Z is for Zenith

Dear diary,

While in my real life I've been trying to rebuild my life, starting from scratch, zero, nada, zilch. As far as A to Z goes, it's the last chapter, kind of like bookends. Or doors, one door closes, and the other one opens. I hope so much that the new door will bring me some sort of break. So far, despite all my most recent disasters, I reached the zen-like state, which is a polite way of saying, zero fucks given. 

As you can see, I deliberately sprinkle this entry with an excessive number of words that start with Z, not sure yet, which one of them will play a bigger part in the story. Because we have a story to finish, the Red and Wolf story. Remember where we left them or need a recap? After a sweet talk and a long hug, Wolf threatened to use the freshly cut switches on Red, and Wolfie, a wolf of his word, doesn't issue empty threats. Without any further ado, I will give the stage to Red.

Zing! The first strike of a supple willow branch zapped me like a thousand volt charge. Nothing can really prepare you for that first blow, no matter how much warm-up my poor ass already received. Switching is definitely out of my comfort zone. Every year in spring it's the same song and dance of ‘will he won't he’. At the end, he always does, there is no talking out of it.

Willow branches are Wolf's favourite, talk about the sentimental attachment, as they come from his tree in his forest. The same willow tree by the water he escapes to and sits under it for hours looking at and listening to the stream, when we have rare arguments. Everyone thinks that Wolf has a bad temper but he never acts on it. He would come back home, calm and resolute, and we would have a talk, which ultimately ends up with him removing his belt. If we had a fight bad enough to send him running for the hills, or the willow in his case, there is no other way to resolve it. For us. Either way, we never go to bed angry.

Switching in the forest is definitely the zeitgeist of our relationship. Bend over a tree trunk with my panties down, getting my ass whipped with the willow branches. That's public enough to bring out the humiliation in me, from the fear of being walked on, found out. But who will dare to go that near the Wolf's house without an invitation? That's the other side of it, Wolfie's pride for his forest and every part of it. Doing it in the forest, in the open, feeds his possessive side, claiming the ownership of me and the forest as one. Claiming, owning, marking, that's all Wolfie. But what about me, what do I get out of it? Despite all the hesitation and the attempts to forego the spring ritual, I crave it with all my heart, as every year Wolfie adds something new to it.

“How is my little zebra doing?” Wolfie stops after the first three to rub my butt.

“Zebras and wolves don't live on the same continent.” I snap back and immediately regret it.

Zing! Wolfie strikes again. “Au contraire, my dear African cousin, Canis Lupaster, is very fond of the local zebras.” Zing! “Any snarky comments why I called you a zebra?”

“Because you're giving me the stripes.” I pant.

“That's right. Perfect. Red. Stripes.” He punctuates every word with a swift whoosh. “You see, you get snappy, I turn zappy.” He stops again to give me a break.

“Zealous. Overzealous.” I dance on the spot from pain. “Please, enough.”

“Enough is not your safeword.”

“Pitchforks!” I yell.

“Where? What?” He howls and frantically sweeps the surrounding bushes.

“It's my safeword, pitchforks, you forgot?” I turn around to face him

“And I agreed to that? When?” Now he clutches his hairy chest. 

“I don't know, ages ago. Wolfie, I called a safeword, I'm not crying wolf.”

“Wolf is here.” He wraps me in his arms, still panting. “I'm sorry, my reddelicious, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. That zebra thing threw me off, and then it was too much.” I can't let the zenith of my year end like this. “Did you want more?”

“Just three more. Can you take it for me?” Wolfie whispers in my ear.

Why in the fairytales everything is counted by three? Three questions, three choices, three roads. Three more zaps, and it's over. I'm carried home in Wolfie's big arms, pressed against his big chest, my fingers buried in the hair behind his big ears. Whatever happens next is nobody's business. Hint, it involves Wolfie's other equally big parts. Not telling, I get incredibly shy after a good spanking.

Zee end.

Y is for Yes

Dear diary,

Before I go back and finish the Red and Wolf story, I will throw in a shorter one, dedicated to two words that start with Y, yellow and yes.

Aldous and I were travelling in Spain. First year of our marriage, way before all the kink started, and I was still skinny but started to put on weight from the endless supply of paella, sangria, and that amazing almond pastry I forgot the name of. I only mention it because it's important to the story.

I don't remember where we spent the night, but we were heading to Cordoba. In early fall the weather is weird, too chilly in the morning and crazy hot during the day. We left the hotel right after early breakfast to spend most of the day in Cordoba. I had that summer dress on, sleeveless, of course, because I knew that it's always hot in Cordoba in the afternoon. The dress had a fitted top, black with embroidered flowers, dainty small flowers in yellow and orange, and a long flared yellow skirt, way below my knees. I still have it somewhere. Weird, I gave away and donated so many clothes throughout the years, but never got rid of this dress, though there is no way in the world that I would ever be able to fit in it. Again, it was a chilly morning, so I added a few layers.

First, panties were not as tiny back then, as they are now. High waisted, tight elastic band biting into my skin, or maybe I already needed one size bigger panties. Topped with pantyhose, because it was chilly, and that's another elastic band, even tighter, because those fucking pantyhose supposed to make you look slimmer, and they fucking do, at the expense of comfort, that is. Try to eat in those or climb inside a low sports car and spend a couple of hours on the road after a hearty breakfast. All that plus a short tweed jacket, I was feeling nauseous in no time. For a few good days after that I was giddy and happy, I thought that I got pregnant. Fortunately, I didn't say anything to Aldous, because I was not. But that morning I just felt woozy and about to throw up all over that skanky red convertible, roof closed, because remember, it was cold when we left the hotel. 

We stopped on the side of the road. I climbed out of the car, ripped the jacket off, panting for some fresh air. Grey olive trees on the endless hills, clear blue skies, yada yada yada.

“What's wrong, Elizabeth?” Aldous asked.

“The fucking elastic!” I even slid my hand through the dress and under the waistband, to reduce the pressure.

Aldous bit his lip but didn't comment on the cuss word. “Take them off.”

“Pantyhose?”

“And panties. Both.”

“Are you nuts?” I couldn't believe my ears. My strictly by-the-rules  husband was ordering me to walk around pantiless.

“Watch your mouth.” Aldous pointed his long finger at me. “Either you're taking them off, or I will take them off for you.”

“But we're driving into the city.” I mumbled, while pulling down both garments.

Aldous turned me around against the sun and looked judgmentally between my legs. “Can't see anything. Next time I expect to hear, yes sir!” He smacked my ass to drive the message home.

When we drove into Cordoba, the heat was at 35 degrees Celsius, or 95 Fahrenheit. I was grateful not to have anything on but my bright yellow summer dress, smooth cotton rubbing against my bare ass, summer breeze not meeting any barrier between my legs. It turned me on so much, my secret pantiless state of undress and the sudden smack from before, I was afraid that my wetness would stain the dress for everyone to see. I sneaked into every restroom I could to check on my dress.

We did a tour of Mezquita first, and I took a thousand obligatory pictures of striped arches and columns. We saw Romani women on the streets, selling red carnations. I don't know how, but from some deep childhood memory from a thousand miles away, I did recognize them by the traditional clothes. We had an ice-cold gazpacho for lunch and a seafood paella, yellow from a generous amount of Spanish saffron, washed it down with a classic sangria made out of local wine and oranges. Life was good.

Aldous was always on the mission to plump me up. Either as a security that I would never go back to dancing, or even then he already had something else in mind, certain long-term plans for my rounding ass. I didn't think about any of it on that day. 

Life was good and careless

In the yellow dress

Breeze between my legs

Saying yes sir yes

Picture of the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba (Mezquita) from Wikipedia.

X is for xxxx

Dear diary,

First, an explanation, xxxx is not a euphemism for anything but a simple stand-in for the word that slipped my mind, that I have to come back later and replace with a real word. I read a great piece of advice once: when writing, don't interrupt the flow, let it spill on the page without consulting with any thesaurus or synonym lists, just get it out there, the first draft. The article suggested using a rare word as a stand-in, like elephant or penguin, unless you're writing about penguins. I took it one step further and use xxxx. It stands out and is hard to miss, like a sore thumb, raising its little hands, waiving, here, here, pick me, fix me. The only question remains, who are Red and Wolf in the story? Are they stand-ins for someone else, or can they stand on their own? Only time will tell, and right now it's time to get back to the story.

The odd branches broke under the stranger's feet, closer and closer, as he walked back from the creek. Then the sounds of two quick blows that Wolfie, a fan of the five second rule, does when he picks the toast from the floor. 

