Z is for Zero

“My pretty zebra likes her orange zest.” Nick comments on my eating habits, as I bite the zest off the last candied orange slice before finishing the rest. “Not too much sugar for a nightcap? Or tea, for that matter?” 

He picks an empty teacup from my hand and gestures for me to scoot over from his lap. No glass in bed is our strictest rule. He walks over to the door to deposit the empty plates on the credenza, turns around, and pauses, in all his jaw-dropping glory. 

“Eyes up here,” the bastard even smirks. Nope, nothing can stop me from staring at my favorite distraction.

Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. Or in Nick’s case, I saw, I conquered, but I didn’t come yet. And he is not in a hurry with the ‘yet’ part.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I called you a pretty zebra?” Nick yanks the orange blanket off me to pinch my butt.

“I’m always pretty.” I get a literal slap on the wrist for trying to touch my favorite toy.

“Ask first.” He is standing so close, dangling the carrot, I can smell it.

“Pretty please, can I take it in my mouth?” 

“It fits in your mouth, fortunately, so you surely can. Which does not necessarily mean that you may.” 

“You and your grammar lessons,” I pout. “May I?”

“You may not, it’s showtime.” Nick bites into my lower lip and pinches my nipple at the same time. “Get on all four.”

Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets. And now the song is stuck in my head. I climb on the bed and assume the position: head down, ass up in the air, knees wide apart. 

“Can you take some more?” Nick rubs my ass in no hurry. I’m sure I have more stripes today than any zebra.

I blush and nod. Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets.

Smack! “Say it.” So bossy, so stern now.

“Yes, sir.” I reach back to rub the assaulted spot, but Nick catches my hand. “May I have some more?”

“Keep your hands away, or I will restrain you.” Nick picks me up by the waist to squeeze a big pillow underneath. 

“Yes, sir.” I shiver in anticipation. A pillow underneath means belt, my favorite. I thought we were done, but if he wants more, I will gladly take more.

“This is for me, not for you. You need to earn your stripes.” Nick chuckles at his own dad joke, his voice coming from another side of the room. And then the sound of the belt buckle against the wooden floor. “I want you to count down to zero.”

I don’t ask, I wait for the number. But instead of a number comes the first strike, across both cheeks. Oww!

“Five,” he says.

“Five,” I exhale. Five, I can manage. Even as hard as this one.

Strike two comes down on my almost virginal upper thighs, that’s so not fair. “Four!”

The next one lands on the left cheek only. I wallow in my pain and yearn for his cock. “Three!”

And another one on the right one. “Two!”

Again, across both cheeks, not as hard. “One.”

“Open up,” he taps on my crack, and I pull the cheeks apart and hold them open for a vertical strike. Please, please, just one more, and he will finally fuck me. I can’t wait for him to claim my ass.

“Zero!”

Y is for Yin and Yang

 Should I rhapsodize about yellow a bit more? I’m getting yellow nails this week, Nick chose my shellac nail polish color. Yes, you heard me right: Nick chooses a color for me every five weeks, and with pleasure. Sometimes he asks me if I have any preference, and I try to veer him away from the once I dislike. But once he chose the color, no more arguing. This time, he orders a warm yellow. I bow my head and yield.

He also chooses my panties once a week for an entire week and lays them out in order. Odd for such a busy man, innit? They say busy people avoid making unnecessary choices, the most classic example being Steve Jobs and his famous gray turtlenecks. The keyword being ‘unnecessary’, because I’m anything but that to Nick. Above all else, he said to me once, I yearn for you above all else. And he lives by these words in the tiny slivers of time he carves out for us. 

When I lie across his knees, he yearns me all the same, if not more. I am on the same pedestal he put me on, when he uttered the words: above all else. Everything he does to me, feeds us both. His urge to inflict pain, and mine to feel it from his hand.

