Two." One syllable to start a useless fight. The more Nick talks, the less words she uses, but the desire to fight her way out of inevitable prevails. Isn't it what she wanted, to be seen, to be taken care of and held accountable? 

"I beg your pardon, two, what?"

"Just two hundred miles, and you already knew it when we spoke." She actually stomps a little, with a huff, no less. 

Nick's eyebrows jump up an inch, but the voice remains measured and low. "Indeed, I wanted to hear it from you. Where is the dress, Izzie?" 

"What dress?" Feigning innocence is the wrongest route to take when Nick is that close to explode. And explode he does. 

He jumps on his feet, but keeps a distance from her to not tower over. "Your fucking wedding dress, in a huge fucking white garment bag." The jazz hands make big circles in the air, like a cloud around the mythical dress. "The first thing I stare at, when I walk into the closet each and every day."

"Oh, is that why you called me at lunch?" Izzie steps into his space, chin up high to hold the glare. 

"Answer the fucking question!"

"I took it to the salon for a fitting. You know, I'm getting fatter every week." 

"You're pregnant. You're getting bigger not fatter, young lady." Nick visibly calms down as he utters the words 'young lady' as if the buzzword magically ties him into the calm, cool, and collected version of himself. "Don't talk about it like it's a nuisance." 

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child!" 

"You behave like one, so I'll treat you like one." Nick's hand accidentally bumps into the belt, and he jerks away from it. "That's not what I meant, I would never touch a... You know exactly what I meant! I'm still waiting for that bum of yours to get over here!" Nick turns around to pat on the New Toy. "You ran away again, Iz, to New York." He plops back on the couch, elbows planted on his knees, fingers intertwined.

"What am I, a prisoner?"

"God forbid, by all means, the door is always open." He waves in the direction of the door that's fortunately closed. At least this room is soundproof, and nobody can hear the yelling and, well, what about to happen. "I hope, you will have a decency to throw it in my face, if you decide to leave." 

"I promise, if I will ever decide to leave, you will be the first to know. 

"Do you know that every time you disappear, hell, even for a walk with Bear, some part of me spirals into the same hole I spent months in when you skedaddled to Thailand?"

"Skedaddled? You couldn't find a better verb?"

"Alright! Fled, happy?" 

"If I will ever run away, I wouldn't tell Stanley and Owen. I just took a dress for a fitting."

"Behind my back!" Nick slaps his knee and winces with an ouch. "Aren't there any fine seamstresses here, in our nation's capital?  Or they are not good for Your Highness?"

"It's the salon's job to fit the dress. Maybe if you wouldn't buy it behind my back and bring it here, I wouldn't need to sneak it out." 

"Maybe I like seeing it here, as some sign of commitment?" 

"Why am I getting a spanking? I didn't break any rules. I didn't go alone, I took security. And I had a big lunch with Nechami." 

"I knew it! That her name will come out soon. What did the righteous one said this time?" Nick cocks his head with a mock interest.

"Don't mock her. She didn't say a thing. I had to ask her something." 

"Dare I ask, what was it? So urgent and important that you had to fly out there to talk to her in person?"

"It's irrelevant now." Izzie stares at her feet. 

"Strike two, it will become very relevant after I'm done with you." 

"What do you mean, by strike two?" 

"It's not enough that you went to New York on a day trip without telling me, you refuse to say why. How does that falls under the rules umbrella? Or is it the four D's, I forgot?" 

"I need to pee." She looks away.

"Of course, you do." Nick nods and gestures to the en-suite. "On the second thought, I need to finish something." He opens his laptop again. "Take a shower while you're at it. Might take some fizz out of you and make my job easier."

"Your job?" 

"What do you think, I enjoy it?"

Sorry for disappearing!!! Will come back to edit further and to write part two, less angsty. I thought it's better to post something than nothing. Posting to Saturday Spankings.

How bad?

Did anyone ever used this or similar back scrubber as an implement? 

How bad is it, on a scale of one to ten? What about if it's wet?? 

Travelling

In a travelling hiatus, at least I have a legitimate excuse for not posting and not visiting other blogs right now. 

But do not fret, my dear readers, something is brewing in my head, the second part of a long abandoned story, Death, Taxes, and Belt

I was mulling over it for a while, what would be Nick's reaction. A simple spanking won't do. I need them to reconcile in a deep and profound way, after torturing each other, of course. 

Your suggestions are very welcomed! 