“Why are you still here, Red?” Finally, Wolfie's own growling voice, muffled by the poppy seed pastry. “I gave you such a long head start, and you didn't use it,” he huffed. “You could've been home by now, bolting the door. Not that it would stop me.”

I jumped on my feet and turned around to face the smug bastard. “Do you have any fucking idea, how much you scared me?” I pushed his chest.

“Language, or you will get extra with these lovely fresh switches.” He picked the willow branches, he just cut, from the ground.

“How could I move, if…” I stopped mid sentence. I didn't dare to move, because that's how it always was with Wolfie. If I'm told to hold still, I hold still. In my frightened stupor I just stayed bent over, the way he left me. The blood coloured my cheeks with embarrassment.

“Oh no, you didn't notice, you weren't tied to the tree?” He licked off crumbs stuck in the corner of his mouth with his long tongue. Something in my eyes told him that his game plan backfired, and it's time to dial down. He pulled me to his chest, and I was happy to bury my nose in his fur. “Darling, did you think it was a stranger?” I nodded in silence. “In my forest?” He put an exaggerated emphasis on the word ‘my’. “No one will ever touch you in my forest. I know everything that's going on. Do you remember to whom all the animals report here?” I nodded some more. “It was getting dark, so I decided to meet you halfway. With some fresh switches I cut on my way. You fought so lovely, I had to tie your wrists, and then cut some more. I guess I overdid it.” He kissed the top of my head. I froze but for a different reason, Wolfie was apologizing. “I mean, if you say you were scared, I definitely overdid it. I'm sorry, I never want you to feel unsafe, that's not how we play.”

“If I knew for sure that it was you, I guess, it would be fine.” I blurted out my darkest fantasy. And immediately I felt a familiar twitch against my stomach.

“Can we pick up from the part where I brought more switches?” he whispered in my ear and guided me back to the tree trunk.

With the hood over my head again, all I could see were his big feet on the ground and feel his big hands, baring and caressing my ass. The old words felt as right as ever.

“What big hands you have! Oww!” Wolfie was already giving me a warm-up with his hand.

“The better to smack your ass with.” Sweet mother of Jell-O, with hands like that, who needs anything else. Well, Wolfie does. I heard the holy xxxx of the belt buckle.

“Ouch! What a big heavy belt you have!” I tried to rub my butt, but the willow knot held my hands in place.

“The better to show you how much I care about you.” Wolfie gave me a rub himself. “The better to mark you.” He marked me alright. I won't be able to sit tomorrow, if not for the Princess Red pillow, as Wolfie called it.

“What a big cock you have!” I decided to spruce it up a bit.

“My naughty Red.” He hugged me from behind, pressing his big cock against my butt and wrapping his big arms around me. “The better to stretch your pretty lips. To wear you inside out. To bruise you where nothing else can.” 

“What big arms you have!” I threw in a fourth one, wishing for the moment to last longer.

“The better to carry you away, after I'm done with you.” He stepped back. “You will not talk me out of using these fresh switches, young lady!” 

W is for Wolf

Dear diary,

Here is the story of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf you haven't heard before. There are many variations out there, but I hope that mine will bring something new to the table. Like blueberry pies and homemade cherry liqueur.

This here Wolf bakes some great blueberry pies, he learned from my grandmother herself. And I make the cherry liqueur, they go pretty well together, like Wolf and I. Oh, where are my manners? I'm Red.

I've been called Red my whole life, since the village store ran out of fabric of any tolerable colour but red, and my mom made me that silly riding hood. Now the only red garments that grace my body are the red leather garter belt and matching thong and bra that Wolfie ordered online. Of course, they are one size too small, and my boobs pop out of the bra, and the garter belt barely fits, because he still sees me as that skinny long-legged flat-stomached teenager he met in the forest. Of age, I said, of age, a full nineteen and a half years old, technically a teenager that he met in the forest. We built a house there in that forest, more of a cabin, we don't need much space. It's either the kitchen, or the bedroom most of the time, and the green velvet couch, no TV. Far enough from any unexpected visitors, far enough for anyone to hear me scream, because Wolfie doesn't hold back, and I do scream. A lot.

It's been a while since I walked through the forest all by myself in the dusk. I thought I would make it home in time, and I would if I didn't stop by at Grandma's to chat and to pick up those poppyseed swirls with cinnamon. It's almost like a croissant dough that melts in your mouth, and it pisses Wolfie off that he can't make them the same, he tried many times. So I sneak out for those yummy treats once in a while, for him and for myself. We both watch calories these days, so I ate two on the way home. I don't need anyone to roll their eyes and pull the belt out over two tiny poppyseed swirls! And, yes, I will spill the beans to him on Friday during my weekly confession time over his lap.

Everything was fine and dandy until I felt that someone was following me. It's a forest, with many small animals living here, so a twig breaking here, a branch there would not worry me. But it was getting darker by the minute, and I felt like someone's dark shadow was moving along the path. At first I thought it was Wolfie, trying to protect me quietly and might surprise me any minute now. But, no, I stopped and called his name, and heard nothing but the creek in the nearby valley.

One of the old oaks fell and blocked the path after the last hurricane. Wolfie chopped it piece by piece to clear the path, but he wasn't done with it yet, the tree trunk was too big, and I had to step off the path into the dark to go around. That's when he got me.

First he pulled the hood over my eyes, and then threw me on top of the trunk and lifted my skirt, pretty much the same way Wolf bends me over the arm of the green velvet couch, except it was not him. That made my blood boil and freeze at the same time, as I would die if anyone touches me the same way as Wolfie, and he would definitely kill anyone who would even dare to touch me. 

The stranger behind me came prepared. He quickly tied my wrists behind my back with long willow branches. This part of the path was the closest to the creek with the tallest willow trees along the bank. When he grabbed me, he knocked out the flower basket from my hand, and the poppyseed swirls covered with wildflowers all scattered to the ground. After living with Wolfie for so many years, my sense of smell and hearing became almost as good as his. The smell of cinnamon from the swirls hit my nose, and then I heard the chomping sound, a pause, probably to pick up another pastry, and more chomping. I was standing there, blindfolded, tied up, with my bare ass on display, and he was devouring the sweets. In my outraged panic, I was trying to make any sense out of it. The stranger was clearly not in a hurry. Then I heard his receding steps to the left of me, towards the creek, and later on, the sounds of someone breaking and ripping off the willow branches. Or in Wolfie’s language, cutting switches.

The picture of Little Red Riding Hood is by J. W. Smith from Wikipedia

V is for Velvet

 

Dear diary,

I thought of many words that start with V. Vicious, vile, vengeance came to mind. I'm not seeking vengeance anymore, karma will eventually get everyone who did me wrong. But vile things keep happening to me, none of them I wish to share in my diary, a home of my happy place.

When I think of a truly happy place, I see a green velvet couch. I don't know where it will be, in which house or even in which country, but I can see the couch so clearly. Apparently, they are a thing, both on the internet and in real life. An interior design darling for many years, unassuming soft velvet in any shape and form, I prefer those with big tufted arms, so comfortable to bend over. In many hues of green, from British racing green to dark khaki and back to lemony neon green of tennis balls. For me, the more neutral and soothing the colour is, the better, because many nasty and naughty things will happen on and around that green velvet couch, or sofa, as Nick would call it. 

With blankets and throws, so soft and cozy, folded neatly at the end of the day or left crumpled in the corner, to cover, to hide, to cuddle, to keep warm, to fight the inevitable chills I get at the end. With an array of oversized pillows in magenta, baby pink, and orange, some made of leather, some shaggy, some in matching velvet, each to play its own role, to fit under the right limb, to tuck, to prop, to lift. 

Right now I'm bent over the back of the couch, face down and hands clutching the pillows, naked from the waist down, my ass sticking high in the air. Not my favourite position, just a nudge better than the dreadful legs up, but I can decipher why Nick chose it. With my high heels on, my ass is at the perfect height for the main event, for him to fuck me after. 

Not sure why people call it a main event, as for us the main event starts when he guides me over and throws a blanket over the couch, not so much to protect the couch from the aftermath, but for my comfort and arousing soft touch of the fabric against my naked skin. Or even earlier, when he announces the verdict, how many strikes and with what I deserve for my imaginable crimes. Or what roleplay is in the cards, out of a long list I confessed to him earlier. I live and breathe for the moment he takes my hand in his and announces, “It's time.”

My crime today was leaving the pool toys in the pool and, gasp, a martini glass made out of real glass on one of the floats. In my dreams I drink martinis with extra olives, smoke an occasional cigarette, and wear skimpy bathing suits. This time it was an orange bikini, two tiny triangles over my tits and a thong, with full access to my butt cheeks. Nick still had to make a show of taking it off me and gagging me with it, for some peace and quiet, as he noted. 