It’s unexplainable to others, but deep within, we crave to be understood and accepted for what we are. As two parts of one circle, I am the dark feminine yin to his white masculine yang. I can be passive, introspective, and quiet. Soft and slow under his hand. He’s loud, rigid, expressive. Hot, hard, and fast. These are the actual words associated with yin and yang. Hard and fast were not invented yesterday; they’ve been there all along. Hard and fast against the pliable and willing, completing each other as only yin and yang can.

Small white and yellow flowers in my jasmine tea smell of faraway East and exotic sun. The hot liquid burns my fingers through the thin English China of yesteryear. I bite from a candied orange slice and sip more tea from the cup, wearing nothing but yellow fluffy socks and an orange blanket around my shoulders. Nick’s balancing me on his lap, being extra careful with the hot tea, waiting for me to come down. A kiss on my temple here, a graze on my earlobe there, he’s awfully patient. 

I know my life is good; I don’t need yellow sunglasses to tell me that.

X is for Xanthopia or Xylophone or X-ray

X is such a tricky letter. Probably the trickiest of the entire alphabet. You want to avoid being an arrogant show-off. Besides, who would believe that I didn’t just Google it, words starting with X, huh? And the word must connect with the story, unless I embark on a new one. Will it be a new adventure or a plausible diversion from the previous story?

X-ray is one of the obvious choices. How can anyone find an X-ray story that is even remotely titillating? And that’s where I will gladly prove you wrong with the help of the brilliant lyrics of The Girl with X-Ray Eyes, one of my most favorite songs written by Noel Gallagher, during his post-Oasis era. From one smut writer to another, an odd confession: it’s extremely hard to write a decent description of a blowjob, to make it tasteful, erotic, and poetic simultaneously. And Mr. Gallagher just nailed it, pardon my unintentional pun. Because it is the most poetic description of a BJ in the history of BJs, bar none.

As she swallowed space and time

We gathered pearls and swine

She shot me to the sun

Like a bullet from the gun

Indeed, words to live by: She swallowed space and time. Good girl!

Xylophone, on the other hand, would be another simple option, given Nick’s choice of the implement, a stingy ruler. He did play me like a xylophone, alternating between both cheeks and upper thighs, crisscrossing the marks for extra ouchiness. Low moans and high-pitched shrieks, prolonged owwws and shorter yikes, repetitive no-no-no’s and sharp ah’s—all the sounds of a very particular pain repertoire, spanned over three octaves or so—all skillfully extracted by his firm hand.

But it’s Xanthopia that has my heart. For Google-deprived and lazy ones, it’s an eye condition that makes you see the world with a yellow tint. Metaphorically, it would be a person who sees the world through yellow sunglasses: sunlit by a warm yellow light, feet drowning in a hot yellow sand, with a cold yellow umbrella drink in hand. When life gives you lemons, you put on a lemon-yellow lingerie set, grab the world by its balls, and squeeze them like lemons.

I had a lemon-yellow set ages ago; it’s still at the bottom of my lingerie drawer: a lace bralette and a thong, two sizes two small now. Who even cares, lingerie isn’t meant to stay on for long enough for anyone to notice if it’s too small. Hell, they won’t even remember the color, unless it’s red or black. And thongs cannot be too small, as they cover nothing, even if they are the right size. There!

I lie across Nick’s lap, laced by a whippy ruler, adjusting my yellow-tinted sunglasses. Life is the way you see it. I open my eyes to take in his face, so close. Oh, I missed him so much for so long, and now he’s here, next to me. Thank you, my wheel of fortune landed on yellow. I open them for long enough for Nick to drop the ruler and, with his magic fingers, to take me a bit further down the yellow brick road of redemption. As I close my eyes again, the whippy ruler flogs me along the same yellow road.

W is for Whuppin’ or Wooden or Warning

“I can’t close my eyes or what?” Bratting and squirming my way through the awkward silence. “I need to know. You know, for science.”

“I’m pretty sure you are capable and, therefore, can close your eyes,” Nick embarks onto a sidetrack lecture on English grammar. “Even more sure that you will close your eyes in due course, but—”

“But I may not?” I interrupt him with more questions. “And then what?” I’m giving Nick an easy way out: to announce the sentence, what he would do to me if I were to close my eyes, and then go back to our little roleplay.