Where No Means Yes

 

And that's all I have to say about that... 

Sorry for disappearing! I'm drowning in all things Tumblr. Saw this picture and thought, I have to share it here.

I will be back...

Too many movie quotes. Have a sinful Sunday!

Yellow!

From C is for Crying:

“Nick, you bloody bastard, it hurts!” Izzie wiggles and moves away from the belt with every stroke but comes back like a clock. Yet something doesn’t add up.

“It’s supposed to hurt,” deadpans Nick. “Wait, what did you just say?” A flurry of painful strokes lands on her upper thighs, a well-known medicine for cursing.

“It fucking hurts!”

Another long flurry ensues. “Please continue with the cursing. Or shall we start over?” All the rehearsed buzzwords and phrases come out with ease. But, thank fuck, she cannot see his face, because Nick is on the verge of panic.

“Stop it!”

“Colour?” He knows better than to stop. The semaphore system is more for Nick than for Izzie. Green means, don’t you dare to stop spanking no matter what I say. Yellow means he can take a break to talk and then continue the spanking. Red or her safeword means something is really wrong, so, yes, full stop. Needless to say, the only answer he ever heard was green. No matter what.

“Yellow!”

Aghast, Nick chokes on half a sob. “Izzie, my love, what’s wrong?”

“It’s too fast and too much. I can’t let go like that. Not in this position.” Izzie is still bent over, knees on the couch, naked from the waist down. Her face, turned away from him, lies atop of the couch’s back. She spits out the words in a hurry. But all Nick sees is her pregnant belly, hanging there, presumably safe. And her wobbly knees.

“Do... do you want me to build a pillow fort?”

“No, I’m sorry, Nicky.” She sits back on her heels. “What if?” 

“Anything! What do you want to try?”

“Can you sit here on the edge?” 

Nick obliges without a clue what she has on her mind. Izzie scoots to the floor and stands to the right from Nick, staring down at his open knees. And now he gets it! He pulls her gently across, one bony knee wedged underneath her belly, the other right above it. Left arm curls around her waist to keep her in place. She fits, and she’s safe.

“I got you.” Nick rubs her back.

“I know you do, Nicky. Now, long and hard. Make me let go. Make me cry, please.”

Yay or nay on spanking while pregnant, assuming it's a healthy pregnancy? How controversial is it? Does the topic turn you on, off, make you squirm? Please chime in.

And, of course, it's Friday, so posting it to Saturday Spankings Blog. 

Fl#gged

 

I'm puzzled, to say the least, and honoured? There is a first time for everything!

Last night I put together a hodge-podge sloppy kind of a post, just the links to all the chapters of the Birching Bordello story. And scheduled it for 7 am, like a good girl that I usually am. Mind you, all the stories were previously posted, all the tags (yes, I put lots of tags) been used before. Even the picture to go with it was my own photo, the same I used for the first instalment. 

Now, exactly at 7 am I received an email from Blogger that the post was flagged and unpublished for the guidelines violation. At least it was not a person, but an automated system, right?

But why? Was it the combination of all the spanking tags, or the words p*nishment and sp*nking and cry*ng and b*lt and D*m on the same page? But, come on, I posted worse..

My blog is behind the mature content warning as it is, right??

I did try to move to wordpress recently, it was a painful (not in a good sense) and fruitless attempt. But I'm listening...

Any advise much appreciated!!

Fl#gged,
Sore

Denial

"Do you have a lot of work to do?" 

"Almost done. Why?" 

"You were in a hurry this morning."

"Uh-huh."

"I didn't come."

"Do tell."

"Was it on purpose?"

"Yeeees?"

"Thank you thank you! Can I come tonight?" 

"I wasn't planning on any carnal activities." 

"In the morning?" 

"I have an early meeting. Wait, wait. Done. Where were we?"

"Lunch time? Can you sneak out at lunch?" 

"You horny little devil, have you been scrolling through Tumblr again?" 

"Nnno." 

"Liar. Do you know what happens to little liars? You do, right?" 

"They get a spanking." 

"That's right."

"When?" 

"When I say so." 

"Meany, you always make me wait, and then you forget completely, and I have to remind you, or not, and it drives me nuts." 

"Do you want two spankings tonight?" 

"One is fine, thank you so very much."

"Sassy! Two it is then." 

"No, I will be a good girl, a very very good girl, please!" 

"A good girl would share with me those pretty naked bums you were ogling at. You think I didn't see what you were scrolling through?" 