A potential broken glass was a serious crime that required an equally serious weapon, so Nick brought out the cane. Nough said. The martini glass was obviously made out of clear plastic, I would never go near the pool with real glass, but Nick was itching to try the new cane on me, hence the big crime. 

“Why can't you be more careful? Why do I have to resort to the cane?” He tapped my butt cheek lightly.

I mumbled through the bikini bottom. 

Nick was faced with a dilemma, either the gag is out, or his speech will become a monologue. He loved my smart mouth more than his peace and quiet, and the gag was out with a caution. “That was a rhetorical question, keep it quiet, or I will gag you again.”

I just nodded in agreement. In the dream, Nick was as funny and clumsy as in real life. We've already fooled around on the same green velvet couch and knocked down the whisky tumbler he left on the side table. The next half an hour we spent on all four, trying to find all the broken glass pieces and shaking off the rug. Since I was already on all four, one thing led to another, and the first round, forewarned by some nice warm-up with a leather paddle, was out of the way. 

I didn't invent that trick: cum first, spank later. I read about it and always wanted to try. Today it just happened without any planning, and I could see it by the playful glint in Nick's eyes, he was happy to take it off my bucket list.

Maybe my martini glass was imaginable, but my ass was paying for Nick's own mistake. Kind of the same way like the birthday spanking works. It might be his birthday, but I will be getting the spanking, to his and my delight. On the same green velvet couch.

PS Picture from Tumbler.

U is for Ugly

Dear diary,

Real life got so ugly that the only thing that stands between me and insanity are my delusional dreams. Doesn't make much sense to me but I summon the mind reader Nick, like a Genie in the bottle, to fix what cannot be fixed. In the hope that he will wave the magic wand, in this case my own pink Hitachi, and will right the wrong. Yes, I still cannot touch myself. I barely wash myself down there, which is utterly disgusting. I'm torn apart between craving the release and inability to make it happen. So, maybe Nick Dreamson, armed with extra RPMs, will be my ungodly saviour. I take a more comfortable position than in the dream, lying on my back, legs open, Hitachi in my right hand, and close my eyes. Action!

In the dream, the kitchen table was covered with the fluffy orange blanket, the same one I liked to cocoon in when watching TV on the couch in Ibiza or reading a book till I fell asleep. I was wearing nothing but the red leather garter belt and a thong with matching heels. Nick ordered me to lie on my back, so I did and lifted the legs up. The wooden spatula in Nick's hand was a pretty good indication of what he had in mind. Wrong!

“I'm not going to touch you,” Nick embarked on his let-go speech, pausing for a thunderous crack now and then. “But I will help you.” Smack! “That's what I do.” Smack! “I help you.”

“Oww!”

“When you need me the most.” Smack! “When you need to feel safe.” Smack! “Do you feel safe?”

“Yes, sir!” I cried into an empty room. That damn wooden spatula turned into a heavy hairbrush in my hand, with a menacing rhythm lulling me away from everything I wanted to leave behind. 

“Do you feel taken care of?” Smack! Mister Dreamson was not holding back.

“I do, I do!” My foot in a heavy shoe kicked and almost hit Nick's forehead.

“You're a danger to society. Scoot back,” he tapped my butt with his spatula. I wiggled back from the edge a bit. “More, more.” He kept tapping till I was almost a foot from the edge, still holding my legs up, knees together. “Heels down on the table.”

I froze mid-air. That meant to open my legs wide open in front of Nick.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Nick slapped my thighs hard. “Did I ever hurt you?”

“No!”

“Did I ever wrong you?” Smack! He was using the spatula like a riding crop, effortlessly reaching for my burning butt.

“No!” I opened my legs quickly and cupped myself with one hand, waiting for another reprimand. 

“That's my girl,” Nick chirped. He bent my knees and put my feet on the edge of the table. High heels dug into the blanket and prevented it from sliding off. “Now, be a doll and show me how you do it.”

“Do what?” I squeezed my mound, stalling, waiting for the direct order.

“Please yourself, of course.” Nick cooed. “Come on, darling.” With the spatula handle he moved the thong to the side. “Show me the works.”

“May I please use Hitachi?” I rolled my hips, to cover the embarrassment of the question.

“All in due time.” He caressed the back of my leg with the spatula, sending shivers down my spine, shivers of pleasure. “I will help you.” He tapped my butt in short but stingy strikes. “I will deliver you to the promised land.” Dreamson dropped a Passover reference.

A Chinese water torture, a metronome. My mind couldn't process any thought but that relentless slow tapping. He won't stop until I will not give in. What am I waiting for, if I want it more than anything else? My fingers slid between the folds for the first time in forever and I shuddered from the familiar feel, how amazing it felt, the forgotten slippery wetness around the engorged clit, desperate for the touch. Nothing can be compared to pleasuring yourself with your own fingers. Poor brain overwhelmed with the sensory overload from both the clit and the fingers, which sensation is the strongest, which one will win. Like an electric circuit, sending sparks galore, pushing further towards an inevitable finish line. All that accompanied by the slow tap on my ass, incapable to register the pain anymore, only one short sting of pleasure at a time.

“Hands off!” Nick's voice yanked me from the so-close mountain top. He nudged my hand to the side with the same spatula that became an extension of his hand for the night. I just noticed, as promised, he didn't touch me there, not even once. “Let me see you.”

“It's ugly!” I cried out and covered my face with my hands.

“Don't you dare to call my pussy ugly!” He smacked my mound with the spatula. “You know what will make it even more beautiful?”

“No!”

“Painting it red!” With one hand, he lifted my ankle off the table and pushed it up. “Hold it!” I grabbed one ankle, he held to the other. Now, I was really opened wide. “Put your hand back and keep going.”

I slid my hand in between my legs. I was so fucking close, he could've taken out a Scottish tawse, it wouldn't stop me. Nick knew exactly where to aim, alternating between my swollen outer lips and my aching butt. If my brain was overwhelmed before, now it short circuited for real. 

I was lost in time and space. I don't know how long he kept me there, on the edge between ugly and beautiful, between pain and pleasure. An ugly duckling no more, I soared and soared on my amazing white wings. Over the ocean, over the mountain tops, to the brightest star, to get burnt and fall to the ground, and like a phoenix, to come back to life from ashes and to soar again and again.

Q is for Questions

Dear diary,

I cannot believe I skipped letter Q, and no one told me. Nice joke, who could've told me, if it's a diary, right? And no one will ever read it but me. Q, such a precious letter, worth a whopping ten points in Scrabble. I've never had enough time and later, a relationship that was normal enough to play Scrabble. Will I ever do those things, like playing board games, trimming rose bushes, or touching up that white fence with a paintbrush?

Interesting that in English the word ‘question' does start with Q, but none of the question words do. What, where, when, why, and who, all start with W, something to explore when the time comes for letter W. Quite different from all other Romance languages. A useful Q is at the head of many important phrases, like Quo Vadis,  Que Sera, Sera, or Quelle Surprise.

Gotcha ya, didn't I? Beside English, I'm fluent in French and Spanish, and somewhat understand Italian. Why does everyone assume that the ballet dancers are dumb and good only for stretching their legs or better spreading them? No, I didn't read Anna Karenina or Don Quixote, I danced in them.  Didn't end up well for me, but what a girl to do with all the spare time, all of a sudden? Fortunately, that house in Hudson Valley had a magnificent library, passed down through generations. A comfy leather couch, a book, and a snack, that's how I spend my lazy afternoons, with Aldous back in the city.

Questions, questions, questions. The biggest one being, why the real Nick, from what I could observe in the little time I spent with him, very much liked to be led, behind closed doors, and I was fine with it. Admittedly, the kinkiest thing we tried was the lotus position. While in my dreams, Nick always takes charge, no matter how much I whine or hesitate, we end up doing things his way. And in my dreams, we do everything imaginable.

“Why is this night different from all others?” My sincere apologies for stealing the sacred line from the Passover story. A story that dates back to the Middle Ages and being retold at every Passover table every year all around the world. Let my people go. No, I'm not Jewish, but my closest friend N. is. I happened to spend the Passover week with her and her family in Brooklyn years ago. Her husband's family is Orthodox, she became Orthodox because of him. It's a way of life that can only be compared to the Amish. Passover is a high holiday, everything and everyone has a purpose and a special meaning. The lamb shank bone on the Passover plate represents the sacrifice. The nuts and wine mix is similar to a mortar used to lay the bricks of the pyramids in Egypt. The egg is, of course, a symbol of life. Bitter herbs remind of the bitterness of slavery. Avadim hayinu, we were slaves, another famous line. Talk about holding grudges, N. joked. All that happened six thousand years ago. 