“Uhmm…” Nick didn’t think it through so far. “You will get a whuppin’!” He goes back to his Southern folksy tone. 

“For how long?” I whisper.

“Till the cows come home, of course. Give me some sugah.” He pinches my butt and reaches for a kiss. Even in a dream, his lips smell and taste of strawberries. My summer boy loves strawberries and all things summer. My lavender and sundresses with no panties fit nicely in his realm. Second pinch brings me back to my asked and answered inquiry.

I’m totally whiplashed by all the contradictions. The giver of sugar must know, even in her befuddled state, what were the consequences of closing her eyes whilst being finger-fucked—errr receiving a massage of her nether regions.

“What if the cows are very far from home?” I ask, not sure myself what I mean by that. Am I the proverbial cow, interrupted by this entire conversation, and very far from hitting the home run? Oh God, I’m mixing all my sports metaphors today. Or am I concerned about the length of the aforementioned whuppin’ that so regrettably depends on the whereabouts of the lazy animals and the time they take to march towards their overnight abode? Phew! Wait, am I a cow, because I hold the alpine cowbell? Ugh!

Fortunately for me, Nick’s mind-reading abilities are back on, because he dismisses my concerns with a precise verdict. “Six with the wooden ruler and back to business.”

The evil wooden ruler, another unassuming object, disguised by the company of other office supplies, lives in the drawer of Nick’s nightstand. Light but stingy, will it get evil or not, it all depends on Nick or rather the flick of his wrist. 

“Yep, let’s start with six to get you focused and back in the mood.” Nick taps my butt with the ruler. I was so busy with my cow counting exercise that I didn’t notice when Nick got the ruler out. “No counting.”

Six quick whacks with the whippy ruler sting good and surely grab my attention. With a helper like that, I won’t have any problem with keeping my eyes open. Nick leaves the ruler on the bed, next to my cheek, as a formidable reminder. In the dim light of the Tiffany lamp, the darkness of wood pops against the white sheets. 

Two fingers slip inside me to collect the wetness, and like a light switch, I shut my eyes. 

“Watch out, girl!” Nick clears his throat with a fake sternness to cover the smirk. “Next time, no warning.”

V is for View

My view changes a few times. I first bent over Nick’s knees with my hands on the floor and my head hanging low. I didn’t get to study all the intricate details of the antique Tabriz rug underneath the blue velvet bench, as I didn’t enjoy seeing it so up close. You see, while it’s considered as one of the most popular spanking positions, I must disagree. I get woozy; I start seeing stars, not from the spanking, but from the blood rushing to my head. Not sure if it’s physical or psychological, but I panic in this position, almost right away. 

The cowbell to the rescue; after a brief mumble and a change of position, Nick profusely apologized for my discomfort, then propped my torso on the bed while my bottom remained at his disposal. At first, I twisted my head to the right and saw the edge of the same blue velvet bench, together with Nick’s clothes and my see-through blouse scattered on the floor. But Nick was unhappy with not seeing my face. Why would anyone wish to see the spankee’s face expression? A tough dilemma for most spankers, but not for unpredictable McDreamson. I see his point: it’s not a punishment but a grand finale, with a possible visit to Fairyland. He worked so hard to get me there; he wants to share it with me. Nick didn’t say any of it. He turned my head to the left, so I would face him, and gave me a forehead kiss. 

Even in a dream, Nick smells good, a mixture of his morning aftershave and his own smell. My view is graciously PG-rated, with Nick’s nakedness safely hidden underneath me, but the distinctive smell hits my nostrils every time Nick shifts. And I can still taste him on my tongue. I lick my lips and grin, and Nick returns a knowing smile. One interruption leads to another. My fingers graze the short curly hair on his belly, forgetting why I am seeing them at this peculiar angle, with my head pressed against soft white sheets. I bet Nick’s view is even better, seeing all the pretty marks from our never-ending night’s adventures. He circles my bottom and my thighs with his warm hand, the strop nowhere to be seen or felt. Nick leans over to press his lips against my neck, while his fingers unceremoniously plunge inside me to the tilt. He brings his fingers back to my lips to lick him clean, adding my own smell and taste to the delicious mix. 