"Here. Happy?" 

"Wait, wait, go back. Can you find panties like that?" 

"Yeah, you like them?" 

"Am not cold-blooded." 

"Sometimes. Ouch! What was that for?" 

"Downpayment. How do I like it?"

"You click on the heart, obvs. Ouch! You can't just like it, reblog it."

"How? No more sass."

"No more downpayments, your hand is worse than a paddle. You click on these arrows." 

"What about this one? Wanna try it?"

"Oh yeah? Look who's the horny devil now. Still no carnal activities?"

"I thought you like denial." 

"I do but but..." 

"That attention-seeking butt. Well, let's hear it. Beg, and I might reconsider." 

"Will you please let me come tonight?" 

"Who?" 

"Sir. Will you please let me come tonight, sir?" 

"Something's missing. What do we need to do before that, I forgot?" 

"Uhmm, spanking. Sir." 

"Now, try again." 

"Will you please spank me, sir, and after that, will you let me come, please, sir?" 

"There we go!" 

and think of England - Birching Bordello part 7

 

Next instalment of the Birching Bordello story, sorry to keep you waiting for sooo long. To read from the beginning, click here

“I’ve got you, Isabel.” Nick resorts to the familiar words, lips pressed against her temple. The first minutes of the post-play haze are the hardest, perhaps even more so than the act himself, especially when she cries. Even though she cried for him, for putting him through this, time and again. 

Nick seeks reassurance. He needs her to confirm he did well, that she still loves and wants him. His hand, hidden under the many layers of skirts, circles and rubs her stinging butt with more and more purpose. 

Even for a big guy like Nick, it’s challenging to maneuver Izzie and her giant dress on his lap. “Are we done with this Victorian nonsense?” 

“Why?” Izzie lifts her eyes to meet his, with the serenity that only comes after the storm, a shy smile curling her lips. Ha! The sign he was looking for. 

“Firstly, we need to get you out of this dress before you suffocate.” Nick yanks her up to stand in between his legs and reaches for the sophisticated bow that still holds her unlaced corset together. 

"No, leave the bow, there is a zipper under." 

"Alright," Nick acquiesces and drags down on the secret zipper. The dress cracks open like a can of sardines, and Nick yanks it down for Izzie to step out of it. He got rid of her white pantaloons earlier, so the only garment left are the white stockings, rolled down to her knees. He discards the stockings the same way, shaking his head with hasty annoyance. 

"Secondly, to attend to another pressing matter, quite literally, pressing." Nick drags Izzie's hand to his crotch. 

"Want a blowie?" Izzie slips into the parlance of our times. She leans against him, eager lips touching the soft skin of his neck, just below the stubble. 

"No, darling, I want an old fashioned fucking." His hands wander up and down her narrow back, inevitably gravitate to the magnetic warmth of her arse. "If you don't mind, be a good girl and open your legs for me." Nick closes his eyes as he awaits the consequences of such a brazen tirade. Whatever. He is done with the games for today. 

"Why you can curse, and I can't?" she pouts. Her fingers, drifting along the rigid outline under the thin fabric, do not bring any relief. 

"A difference in anatomy, I guess." Nick catches the tantalizing hand to press it harder against his already aching self. 

"Nicky!" 

"Nicky was a fuckboy whose heart you broke in Ibiza." He bites his lower lip, as the bitter confession leaves his mouth. 

"I want Nicky back." She doubles down the plea, two arms circled around Nicky's neck. 

"Me too." Nick cranes his head to the side to give her a better access. Funny, it's usually him who's kissing it better. 

"We screwed up again, didn't we?"  

"Majorly," he nods. 

"Fix it." Two dark eyes are staring into his. "You fix things for everyone. Please, fix it. I will do anything."

"Will you lie back and think of England?" Nick cautiously weaves a tale. "Not all of England, just one particular Englishman."

"Yes, please." Izzie steps back to sit on the bed, then slides over till her head hits the pillows. Long legs stretched and firmly pressed together, hands folded on her belly, she's a naked vision of a virtuous obedience. If only he wouldn't know better. 

"Now, will you trust that Englishman and let him make you happy?" One eyebrow raised, Nick leans over and waits. 

"Yes, I will." Little feet walk up his lithe body in tiny steps till her ankles plop on their respective shoulders. 

Left ankle gets its own kiss, then the right one. "Good girl."