My job, since I didn't know how to cook or clean properly, was to practice that single line in Hebrew with N.’s youngest son, back then he was three years old. A question that the little boy will ask as part of the retelling of the Exodus story, ma nishtana. The little boy already knew how to sing all the songs, but it's one thing to sing together, and a completely different one, to recite the question, loud and clear, in front of a table with thirty relatives. “Why is this night different from all others?”

I will burn in hell, I have no shame mixing up the memories of that truly blessed night with my smut ridden fantasies. But my question still stands, isn't it the holy grail of all of our perverted dreams, to combine the divine with the sin? To mold it into divine smut?

T is for Trying

Dear diary,

We are all trying. Sometimes trying to get better, to achieve certain goals, to heal. My real life took another unexpected turn to the worst, I didn't know how that was even possible. I'm still stupidly refusing to call for any help, trying to dig out of this hole all by myself. My only distraction from the nightmare I'm living through are my dreams and my writing. I write them down whenever I have free time, which is very little these days, trying not to miss any details of my as elaborate as ever fantasies.

But Nick of my dreams, he doesn't need to try, he is already perfect. Real life monsters brought to life were utterly ugly, the more famous Frankenstein and the less famous Golem of Prague. 

Since Nick was both real and dreamt up, he was perfect, in the looks department too. Standing tall at six foot two, no gray hair in sight, no extra pounds around the waistline. Suits bespoke, shoes shined, hair trimmed, five o'clock stubble exactly at five o'clock, cock always at twelve, and his spunk tasted like he was on a steady pineapple diet.

And right now he was where we left him, in that spacious log cabin kitchen, combing through the utensils drawer. I opened the fridge for the third time to stare at the same dainty merengue concoction with raspberries and strawberries on top. Of course, it's the same cake! Even in dreams the cakes don't change from opening the fridge door a few times. “We have Pavlova for dessert. Are you ok with it?”

“There should be ice cream in the freezer, if you don't want it. Wait, why? You brought it, but you don't want it? It's not about the dessert, isn't it?” He tried something wooden against his palm and cursed under his breath. “I propose to start with dessert. Any preference?” 

A different tapping sound yanked me from the stupor. Nick raised one eyebrow, his signature move, at the artful arrangement he laid out on the counter: a wooden spatula and two long stirring spoons. I knew he would go for the spatula, as it resembled the riding crop in shape and was the least domestic looking. 

“All more or less the same,” I shrugged my shoulders, projecting my real life anxiety into the dream.

“What's wrong, love? You don't sound your usual self. Let me help you.” He cleared the long reclaimed wood table of the flower vase with white tulips. All flowers in my dreams resembled lotus flowers lately, no Dr Jung needed. 

I just noticed that I was wearing nothing but a red hearts on white apron, barely covering my tits, might be a nice sideview for his eyes only. The red leather garter belt and thong couldn't really count as clothing. And the red heels complimented my mile long legs. My legs aren't bad, but I think I can also benefit from some fantasy exaggeration. My whole outfit had a rather interesting contrast with Nick's grey sweatpants and white t-shirt combo, another cliche, known as a lazy Sunday boyfriend attire. Again, Dr Jung can take a day off.

“But… but we eat on this table,” I hesitated.

“I knew you would say it,” my mind reader walked back into the kitchen, holding a fluffy orange blanket. One smooth move, and the blanket covered the table like a tablecloth. Nick tapped again, this time the blanket absorbed the sounds, but just seeing his hand buried in the orange folds was doing things to me I didn't want to admit even in a dream. “Hop on, darling, we have plenty of time.”

“No, we don't. The timer is going to go off any time.” I whined some more. Nick lifted me up and plopped on the edge of the table. That blanket sure felt good against my naked thighs.

“I'm very much capable of turning the oven off.” Nick stepped in between my legs and took my apron off. “When the timer will go off.”

“I feel like I'm on a clock.” I looked at the floor.

“Let's hear it out.” Nick glanced at the oven. “There's about forty minutes left. What's the worst that can happen if you don't take it out on time?”

“The lamb will get a bit dry?” I posed it as a question.

“I assure you, I can live with that.” Nick walked over to the oven and looked at the controls. “And if I turn it off right now and leave the lamb inside?”

“I guess it will get ready, maybe a bit rare.”

“Choose one, Izzie.” Nick cranked up the sternness. 

“Turn it off,” I said. “Please.” I heard the beep, and the oven lights went off.

“On your back, Izzie, and relax.” Nick ordered from the other end of the room.

I dropped on my back, legs in the air. Like a clock, my hands flew above my head to grab onto the soft blanket.  “I'm trying!”

S is for Salad

 

Dear diary,

I found a fantastic Mediterranean place here with a salad to die for. Don't get me wrong, I've been on a steady salad diet for the better part of my life and watching every cookie crumb, but not since I stopped dancing. What cookie? I didn't know back then how proper cookies look, let alone how they taste. Now I'm a carbs connoisseur and a carnivore through and through, nose to tail. I will write a separate ode to carbs later, but I'm sure that the meat lovers like me are the reason the French restaurants still serve veal kidneys. Bring on the beef tartare with raw yolk, smuggle foie gras across the Canadian border, hide haggis in the checked-in luggage. Whether you call it terrine, p’tcha, or cholodetz, I will eat it, with a spoonful of your strongest mustard or horseradish. 

Aldous introduced me to the world of real food, and there is no other city in the world like New York to indulge in it. But Chef Stuart put that final touch to my food journey by teaching me how to cook. When you know, and I mean, you really know how to dissect, filet, and shuck, chop, dice, and julienne, whisk, knead, and prove, sear, blanch, and braise, you develop a new appreciation for every plate of food prepared by someone else for you.

That was quite a good preamble for the further praise of a salad, isn't it? Because it was not your everyday salad. Although it was called a Fattoush salad on the menu, there was not much in common with the traditional dish. If anything, it was a Ferrari of Fattoush salads!

Lettuce for bland crunchiness and honey roasted hazelnuts for sweet crunchiness, cooked golden beets for soft sweetness, both sweet and sour pomegranate seeds, bitter radicchio, salty and crunchy pita bites. Pickled red onions, crumbled feta, marinated artichokes, and Kalamata olives, all added a heavy dose of umami, that quintessential cherry on top, finished with a lemon-y dressing. 

It was served deconstructed, mixed at the table, as is the fashion these days. It looked beautiful when compartmentalized, each ingredient in a neat pile of goodness, and even better mixed all together. An attack on all senses that smelled like heaven and highly addictive, I had two helpings from the huge bowl, still couldn't finish, and devoured the leftovers at home.

When I fell asleep, I had a dream. I was making this salad for Nick, of course I substituted ingredients left and right, in my usual manner, and Nick nibbled on everything while I chopped them on a giant wooden board. We were alone, in some oversized log cabin with a surprisingly well equipped kitchen and fully stocked fridge. I even mixed up fresh tahini for the dressing. 

The bottle of red wine had merely anything left in it. The salad was almost ready. The lamb in the oven smelled of rosemary and lemon and lamb. The timer showed forty-five minutes left to cook. 

R is for Real

Dear diary,

What is real? The dark shadow hanging over me or the white sand of the beach?  The clear baby blue sky that reflects in the still turquoise of the warm ocean? The myriads of small islands on the horizon, covered with greenery, as seen only in this part of the world? I choose real. I have to choose real, if I want to make it.

It's so similar and different from Ibiza. Same crowds of tourists, though more families with children here, maybe because I'm not on the partying island. Better for me, less chance to run into someone I know. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I wonder how small the world actually is, an oversized village. No matter to which bubble you belong, you're bound to bump into your peeps. Not interested.

I bought a couple of long summer dresses. It's not unheard of here, and no one bats an eye at someone covered head to toe on the beach, in jarring contrast with the bikini-clad or thong-only crowd. My new tan lines will be on my ankles, and so be it. The long dress with the sleeves solves so many problems at once. No one will stare at my old scar on the left arm that runs from the wrist to the inside of the elbow. No one will see the bruises on my thighs and my butt cheeks, which I replenish regularly with the help of my faithful bath brush. No one will take a second look at the woman in such a dress, wide-brimmed hat, and big sunglasses. Perfect, I don't want to be seen.

I spend most of my time on the beach, my happy place, doing real things. I alternate between writing in my diary and drawing in the sketch book. Yes, I went back to drawing and doodling and calligraphy. I have nowhere to cook here, and why to bother? Food is cheap, tasty, and plentiful. I can't dance, I have no space and no desire. Dancing got shoved onto the farthest back burner. So, it's me versus paper. Blank pages never scared me, I could always find words and images to fill them with.