“Ladies first?” are Nick’s first words since forever.

Startled, I muffle a single uh-huh into the sheets. Did Nick forget that I already came once, in the dungeon on stage, under the taps of the riding crops, guided only by his voice? He narrated every squirm of my swollen pink lips, every roll of my hips, every drop, every squirt. It seems now like eon years and thousands of miles away, but pussy never lies: I can still feel it. Which doesn’t mean I will turn down another!

I quickly add, “Yes, please.” In case he didn’t hear my uh-huh.

“New rules,” Nick announces, while he falls on the side and settles, propped on his elbow. He boops the tip of my nose with a wet finger that smells like me. “You are not allowed to close your eyes. You will see this mug,” he points at his handsome face, “as you come.”

“What a view to come to!” I quip terrified, because I cannot keep my eyes open when I come, and I am about to find out what the consequences of disobeying his orders might be.

U is for Us

Instantly, Nick changes his mind about killing it and pulls out. Because ‘killing it’ means that the fun would be over for him for a while. One and done for a day, unless a certain pharmaceutical help is involved. We use them occasionally, when we get a chance to sneak away for the weekend for a special us time. What’s happening now is nothing but a dream, remember? It’s most definitely us and more than special. I would give anything, give up on everything, for it to become us.

His cock bounces in front of my face, hard, demanding, glistening from my drool. The botched blowie was an intermission only, a pleasant one, but Nick has a job to finish, and only then he can relax and allow himself to finish too. I sit on the floor in between his legs. That stupid see-through blouse doesn’t conceal much of my heaving braless bosom, crowned with erect nipples. Nick makes a show of unbuttoning and tossing away the last garment off my body. He slides off his own boxer briefs too. Now we are on the even ground, equally naked and quiet. 

I press my hands to my face and feel the heat emanating from my burning cheeks. I don’t know what I want anymore: to jump Nick’s bones and ride him into the sunset, for him to fold me in half and do the same to me, or to continue what we started. The throbbing pain is everywhere; I will tip over in no time. But I don’t want to decide. I want Nick to truly take over and hold the reins, deciding for both of us.

Nick McDreamson reaches for the forgotten barber strop and pats his bare thigh with his free hand. Oh, that perfect invitational patting! The lust widens his pupils so much, his eyes seem black and not the usual honey brown. When I lie across his lap, I will feel every twitch of his persistent cock underneath me. But no, he will not take me until I’m there, delivered to the land of fairies and unicorns and then safely brought back. I stand on my knees, not hesitating, but mesmerized. Nick picks up the cowbell and presses it into my palm.

“Make your exit now or else. The train ain’t gonna stop no more till its final destination,” my train conductor lost his Southern drawl, but not the essence. “Speak up, young lady.” The strop lands on my thigh with an encouraging smack.

“Yes, sir, I’m staying.” My words hurry, and so am I, like a frantic passenger, scared to be left behind at the end of the platform of a godforsaken train station, which most trains disregard the stop and swoosh by. 

“Climb aboard then.” Without taking his eyes off mine, Nick strikes my thigh again, this time with more force, leaving a wide red mark.

Skin on skin, I stretch across his lap. The cowbell clangs inadvertently, hushed by my capped hand. It’s not just him or me anymore, only us.

T is for Time

Memories are the best time machine known to mankind. The happy ones you treasure and dissect, frame by frame, and time flows in slow motion. The horrible ones, you rush through them blazing fast. Time stands still for the most sacred. Both in my dreams and in real life, time stands still when I worship Nick’s cock.

No, I will not indulge you in the detail description of his cock, that’s nobody’s business but his and mine. I will note that it barely fits in my mouth. And I mean, I can’t do anything but hold it there. Not ideal, but we make it work. As Nick always says, it’s the effort that counts.