For Saturday Spanking Blog, sorry for the last minute entry

Please No

This story is from the very early days of their relationship. Nick knows nothing. 

Izzie's fingers, now done with caressing Nick's cheek, slide into his thick hair. She struggles not to pull on his curls too hard. Beats her, how a simple act of caressing one's hair is considered an encouragement. She hates a hand on her head whilst she bestows the hand owner with a blowie. But Nick doesn't mind, and  he definitely doesn't need any encouragement.

A stray thought shots through Izzie's agonizing brain, who knew that Nick is so good at... How many women out there know, in a very biblical sense, that Nick eats pussy like a pro? With each lick, bite, tug, and swift circle, he quickly ascends to the top of her personal eat-it-like-you-mean-it list.

He doesn't waste any fingers. While the palm of his hand applies some delicious pressure on her mound, the fingers spread the pink lips wide open for his tongue to dive in. The fingers of his other hand sink in and out, following the tempo of some heavenly song. He cautiously circled around her back door once, and she shook his hand off from there. Not all at once, Mister. Leave something for the next date. But that was the only time she intervened in his proceedings. Magnifique, he was simply magnifique.

She didn't notice how her usual 'please please please' mantra became audible, and seconds later interlaced with no's.

"Please no please no."

Screeching halt. All digits and tongue withdrawn at once, he jerks away too fast, dragging his stubble against the sensitive skin of her thigh. The burn is surprisingly pleasant, but not the feeling of the cold air where his face was just a moment ago.

"Why did you stop?" she pants.

"You said, no." The sound of his voice comes from somewhere awfully close. She opens her eyes, and, bam, he is staring at her, like a deer in the headlights, his worrisome eyes just a few inches away from hers.

"I didn't mean it," she mumbles. "Go back." She nudges his head down.

"Wait, wait a minute. What do you say when you do mean it?"

"I doubt we'll ever get there." She muses, pushing away a forgotten memory. But no, he doesn't buy it, still waiting for an answer. "Don Quixote."

"Is this some kind of a safe word?" Nick asks. 

"Yes," she nods. "It's my safe word." That was not safe enough, her memory reminds her. The safe word that was discarded, disregarded, violated. That night that broke her, send her running for the hills, and eventually, to this island. That changed everything, and most of all, her ability to trust, to put herself in the hands of the other, guarded only by one little word that draws the line between whatever they do and abuse. Since then, years past but she never tried again: to trust. 

Whatever Nick sees in her face, he freezes, but it doesn't stop him from asking more. "Did you ever have to use it?" 

And she can't, she simply can't admit, the shame, the betrayal, the failure she felt. How later she got caught up in a lie. It's so much easier to invent a lie, even only to herself, than to admit the inexplicable. So she repeats the same lie. 

"I consented." 

Pink Red Purple

It's Monday morning, seven-thirty, to be exact. Nick just tied the shoelaces of his black Oxfords, one of six almost identical pairs. Now he is back on his feet, checking in the mirror if the shirt is tucked in properly, his fingers running along the belt. No, the other belt, obviously. Izzie's dreadful brown belt, as Nick calls it, that they use for spankings, or whippings, if you want to be anal about the spanking terms, is safely hidden on the highest shelf of their walk-in closet. 

He puts on the suit jacket and glances again at the marble-top central island. Seven pink cards, cut from heavy cardstock, with the days of the week written in Izzie's calligraphic handwriting, stare back at him. "Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday," Nick recites with a fake Italian accent and considers for a second to switch the cards in the true Apollonia's order. Would Her Highness mind? Nick picks out to check on the Princess. 

Izzie's long hair spread like a halo on the white of the pillow that in her sleep she pulled almost to the middle of the bed. The contours of her body barely visible under the fluffy duvet. Asleep! Nick tiptoes back to the closet. 

Switching weekdays might slide under the radar but not Sunday and Saturday, and Nick quickly rearranges the cards back in the proper order. He opens Izzie's underwear drawer and focuses at the task at hand, to choose her panties for the upcoming week. 

Last weekend they put each other through a wringer, an unnecessary wringer. One thing led to another, one implement followed the next one. And now, Monday morning, Nick is scared to check on her arse! Izzie doesn't mark or bruise easily, except that time when she almost stepped in front of the car and he yanked her by her forearm. Those fingerprints were quite a sight to remember, went through all the colours of the rainbow. Something Nick is not looking forward to repeat, especially with her lovely bum. One thing is to turn it pink and then red that would fade fairly quickly, Nick is not ready to see any purple. If we are speaking in colour metaphors, they are not black and blue people, at least, not Nick.