Like now, I'm filling the page with my top recurring fantasy, a portrait of a man, who looks suspiciously like Nick, in navy whites, taking his aviator sunglasses off. Full disclosure, I do not like men in uniform. That confession got me in trouble once, but that's a different story. But navy whites, there is something about them. Before Nick , there were three candidates who wore them best. First, the original officer and the gentleman, Richard Gere. Then, that dude from JAG, I watched a few reruns, kind of like the X Files, but instead of chasing UFOs, they were a couple of lawyers in the navy, with plenty of opportunities to wear navy whites. And the third but definitely not last one is Tom Ellis himself in Miranda, a British comedy most Americans have never heard of, unless they are Lucifer fans. I think he was impersonating the original officer and the gentleman, but who cares, such eye candy. 

You would probably wonder, how in the time like this I can talk about eye candies. Quite a whiplash, right? In my last entry I wrote that I can't imagine anyone ever touching me again, and now this. I will try to be my own shrink and make some sense out of it. When something bad happens to me, I cocoon and hide from the real world. This time I deliberately make the real world my cocoon and invite this one fantasy into it, as my anchor. 

In the absence of real shrinks, I became an expert in deciphering and psychoanalyzing my own dreams and fantasies. Of course, the man in navy whites is a stand-in for the knight in the shining armour to rescue the damsel in distress, me. And the white limo represents the white horse. Right? Wrong. Limo, because we need enough space and privacy to put me over his knee, flip my summer dress up, and… Hmm, if Nick wears those white gloves, his hand will hurt less, good point. Now, no more interrupting.

He will only spank me, no touching. One step at a time. He will go slow over my sheer white panties. Not much of a protection, but I don't make the rules. No, first he will unbutton that white jacket, too formal and not too comfortable especially with a squirming woman over his knees. Because I will squirm and make ungodly sounds after a couple of dozen swats. Then he will slide off my panties and put them in my mouth, despite all my protests. Again, I don't make the rules. He will say that even with the partition up, the driver can hear me, and we can't have that, do we? He will spank me long and hard, while holding me tight, my hand on the small of my back covered with his. He will rub my butt and whisper, good girl, I got you, everything will be alright. He will take me back to my hotel, tuck me in bed, and sit with me until I fall asleep, which won't take long. And when I will wake up, everything will be a little bit better. For real.

The picture is of Tom Ellis from Miranda TV show.

P is for Punishment

Dear diary,

My life will never be the same after what happened two days ago. Whatever good was left in me, was killed. I know I cannot say that in my situation. I promise not to do anything to myself, but I will never be the same.

And it's all my fault. Some people are poison, they do not deserve to live. I'm glad I didn't kill her, for a very practical reason. What if it will ever come out? They won't let me, the murderer, back in the States, and I will eventually have to go back. As always, I live on borrowed time, only in this case I chose the wrong place to borrow it.

It's all my fault. Why did I run away? I could've stayed and waited it out. No celebrity scandal lasts forever, fifteen minutes of fame pass, and there is a new set of someone else’s dirty laundry to air, to sniff, to lick. Fucking vultures chased me away from the place I was safe. The island had its share of stray and unwanted, but at the end of the day, I was surrounded by people who had my back. How did I end up half a world away and on my own with no one to trust? And chose to trust the wrongest one.

I can't even imagine if I will ever let anyone near me. Or touch me in the way I like to be touched. Even Nick. I used to like touch so much, I craved it in any form, whether for pain or pleasure or both. Not ever. Can't even look at my body. Disgusting… Look what I'm wearing, a floor-length potato sack. 

It's all my fault. Trusting her, putting myself in harm's way. Aldous was right, I'm not allowed to put myself in harm's way, and if I do, I should be punished. A crazy thought crossed my mind, to call Aldous, of all people who can come and rescue me. Aldous will hop on the plane and will be here tomorrow. He will punish me alright, to the point I won't be able to sit for a week, kiss it better, and then whisk me away on the first plane home. 

Why on earth would I think of Aldous at this horrendous moment, the man who was a horror himself, when I finally got rid off him, as much as you can ever get rid off someone like Aldous? Because of the punishment. I need a punishment. No one in the world can punish me as badly as Aldous. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, just to have it done to me, to get over it. I cannot live on otherwise. In my wicked twisted mind, there is no other way to get over it. Unless… I will write more a bit later.

I'm back.

Right after I thought that there is no other way, I found the other way. To do it myself. I'm writing right now, in bed, lying on my stomach, because there is no way I will be able to sit or lie on my back for the next few days. I did it. I fetched the bath brush from my suitcase, I was carrying it around all these years, just in case. A bath brush is no match to a hairbrush, let me tell you. Anyone who watched The Secretary can swat their ass with a hairbrush a few times and pretend they are one of us. A long and heavy bath brush, better if one that was actually used for washing one's back, not a smooth and polished hairbrush, that's something you can be really punished with. Being in a desperate helpless rage as I was, helps too. 

I chose the worst position as pain goes and surprisingly the easiest one to reach, the famous diaper position. Hate the term, I like to call it legs-up. Flat on my back with legs up and folded in half, I held tightly under the knees with my left hand. The right hand clutched the very end of the handle. And it worked. After a while, I got into a steady punishing rhythm. No one in the world could've stopped me at that moment or open the iron grip. I got bruises from my fingers, just above the back of my knees, from holding too tight. My ass, don't even ask, I delivered more than I bargained for. 

Do I feel better now? Not by much. I will repeat it, maybe more than once. But one thing is clear, if I could deliver this punishment all by myself, I will make it. I don't need anyone. I will stay here as long as I want, by myself.

O is for Open

Dear diary,

The best two pleasant ways to forget about all my problems were food and sleep, as the other two, alcohol and sex, were currently out of question. There are perks in flying business, the food was delicious. Or I think, it was. I've been on a munching spree since recently. 

I ordered a Mediterranean cheese board, more of an open sandwich after I assembled everything my way: grilled halloumi on a toasted slice of baguette, topped with some fig jam, and a side of marinated grapes. I didn't gobble it down, I inhaled it. Just writing about it makes me want to have another one. I even wrote a silly poem.

Nom nom nom

Feel the warmth

Grilled halloumi 

Cut or torn

Jammy goodness

Tops the toast

Grapes been cooked

All hail the host!

In this case, the host was the airline, and I was happily dozing off. Beats me how, must've been all the sugar. So I napped, I always fall asleep on the planes, especially on the flights as long as this one. Not in the mood to watch any movies, besides, who needs movies with dreams like mine? And what movies, pray tell, feature good old-fashioned spankings on the bare? There are many, with not much of a storyline, but they don't show them on planes haha. Side note, I don't like the woman sitting on the right of me. She's been trying to snoop since I opened my notebook. Guess what, in my dream I saw what happened next. Remember, where we left? On a cliffhanger, of course, I was pinned down to the ping pong table with my panties dangling around my knees.

In dreams everyone is a mind reader and knows what the other person thinks and likes. Everyone is an open book, no instructions required. Nick felt my hesitation. I was eager for the spanking to start and squirmy at the same time. He had never spanked me with the ping pong racquet. I tried to calm myself, the racquet had a thick padding, so it shouldn't be as bad as a wooden one. But after seeing Nick's swing, who knows how hard he will go on me. With a swing like that anything can turn into a formidable weapon of ass destruction, even a hand.

He leaned over me, his big frame blanketing mine. I felt him everywhere, his whisky breath on my cheek, his chest crushing me into the table, his belt buckle pressing against my naked butt.

“Are you scared?” Nick whispered.

“A little bit,” I whispered back.

“Isn't it what you wanted?”

“Yeah but…”

“You know how much I love your butt. What do you want me to do with it? And why are we whispering?”

“We're off the record. Just go with it.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright, young lady,” Nick cleared his throat and switched back to his stern but somewhat inebriated voice. “Don't count yet. First come the extras for cursing.”

He was still lying on top of me. He shifted slightly to the side to open up the access to my right butt cheek and patted it with the paddle. “Breathe.”

Why did he decide on a fast and hard barrage of six in the row on the same spot, all the while holding me tight? I was an open book to him, he was an open book to me. No clues, no hints, no masks. To show me the worst and to assure me, he's still with me in it. For better or worse. Whatever fucked up game I will steer him into, he's with me.