I like to start on his nipples and tug on them gently, much lighter than he bites into mine. Swirl my tongue around each one and give it another tug. If we are lying in bed, and I’m on top, I will feel him twitch against my stomach, but I keep teasing him. It’s a looong way down there, and I make every inch count, covering his chest with butterfly kisses, down to his navel that gets another wet swirl of the tongue. Nick would press on the top of my head, ordering me to move down south faster. I make a quick trip there to lick off the first drops and bring them back to him, to kiss off my lips, to get the first taste of himself. Then I would follow the trail of dark curly hair that leads me from his navel to the main course of my undivided attention.

Alright, alright, since no one will ever read this, here is a full confession: Nick has the prettiest cock. He’s big, but not too big. Slightly thicker than average. Not too veiny, like in those exaggerated AI pictures; I honestly don’t get this obsession with veins. I don’t get the obsession with gigantic cocks either. Seriously, cocks are meant to fit and bring pleasure. Not every woman enjoys a sore cervix. This woman isn’t. Duh!

When hard, and I mostly see him at twelve o’clock, it doesn’t curve to the side. Thanks to his mother, he’s circumcised. Hell, it’s even pretty when he’s soft and curls flat on his thigh. He doesn’t stay soft for long when I wake him up with my mouth. Truth be told, I rarely wake up earlier than him. Maybe when I interrupt his rare naps. Nick says that it’s the only legit reason to interrupt his naps haha!

My best toy, my magnet, just touching it brings me joy. Knowing that my worship pleases him fills me with the utmost joy. Nick adores my hands, maybe even more than my less-than-useful mouth, but he would never admit it to avoid discouraging me. I wrap one hand underneath his balls, so pretty and heavy at this moment. Nick is like a Ken doll, if Ken would have genitalia, perfect in all regards. And keep my other hand wrapped around the base. My lips hover around his tip, covering with my saliva. Once I spit on him and smeared it with my tongue; Nick shuddered and came on my tits that time. He was so embarrassed, but in his defense, he hasn’t seen me in five days, and as per our unspoken rule, all his come belongs to me. To make up for the disaster, he fucked me senseless an hour and a glass of orange juice later.

Time doesn’t move when he’s in my mouth, at least for me. I do not hurry; I do not rush. Every lick counts, every attempt to take him in deeper pushes me further into a revered timelessness. Until Nick would growl, “Kill it.” 

S is for Story

S might stand for a Story, but I have no story! The dungeon story that carried me over for most of the A-to-Z challenge, the story that spanned from E to R, came to its inevitable conclusion. That story ended with me slipping into a dreamless sleep. Which can be true, after a night of embarrassment and onslaught, a night of riding crops, kilt belts, and barber strop, with a trip to the fairyland as its grand finale, who wouldn’t slip into a dreamless sleep? Wait! Did I tell you about my trip to Fairyland last night? Or I was so tired and happy to end Nick’s attempt at Southern drawl I skipped the best part.

Soooo, Nick McDreamson: y’all know, it’s not his real name. I call him McDreamson to differentiate Nick from my dreams and fantasies from the real Nick. Neither of the two Nicks has not one drop of Scottish blood. Another confusion to clear: it’s a well-known fact that Nick’s aunt raised him in England, and like most Englishmen, he is a die-hard soccer fan. Of course, he calls it football. A less known fact is that Nick is not so well versed in American football, especially the Southern college teams, as he would like to admit. Emory, of course, doesn’t have a football team. And Atlanta Dawgs, whose formal name is Georgia Bulldogs, play their home games not in Atlanta but in Athens, GA. Gators are indeed their famed rivals and play for the University of Florida. Nick would rather pontificate about the rivalry between his beloved Man U and the twats that call themselves Man City.

Or, I have another explanation for Nick’s confusion: the prospect of tanning my hide distracted him too much to keep his Georgian ducks in a row.