He picks three identical pairs of lace panties in purple, red, and pink, and lays them under Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Then he picks a pair of white eyelet bikinis with small pink rosebuds for Thursday and a white thong for Friday. And nothing for Saturday and Sunday. Here! Does it send the message loud and clear, that in all likelihood, there will be no spanking till Friday? Oh, the pouting he will have to endure.

"Are you choosing my panties?" calls the sleepy voice from the bedroom.

"Indeed. Go back to sleep." Nick comes over for a goodbye kiss.

"Are there any pink ones?" Bollocks! She's fully awake.

"Yes, go back to sleep," Nick repeats more sternly.

"What if I won't?" 

"Firstly, we agreed that bratting is disrespectful, especially under such circumstances. You're trying to make me late, aren't you? Add it to your Friday list." 

"Friday? Do you mean no spankings till Friday?" That pouting.

"Wanna make it the Friday after?" Nick raises an eyebrow.

"Nicky!"

"Who's Nicky? Three weeks."

"No, sir! I will be a good girl. I will wear all the panties you chose for me."

"What about bratting?"

" I won't brat, sir. Will you spank me this Friday, please?"

"I might reconsider," Nick suppresses a smirk. "Are you asking me to spank you on Friday?"

"Yes, sir, please!"

"Go back to sleep." Izzie buries her head in the pillows. "Good girl." Nick smiles, they don't call him the best negotiator for nothing. 

EDIT: I do not like the ending, so part 2 is coming up to rectify this accidental mind fuck. Nick seems to be manipulative and ignoring Izzie's needs, which he is not. 

Posting to Saturday Spanking Blog, in hope that Headmistress Blake will be pleased with this entry:

There You Go!

Joking for the sake of stalling

Spanking for the sake of crying

How to explain the calling 

Truthfully, without lying 

Need for pain and need for kneeling

Matched with power and will

Thrashing that unleashes healing

Kicking high or holding still

Letting go, not letting down 

'Hurt no harm' is not a game

Longing for the words that bound

Willingly submitted, tamed

Sweat or tear on lacy eyelet 

Giving lashes takes its toll

Long and hard to blissful scarlet

There you go, baby doll

As always, when a new story just brewing in my head, I turn to poetry. Do you like reading or writing poetry?  

What about buzzwords? What are your favourites?

Strawberry Filled Forever

Happy Strawberry-filled Croissant Day! 🍓

Because what can brighten your Sunday morning more than a freshly baked croissant filled with cream and strawberries, hmm?

Funny how this image singlehandedly brings together my two favourite characters: Nick loves strawberries, and Izzie can kill for a proper croissant.

Any Beatles fans out there? 

PSA: Devlin O'Neill's old blog

 

HUGE THANKS to Hermione for unearthing the snapshot of Devlin O'Neill's old blog: CLICK HERE on Way Back Machine.

Many pictures were not preserved by the captures, but the posts are there. I truly hope that someone did manage to make a backup of the old site before it went down, and really wonder if it can be hosted again. 

Every time I see Devlin's name on someone's blogroll, I try it and, of course, that French website comes up. Silly me! I heard that the domain was not renewed or sold, not sure. But wouldn't it be great in Devlin's bright memory, In Memoriam, to resurrect the latest incarnation of his blog? Even if it would be a different website, I'm sure all the major blogs will gladly put it on their blog rolls or archive links.

So many miss Devlin or, like me, just heard of him, because were late to the party. I've never seen the actual blog, today was the first time. And boy, did I cry real tears...

As far as the blogs go, I'm nobody. My blog gets almost no traffic. But if only... this idea will get picked up by someone who knew him and make it happen. 

Just my two virtual cents, but if a contribution of real dollars and cents will be needed, such a GoFundMe campaign won't take long.

Too many blogs disappeared in the last year. Let's bring back at least one.

Pigtails Spanking Story: Bloody Green (Revisited)

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 mini buns on the top of her head, she does look like a meerkat, not as horny now as before but still always ready to go.

He watched her, the whole process. How first she split all her her in two and made high ponytails. Nick noticed how loose her hair was, that he could easily slide his hand underneath the hair tie, close to her scalp, how safe it would be to pull her hair like that. They both enjoyed hair pulling as a kink, one on the giving, the other one the receiving end. And recently discussed how hair pulling gone wrong could lead to the most horrendous of consequences, including snapping one's neck. Not on Nick's watch, of course, but seeing Izzie putting an extra effort to make it easier for him was endearing.