The rest didn't really matter. Nick straightened up and delivered the promised fifteen or sixteen, my math gets woozy in the dreams, alternating the cheeks, of the perfect Goldilocks variety. He made me count, not the full version: one sir, thank you sir, may I have another, but an abridged version. While rubbing my butt after, his fingers slid inside and confirmed the obvious. We carried on with another match, forgetting the score and giggling often. I lost by twelve points only, which were generously doled out on the same table. 

I don't remember much from the last match, except that I ended up bent over the wide and comfy arm of that famous green velvet couch and stayed there for a while. We shed the rest of our clothes. We didn't count, we didn't care. I didn't need to ask for more, Nick didn't hesitate. Laid out in front of him, every inch of me. Open.

Picture from Instagram.

N is for Need

Dear diary,

Here we meet again. I bought a new notebook at the airport and now have three hours before my next flight. Plenty of time to finish that ping pong story. Real life is so bad, I have to stick with my happy place, and writing down these fantasies seems to do the trick just fine. So, without further ado, I will get back where I left myself in the dream. On the floor.

Spread-eagled on the rug in front of the green velvet sofa, I tried to get the damn ball out with the help of my ping pong racquet. The damn sofa, as Nick called it, was way too low to fit my hand with the racquet. While trying to rescue the stuck ball, I pondered whether he would spank me with his paddle or the one I'm holding, to make it even more humiliating. I squirmed at the thought and pushed my knees together.

“Tsk-tsk, keep them open, bad girl, and hurry. Ain't got the whole day.” Nick's attempt at the Southern twang was funny. He bounced another ball on his paddle. Of course, there was a full box of fifty ping pong balls, an unlimited supply, conveniently set on the same side table as a crystal decanter full of whisky, his other unlimited supply. 

“Why am I a bad girl?” Back to the ping pong table, I pouted my lips. “I want to be a good girl.”

“You're always my good girl, when you don't keep me waiting.” Now Nick was hitting the ball high up and catching it with the other hand.

The addition of ‘my’ to compulsory ‘good girl’ is known to weaken the legs of the said girl. Not fair before a ping pong match. And bullshit about keeping each other waiting. That bratty anticipation banter was the best part in each dream. Getting me all warmed up, oozing with need. He knew what he was doing, a wink here, a raised eyebrow there. How I would ogle his bulge, when he would purposefully adjust himself in front of me. The perfect man of my dreams knew how to push all my buttons.

“Rally for the serve?” He bounced the ball off his side. “One, two, three,” he counted the slow rally shots. I expected the fourth to be a thunderous winner, but no, like a hungry but playful cat, he liked to toy with his pray, and graciously let me win the serve. 

I considered myself a decent player. Ping pong was Bobby's favourite leisurely activity, beside fucking, in the little time he had left off court or gym. I managed to learn a trick or two from him and got offended by Nick's overly gentlemanly attitude. But I decided not to try my luck.  He will have me no matter what, but at what cost to my ass. I did some mental math, which is always a challenge in a dream. His example of fourteen swats per match, times three, to win the best of five, meant a hefty forty something licks of a ping pong paddle. Do I really need that much? Ouch! 

Nick grinned as I rubbed my pristine butt. “What's wrong, love? Writing cheques you can't cash?”

“I will cash,” I stood my ground and served. 

Few mild shots later I missed, and it's love - one. That's zero - one for the uninitiated. Love means nothing, as the old tennis joke goes. Three serves later the score was love - four. On my fifth and last serve I managed to slam right behind the net and earn my first point, one - four. It's his serve now, and I've already seen how he serves. Nick decided he showed enough mercy and it's time to speed things up, literally. On his fourth serve, I learned to get to the ball in time. On the fifth, I played it back but still lost the point. That's nine - one to him. 

There was no chance in the world I could get any points off him on his serve, maybe a few on my own serve. Do we really need it play by play? The final score was 21 - 5. Wet hair stuck to my forehead and out of breath, luckily I wore a tank top, or I would be sweating buckets. Nick brought me a glass of cold water and took it from my hand as soon as I stopped drinking. What did he think, I would throw it in his face, cause a scene? Not my first rodeo, but definitely the first time betting my ass on a minor sporting event. Don't ask, I could foresee more betting in the future.

“I prefer to collect my debt as we go,” Nick quipped with a tap on the table. “Need proper height.”

I huffed and bent over the edge, resting my head on folded arms.

“On the bare,” he added in a stern voice, and I hastily pulled the shorts down to my knees. “How many?”

“Fifteen.”

“Sixteen. Where did you learn math?” Nick shook his head.  “I need you to count.”

M is for More

Dear diary,

The shit hit the fan in the most absurdly destructive manner. I always knew that my time on this island will eventually run out, but never expected it to happen so abruptly. To pack up the bags and leave. I'm done packing and almost ready to leave. This will be the last entry in my diary, which I intend to lock in Mister Pereira's personal safe box, just to be sure. By the way, he insisted on driving me to the airport today, what a nice man and a gentleman, through and through!

Isn't it ridiculous? The letter M is the 13th in the alphabet, concluding the first half. I could have dedicated it to the Miracle baby or the three Magic nights. Yes, you heard it right, Nick came back, I forgave him, and we had another magic night together. Or the Morning after, right before shit hit the fan. 

M could be for Magnolias. Few years back, when I was still living in New York, it snowed in April. The pink magnolias were in full bloom, each flower had a dollop of snow on top, like whipped cream on strawberry sorbet.

And yet, I chose More. In my few years here I learned to be more grateful for what I already have and stop wishing for more. It's another More that is on my mind. Not constantly, but having an ubiquitous way of reminding me of who I am. The barely audible More I whisper at one or two tentative smacks on my butt, the hesitation to ask or to prompt. The desire of finding the one whom I won't need to prompt, who will magically know the perfect Goldilocks equilibrium, between too little and too much, and deliver just that. 

I had a dream last night. I know, it sounds like a song. Since I met Nick, in my perverted dreams I substitute the faceless spanker with him. Works like magic, especially knowing what kind of magic he does deliver with the holy trifecta, his mouth, fingers, and cock.

I'm quite particular about my dreams, whether scripted, or not. In one of them, I was shot, yes, murdered, at the end of it. And while my already motionless body was laying on the floor, eyes wide open, I noticed dust bunnies and dog hair on the shaggy carpet. Appalled, I woke up. So, don't mind me when in the middle of being bent over the ping pong table, I will note that the area under the net was not properly dusted. The life of a mildly OCD person. Ping pong, that was the theme and the setting, featuring a ping pong paddle, nasty thing with the right swing. Oh, the swing Nick had.

We were just rallying, warming up. Nick was in a particularly cheerful mood that kept improving with each sip of whisky he took from the crystal tumbler on the side table. The classic nineteenth century surroundings, the curved furniture upholstered in softest hues of blue, silk Persian rugs, numerous paintings in heavy gilded frames, adorning the wallpapered walls, reminded me of the house in Hudson Valley and Nick's current abode, but it was neither, rather an unidentifiable location. The ping pong table in the middle of the room looked out of place, which didn't bother either of us.

I'm not sure at which point we made a bet. It was pretty clear why I would make such a bet, without knowing how good of a player he was. Best of five. The number of spanks will be determined by a point difference that Nick will win the match. He was courteous enough to give me an example. 

“Say, if the final score is 21 - 7, you get fourteen swats of a ping pong paddle, on the bare, of course.”

I cockily asked, “What if I win?” 

His lips stretched into a mischievous smile. “I will take a full celebratory shot of whisky.” And he cheered me with the tumbler in his hand in that Gatsby-esque gesture. 

The chutzpah! I thought, worse case scenario, the more, the better, right? I was not planning to let him crush me. 21 - 7 my ass. Pfft, who said I will lose so badly?

And then he suggested. “Want to practice serves?”

“Sure,” I nodded. “Why not?”

Remember, it's a dream, it plays at any speed I want it to play. In slow motion, he kicked the ball up, and I saw the label moving in circles. Bam! Back to the real speed. The ball hit my side of the table, changed the direction, and whooshed past me at an astounding speed. I didn't even have time to blink.

“Losers fetch the balls.” Nick motioned with the paddle towards the green velvet couch. I heard the ball still bouncing fast somewhere under it from the wicked spin.

“Where the fuck is it?” I mumbled, fussing on all four in front of the couch.

“Oh oh, you don't want to yearn extras for cursing. But, please get acquainted with the couch and let me indulge in the view.” He referred to my extra revealing shorts. “Do bend more.”

L is for Labels

Dear diary,

It's been four days since I saw Nick last time, still not a word. It looks ridiculously like ghosting, not sure if he is aware of the term. He doesn't seem like a person who would disappear from your life without saying goodbye. I should probably stop mentioning his name in this diary. I worked hard enough to keep my life private in this corner of the world. One word or one picture, and I can say goodbye to my peace and quiet.

No matter what will happen, I'm grateful for these two days. It felt so much longer, when in fact we had only two nights to ourselves. I was shocked how different he was from his public image. Don't get me wrong, Nick is a highly likable person, no matter what the circumstances are. But in the bedroom, he would shed his authoritative armour as fast as he shed his clothes. With me, he wanted to follow, not to lead. And I was comfortable telling him what I wanted.

I heard about powerful men turning submissive behind the closed door, a known trope. Seeing one in real life was an out of body experience. Nick adamantly preferred to kick back and enjoy the view. I probably went on top more times than in ten years with Aldous. This doesn't mean Nick was lazy in bed. No, he was the most generous lover, yummy cummies abound. I could see how he earned his nickname in college, Gentle Nick. With his head between one lucky girl's legs.

The only time I saw the other side of him was on the second night, in the pagoda at the beach. He pushed hard but, thankfully, backed out with grace, when he saw how vulnerable I was. I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready to hand over the reins. For me it would be five steps back, when in fact, in my ideal fantasy world, it will be ten steps forward. 

Oddly enough, in that awkward conversation we both mentioned giving and receiving, acknowledging the liquidity of power exchange. What really puts one on either side of the slash? It's not who puts what in where, and not who yields the leash, but the puppet and the puppeteer, even for a few hours at a time. 

It's not coincidental that Aldous avoided the use of labels like a plague, when it came to our relationship. I always defended him to others, a very few of those who knew bits and pieces, always insisted that our relationship was consensual. But looking back and analyzing, was it really? Aldous was a master of blurring the line, toeing the line. At the end the tables turned, the same words, camel's back, played in my head, when he disregarded my consent, plain and simple.

In the years after Aldous, I immersed myself in the vanilla world and vanilla relationships, with a rare exception of Uncle Ar and my hairbrush. And after a while, I became more selective in bruising my cervix department.

Could it be that there is a middle ground between the two worlds,  the vanilla one and the kink one? Is it possible to enjoy all the benefits of a vanilla relationship but kick it up a notch or two or a hundred when the mood strikes? To satisfy those pesky unexplainable needs? The same as one encounter with Uncle Ar, when clearly he was very much in control, driving the message home, but the message was articulated by yours truly. If I would dare to use any labels, does it make Uncle Ar a Service Dom? Or in Nick's case, a Pleasure Dom? 

Am I onto something? Isn't it what so many women want, someone to take over the control but in a perfectly prescribed way? Reign me in at my command! 

All hail Pleasure Doms! Damn labels… 

K is for Kneeling

Dear diary,

I'm in a weird place right now. After spending another night at my place, Nick and I got busted while having breakfast in a tiny café in a quiet part of town that I like, in the wee hours of the morning. I was surprised they were even open so early. No one wakes up early on this island, let alone for the sole purpose of feeding the tourists. Nick leisurely nibbled at a fluffy frittata and tried to feed some of it to me. I dozed off on his shoulder, we didn't get much sleep, as you can imagine. And yet, he was found and whisked away because, of course, he had places to be, at all times. 

It's been two days since then, and not a peep. Admittedly, he doesn't know my cell phone number, and I don't have his. Very nineteenth century of us. To send a pigeon, maybe? This affair, if you can even call it that, had no chance to last even two nights, has no place in this world, and yet, I wanted the impossible, for it to last a bit longer. Forget about all the fucking, that morning in the café I felt safe and at peace. The only other place and time I ever felt that safe was when I was kneeling. 

And the last time I knelt in front of a man was Uncle Ar. Why time and time again, I think of that single day when that man showed me his compassion and understanding? That all this, frowned upon by most of the civilized world, brutal play, for some of us, could become a salvation. How at the end of it, I knelt at Uncle Ar’s feet, naked, in a pain-filled state but unscarred. The pain that was brought upon me at my own willful request, by a willful surrender, freed me and brought me to a cathartic nirvana and peace.

I knelt at his feet quietly, grateful, thankful. My head resting on his lap, his hand stroking my hair. He fulfilled his side of the contract, I fulfilled mine. There was nothing more to it. And nonetheless, I had never had my needs met as fully as on that day. No amount of sex can replace that. I will always crave it. I will always look at every man in every vanilla relationship and wonder, will he ever be able to understand that part of me. 

No, I do not live under the rock. I do know about FetLife and Tumblr. Hell, I googled the local clubs. These would be the easy ways to find someone to whom I won't need to explain a thing. Hey, I like A, B, C. You like C, D, E. Let's try C together and see what comes out of it. Call me old-fashioned but I wanted to get to know the person first and not choose one by his kink resume. I know I'm oversimplifying things, but it wasn't for me. My only connection to this world was Aldous, the one I so desperately wanted to forget and more importantly, forgive.

Often, after a self-session with a hairbrush, I would strip down completely and kneel in front of the mirror in an attempt to recreate that day. While shying away from the scene, I was still attracted to the glamourous leather and shiny metals. I bought a few things on the internet: leather handcuffs, a thin leather collar that I could wear during the day, it was no different from any choker necklace. And a tasteful metal chain with a leash to attach to the collar. I would tie my hair in a high ponytail, paint my lips red and eyelashes black, put the collar on, clip the leash, lock my wrists in the handcuffs, kneel, and stare at myself in the mirror. 

One day I shall will him out of thin air. The one that would want me to kneel.

J is for Journey

 

Dear diary,

When one uses the word transgression, ordinary things come to mind. Like forgetting your phone at home or even leaving it there on purpose, just to spend a couple of hours unaccounted for. Or like on that day, wearing a dress too short and coming back from the walk after dark. Mouthing off with an attitude. Raising my voice. Staring back. Undressing too slow. I left all that behind, the man and his controlling pettiness. I will not go down this rabbit hole today, thinking of him. That's not why I'm here, in Uncle Ar's room. I pressed my forehead against the wall and drew a deep slow breath. 

Uncle Ar sensed my hesitation. “You don't have to recite the whole list, my dear.”

“I do, at least the big ones,” I sighed. “I quit, I failed myself too many times. I could've had another surgery to fix the damned foot and go back to dancing, but I didn't. I chose Aldous.” I realized that Uncle Ar was not aware of my life story, but at that point it didn't bother me, I just clarified. “I made a lot of wrong choices. Aldous was bad news. It took me too long to come to terms with it. You don't hand over the control to someone like him. You just don't. Does it make any sense? Any of it?”

“Of course, you're blaming yourself for not leaving that man earlier, but you shouldn't. You did what you could, when you could.” I could hear him pacing the room behind my back.

“I betrayed myself, I failed myself. Over and over.“ I turned around to face him with a burning face. Quite a confession booth, with my shorts down and the dress barely covering my crotch. 

“And me bending you over my lap will make it right?” he chuckled, as he settled on the bed and laid the paddles within an arm's reach.

“You know how it works. It will make me feel better.” I was determined to go through with it, with a total stranger. If I did hook up with total strangers, why couldn't I have one talk some sense into me with the help of his hand and other things. By the way, that was another major transgression I didn't mention. In my attempt to get over Aldous, I let too many into my bed. Hanging out with the Eurotrash crowd, turn you into one very quickly. I needed to become more choosy of whom to let into my life, even for a short stay, especially for a short stay. 

“Who am I to disagree?” Inadvertently Uncle Ar quoted an old song, as he tapped on his knee. “ Let's get on with it, young lady.”

I would've preferred for him to start over the shorts, but it was a bit too late for that. Laying across his lap, with my head and torso comfortably on the bed and my legs locked in between his, I didn't have to wait long. Arlen delivered that first hesitant smack to gauge the reaction and rested his hand on my butt. It's been a while since anyone spanked me. We are all adults here, I can use the damn word, it's just a word. The weight of a man's hand on my ass, there is nothing in the world to compare to this simple act. Of my surrender, and him taking over the control. I wanted it more than anything. I needed it.

There was nothing sexual about it for neither of us. A silent understanding, what has to be done, be done and no more. It could be that riled up later, back in my room, I would reach for the vibe and let it rip. Right now, there was only one purpose, one goal, to take me to a place where I will be at peace with myself, even by means of a painful journey.

While not being spanked by a man, I did use my own hairbrush on myself. Not as effective, it did the job and kept my pain tolerance level high. So his first dozen swats did no damage and elicited no reaction from me whatsoever. He adjusted the impact and the next few forced my feet off the floor and to kick, for which he quickly reprimanded me with the customary attack on my thighs. 