She braided each ponytail into a scrawny but long pigtail. What a disastrous name for something so innocent and sweet! Then she rolled each pigtail into a bun and secured the loose end under the same hair tie. There we go, the meerkat look unknowingly accomplished.

Now Izzie stares at her phone screen, and Nick tiptoes and peeks over her shoulder: it's their latest banter.

Izzie:

Bathroom before bedtime?

                        Nicky:

                         Sure.

I want more rough.

                        Rougher. I want more brattiness.

Screw you.

                        You. Gladly.

Nick tiptoes back to his post at the bathroom door, it's time to get the show on the road. He 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 to rinse 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!" 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 sinks his hand in her hair and tugs her head up, forcing her to look at his reflection in the mirror. "Colour?"

"Green."

“Green who?” Nick quirks an eyebrow.

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

Nick releases the pigtails from their hair tie prison. Izzie pouts in silence.

"I want to see them sway, the pigtails, when I spank you." Nick nudges a pigtail to swing like a pendulum. Izzie gasps, and Nick pauses to let it sink. For the first time ever, he did something for himself. The swaying pigtails, that was for him only, for his viewing pleasure. And Izzie's tiny but triumphant gasp only confirmed the significance of this moment.

He folds her arms on the vanity top, 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! The pigtails bounce as on cue.

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 with his foot, 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 to add some spice to their 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. He keeps his left hand on the back of her neck, with both pigtails in his fist. 

"Colour?"

"Bloody green." Izzie grits her teeth.

"Blood is actually red." Nick tugs at the pigtails. "Let's try it again. Colour?"

"Green, sir." Gulps down. Eyes down. Ready...

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." Izzie murmurs into his chest.

"Hope the thanks were for the warm towel." Nick tries to weed out the hair ties with one hand, without pulling on her hair. He chokes on that thought, how careful he is now, not to cause any extra pain, after what he just did to her.

"You know they weren't." There is so much love and tenderness in her voice, her soft embrace. It breaks and melts his heart in the most unexplainable way.

"Can you drop it already?" Nick's fingers trail through Izzie's hair, unbraiding the pigtails into lush wavy curls, getting her ready for bed.

"You like your buzzwords and rituals, I like mine," Izzie says. A peaceful protest. Surprisingly, even in her post-spanking haze, Izzie stands her ground.

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

“Anything but that glass jar, it's an 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 rubbing the 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." Izzie coos as she strokes his hair, caresses his 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 her bum hole, the only place between her legs that's not wet yet.

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

"Strawberry lavender. You like strawberries, 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," she shrugs off his question. "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." Izzie rolls her eyes. "I made it for us. Ready?"

His eyes squint in a jubilant smirk. "I'm not done with you, pigtails girl. Hands and knees. Now!"

My apologies to those who read the original version. I wanted to elaborate on pigtails and hair pulling plot. Also, if anyone knows the author of this magnificent painting, please let me know, I will gladly add the credit.

EDIT: thank you, JM! The painting is: Bound(2014) by Ray Caesar

To Molly, thank you for the inspiration. This story was dead without the proper pigtails.

EDIT: Also, submitting to Saturday Spankings Blog because it was a hectic week IRL. Hopefully Headmistress Blake will not be too harsh and forgive my audacity.

How it works

I've been in a bit of a hiatus, since I finished the A to Z challenge, it sucked too much energy out of me. Probably I should stop apologizing for the lack of proper posts.

So, Molly's Kiss, or more specifically, her Kink of the Week is hosting a theme right now, Pigtails, that I can relate to. I thought of writing something new for it, but again, the creative juices were running low. And then I recalled one of my old spanking stories that was fine in my opinion, but didn't get enough love from you, my lovelies. I thought I would resurrect it with some editing.

Low and behold, that old story already had two pigtails rolled into mini buns on top of Izzie's head, that made her look like a meerkat. That's a start! Then I thought I will add some proper hair pulling, which I also like as a kink. Maybe Nick will unroll the buns back into pigtails or order Izzie to do it. But I needed some reason, something. 