Coming from Uncle Ar, it all made sense. There was no anger, no foul temper, no revenge, only the quiet strength to lead me on the journey from point A to point B. Point A being desperate and miserable. Point B, a safe haven with no regrets.

Uncle Ar clearly had a few decades of experience under the belt, or better say, with his belt. He read me like an open book, picking up the intensity when it felt right and slowing down when he decided to give me a rest. He rubbed my butt before switching to the paddle and pressed it against my already sore flesh to show that he was ready to continue. He leaned over me to whisper into my ear words of comfort and effectively locked me with his body, like a full body hug, holding me tight, except his right hand, like a clock, would rise and fall, each time taking me further on that journey.

I is for Impact

Dear diary,

Impact is a peculiar word to choose as a part of the traditional term, as most things that impact and shape our lives are not in fact things and rarely physical. The second part of it, play, also seems misleading, but what is it if not play. This carefully pre-negotiated encounter, a three-act scripted mixture of commands, petulance, and, yes, countless strikes, interspersed with pleas and whimpers of pain, or maybe, with moans and sighs of pleasure, that inevitably, if you play your cards right, culminates in a cathartic cleanse for both and blissful aftermath.

Impact play. An exchange of power, an ultimate rise up to the task counterbalanced with a willful surrender, a sinful but unapologetic fulfillment of needs and desires, a choreography of predetermined stances, positions, and moves. Impact play, the cornerstone of the lifestyle.

Uncle Ar’s room was on the first floor, same size and layout as mine, except that instead of a balcony he had a French patio door that led to the garden. Might be useful to flee the scene after all is said and done and come back through the hotel's main entrance door, to avoid a walk of shame and a chance to bump into someone I knew.

I was jittery enough from a double shot of espresso in my affogato. Sometimes Diego would forget that not everyone lived on his night owl schedule. That much caffeine after midnight was giving me shakes. Or maybe it was the view of Uncle Ar, laying out the familiar safe-to-travel artifacts: standard ping pong paddles, varnished wooden racquets for paddleball, a vintage hairbrush, a formidable bath brush, and, of course, the leather belt. Very much on the domestic side, as any weathered traveller would become, anything to avoid an awkward explanation to the airport security about that flogger or riding crop found in your suitcase. While the vibrating toys or even plugs were widely acceptable and wouldn't elicit anything but a giggle, mixing them up with handcuffs or chains would earn you a visit from the supervising security officer. No siree Bob. But Uncle Ar wouldn't be a true Englishman, if he wouldn't smuggle a thin cane, disguised as a fake flower, the kind a magician pulls from the hat.

“Since I don't know you at all,” he broke the silence. “I will break the tradition and will allow you to choose.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don't mind any of it.” I paused. “Not the cane, though. Unless it's your favourite. I just want…” I hesitated. It's not really acceptable to ask for what I want. Or at least, that's how I was taught.

“I am at your service today,” he chimed in, reading my mind. “Not very typical of me, I have to admit. But, please, tell me what you want?”

“I want it to last. Not fast and hard, like a punishment.” Uncle Ar winced at my last word. “But to have time. To feel remorse, I guess. To let go.”

“Oh, there must be a list of transgressions you should share.” He took my hand and led me to the corner. “Let me see those famous panties of yours. May I?” Uncle Ar picked the hem of my short dress.

“It's so wrong, it's so wrong.” I chanted into the corner.

“What's wrong, my child?”

“You, asking for permission.” No one ever asked for my permission. Well, Aldous was the only one who could have, but the blanket agreement was that he doesn't need to. But still, it was so nice to hear the words. “Can you please not ask me? For the next two… for the rest of the night. Please?” I sped up, trying to get it all off my chest in one go. “And don't mind me if I say ‘stop’ or ‘no’.”

“Hold on there. If I can be so blunt, what's your safeword?”

“I will not safeword, I promise.“ I lifted the skirt up and held it myself, with my hands crossed behind my back.

“That's what I'm afraid of. Do you have a safeword or will you use yellow and red?”

“Don Quixote.”

“That's better.” He lowered my Azotarme shorts down to the knees, baring my butt. “Let's hear all those transgressions first, my Dulcinea.”

 

H is for Healing

Dear diary,

Let me remind you where we left off. It's midnight, and at our tiny hotel that means quiet. I was sitting at the bar, right across from the new espresso machine, lapping and chomping on my affogato like a stray cat that's been miraculously offered a hearty meal. I could feel his sideway glances burning my left cheek. Him being the English dude with a Cuban and almost empty gin and tonic, at the almost empty bar. Don't ask me how I knew that he was English, without even hearing him speak. One of my special talents, I guess, and travelling all around the world might have contributed to it as well.

I leaped off the bar stool and reached over the counter to grab the tub of my beloved vanilla ice cream which Diego left on the counter, knowing that I will go later for another scoop. My sundress rode up revealing my thighs and possibly butt, a deadly sin according to Aldous, but I could care less, I was wearing shorts.

It's been fifteen years since I stopped dancing and got off the steady salads and yogurts diet and gained a good thirty pounds. At first, it was all Aldous, feeding me like a goose before Christmas. After a while, when I realized what a pleasure food can be, and how much of that pleasure I've been missing my whole life, there was no stopping me. But eating ice cream straight from the tub was, of course, an ultimate fuck-you to the goddess of all diets.

The English dude cleared his throat, which sounded awfully close to my ear. Indeed, he moved over to the stool one over from mine. Diego has been ignoring his tapping on the empty glass, more concerned about my wellbeing. I gave him a reassuring nod, please, I'm a big girl, and Diego begrudgingly refilled the guy's G&T.

“I'm Arlen,” the guy introduced himself without offering his hand. “But I've been called Uncle Ar most of my adult life.”

“Lots of nephews and nieces?” I inquired without offering him my own name in return.

“Mostly nieces. And not related by blood,” he winked.

Now, that was creepy. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to ice cream.

“A proper young lady shall never roll her eyes.” His wide smile contradicted the stern tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?” I hid behind the familiar English phrase that at this moment meant, are you fucking with me. Crap, how did he deduce, am I marked or something?

“I've been teaching proper manners to many young ladies.” Arlen emphasized the words ‘proper’ and ‘young ladies’, a deadly combination, coming from an English gentleman of a certain age. 

Like a code phrase it left no doubt that he knew.

I blinked. 

He finished his drink and added. “Sometimes they just need to learn their lesson.”

“How?” Dumbfounded, I couldn't think of a better response.

“I think you know how.” He winked again.

“How did you know?” I pressed on.

“Oh that. Your garments, my dear. Well, undergarments.” He nodded towards the hem of my sundress that rode up high enough to reveal the edge of my pink shorts. My Azotarme Duro shorts. If anyone is too lazy to Google translate, that's Spank me hard in Spanish. I've never blushed so hard in my entire life. Thank God, Diego stepped out to the restroom and did not witness this most embarrassing conversation.

“No need to be embarrassed, my dear. I understand you better than you will ever imagine.” Arlen covered my hand with his. 

And for the first time since forever, I trusted him. I believed him and trusted him. It sounds absurd, how can someone trust a total stranger you met at the bar and only exchanged a few words with. Even more absurd, my encounter with Nick started exactly the same way, and in the same spot. When I felt that overwhelming urge to confide, to open up, to let go. Except with Nick I knew who he was.

“I picked the wrong shorts in the dark. I never wear them in public,” I mumbled.

“No one owns a piece of garment as such with no intention of showing it to someone, my dear. At some point.”

“Stop calling me my dear,” I snapped and pulled my hand away. 

“Very well. Firstly, you didn't volunteer your name. And, secondly, you will not tell me what to do. Especially not in that rude manner. Your name, please?” His curt tone didn't leave any room for an argument.

“Elizabeth.” He raised an eyebrow. “Elizabeth Ball.” That's the name I used in Ibiza.

“Well, Miss Ball, I gather you and I will need to talk, preferably in private. I suggest my room as one more adequately equipped for such discussion.”

“What do you mean?” I blurted out and blushed again, quickly realizing what he meant.

“You will finish the sentence with sir or Uncle Ar.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I repeated without a fault.

“If you must know, I have a small collection of certain instruments that could be useful in expediting the learning.”

“Or healing. Sir.” Whatever he had stashed in his room, nothing could scare me off after Aldous and his collection. I was ready. I looked up at him, hoping that my pleading eyes would convey enough. It was humiliating enough to ask for it, but to explain why was even worse. Uncle Ar, as I already called him in my head, seemed to be wise enough not to ask.

“I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to sound puzzled. Wise but puzzled.

“I've been through the learning my lesson part.” That was the only explanation I gave. “I need healing.”