So, here I am, on my walk. By the way, I'm writing this post from the park bench. And I see a runner, with a huge high ponytail, gorgeous hair, swaying with every step, like a horse's tail. And it hit me, that's it, that's what was missing:

"I want to see them sway, when I spank you, the pigtails," Nick says. 

Alphabet Spanking Story: all chapters

There was so much spanking going on in my stories during the A to Z month. Putting them all in order and in one place. (Work in progress) 

Alphabet Spanking Story: all chapters

G is for Going, Going, Gone Nick wanted a quiet evening but pregnant Izzie didn't eat again. An unexpected revelation changes the course of this long long night. 

"What should I do about it? Don't answer," he holds a hand up. "That was a rhetorical question. The incentive, right?" Izzie nods again. "Will you eat after?" 

"After after." Which means after the spanking, the aftercare, and the fucking. The whole trifecta. 

H is for Humiliation and Humility Oof! That's some naughty chapter! 

He takes everything to the next level today, fiddling with a new toy, a foxtail butt plug. The plug itself is a medium size, much smaller than his dick, but, hey, it's stainless steel and probably cold. 

"Do you know what it is?" Nick watches like a hawk when she presses her legs together and clenches her butt in anticipation. 

"A foxtail." 

"No, my dear. It's a reminder of who's in charge here."

I is for Izzie's first caning Nick got a new toy chest, full of new... toys.

"It's a real cane, Nick. It's not a game." 

"I know. I've been practicing." He twirls his fingers in the air in a universal 'turn around, missy' gesture. He folds the tail up and tucks it under the tight top to get it out of the way. 

L is for Licks and Lust  Nick wants to lay the ghost of Aldous to rest, with some help from the foxtail plug and the cane.

"Every time I mention Aldous, you clam up. You need to lay the ghost to rest, Iz." Nick follows Izzie to the corner and now talks to her back. "So today, with the help of my little lie detector," he tugs at the fox tail. "And the cane," he taps her cheeks with the cane, and she jerks away. "I will get to the bottom of it. If required, a bright red bottom with some perfectly parallel stripes. Told you, I've been practicing." 

M is for Morning and Marks and Middle of the night As Izzie wakes up giggly and wiggly. Her first caning by the hands of Nick only brought them closer together.

As she lay there, accepting and grateful for each stroke, it hit her. This caning was to help her let go and move on from all the bad memories of Aldous, the caning included, and come out of it unscarred, both literally and metaphorically.

And then Nick paused and spoke. 

"Three last ones, Iz. These will hurt more." 

N is for Nothing The morning frivolities end with a serious conversation, and 'nothing' is not an accepted answer anymore.

These are the best ones, cuddle and spank, hard and slow. Izzie closes her eyes and waits for the next one, and the next one. The lump in her throat shrivels, ready to break into tiny pieces. 

"I don't want to decide, I don't want to choose." She pauses on the brink of tearing up. and he swats again. "Don't let me choose, not in the bedroom." 

T is for Tears and Taken When preparing to spank Izzie to tears, Nick feels an unexpected Kick and pauses.

"Give me a moment, please." 

"Take it, and then take me. That's what I need, to be taken. To break into pieces and rise again, taken." 

U is for Upsy-daisy Nick gives Izzie the hard spanking she craves. To tears.

"You say upsy-daisy when you pick me up," she repeats. "You always pick me up and put me together. Upsy-daisy." 

W is for What you Want Nick watches Izzie sleep and recalls the events of last night. Izzie wakes up in tears: Nick didn't fuck her after the spanking.

Exhausted, she drank some lukewarm orange juice through a straw that Nick held for her, asked for the fluffy socks, took a deep breath interrupted by a hiccup, and fell asleep. Just like a Sleeping Beauty. Damn it, Izzie said to never use that expression as it reminds her of the other book and not to Google it either. So far he kept the promise.

X is for Xanadu Izzie learns a new word. Nick learns she has a blog. 

"Or I will go Xanadu on your arse." Empty threats go well with snorts and giggles. 

Z is for Zingy Nick and Izzie discuss all things zingy over the breakfast. Merguez vs bacon, leather vs wood. 

"You know I hate wood, except your morning wood," she nods royally in the direction of his lap and royally doesn't bat an eye at the treacherous twitch."

Also from A to Z:

Standalone stories:

(Coming soon)

Poems:

V is for Vanilla

Holding wrists is a type of bondage

Roleplay bound are Santa and elf

Naked Red, in Halloween homage, 

Riding Wolfie, is C-M-N-F

(more coming soon)