So strange, I don’t watch neither football nor soccer. Why this debate? Why don’t we go back to when I struggle on Nick’s lap? The gag prevents me from screaming, but not from letting out some muffled yelps. A subsided version of kicking and screaming, that’s me. 

“Beg for it.” Nick leans over to untie the gag.

“Aghhhhhh!”

“That’s not begging.” The strop resumes its dance over my poor ass.

“Please please please!” I chant.

Nick stops and nudges me to get up. 

I jump on my feet. No! I don’t want it to end, yet I can’t find the words. It’s like my brain is rewired only to beg and plead. I look up at him and repeat, “Please.”

Without breaking eye contact, Nick opens his knees wide. One tug on the waistband, and his cock bounces free. He’s been waiting for too long. Thank fuck, it’s not the end, but intermission. I drop to my knees and lick off the first drops before he urges himself into my mouth.  

“Suck, baby girl, suck me dry.” McDreamson doesn’t mince his words.

Steady, smooth, swift, he seeks his release in my hands and my mouth. And the second act can wait.

R is for Ringin’

Nick loves playing with accents, and not only with his usual mix. I heard him impersonate The Frog and, on another occasion, The Convicts and Kangaroos Commander. Both times I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself. Of course, the ridiculous standup act was for his brother’s and my eyes only. 

Today he is a Southern train conductor on a mission, and I lie across his knees, waiting for his next rant and the following reprimand with the barber strop, folded in half. But Nick is not ready to start. 

He slithers from underneath me to pull on the string of the Tiffany lamp on his nightstand. The dark blue and green lampshade covers the light bulbs from three sides, and the cone of light is not bright enough to illuminate the room, or even read under it, but to break the total darkness.

“Can’t conduct a train in the dark, can I?” Nick rummages through his top drawer. 

Nick has his own small collection of unassuming objects. This time he picks a small brass cowbell, a souvenir from Switzerland, and a pressed handkerchief. The handkerchief, of course, Nick rolls into a strip and makes me bite over it, as a gag, tying the ends at the back of my head. Way to fight my smart-alec comments and the necessity to address them! He wraps the ribbon attached to the cowbell around my wrist and presses the cowbell into the palm of my hand.

“Ring the bell when you need to get off the train, will you?” I smile and nod at the cleverness of how he tied his train metaphors with the cowbell, as a non-verbal safeword. Nick is so in control and enjoying it!

Back at the edge of the bed with his feet propped on the bench, he summons me over, and I scoot over his knees and bury my head in the sheets, clutching the cowbell in my right hand.

“First stop is at the Lecture Hall,” announces my conductor, while adjusting my legs in between his. “It’s up the hill, but as sure as sunrise, we shall get there. Watch out, as I’m gonna cream yo’ corn, while gettin’ there.”

I just lose it, laughing my ass off. No amount of his folksy scolding can bring back the mood. And Nick keeps adding wood to the fire, line by line.

“Watch out, girl, I’m gonna cut your bony tail.”

I can feel his knees shaking as he burst into laughter too. He unties my makeshift gag, and we plunge into uncontrollable snickering, like two schoolgirls in the back of the schoolyard gawking at some dirty magazines.

“Quit your piddlin’, I mean it.” Nick pleads through the hiccups.

Nope, not quitting the piddling. Are you kidding me? I have my own comedy club here.

“Alright, alright, I’ll wait.” Nick loses his fake Southern accent at once. “You have your cowbell. Give it a sound ringing when you’re ready.”

That’s right, the cowbell, my safeword, still firmly in my hand. What Nick is asking is an inverted safeword: let me know when to start. He rubs my butt and shifts my legs again. He puts the handkerchief-slash-gag back in its place, between my teeth, and re-ties the ends. Waiting.

Willing, I’m where I want to be. Only one sound can break the growing silence: the alpine cowbell.  

The first dozen, tentative and mild, bares no kick, as to shake off the remnants of our silly interruption. Then Nick proceeds with the promised lecture, again Southern-themed but more refined.

“A proper lady can cuss in the presence of a gentleman for one reason only, and that is if Dawgs are losing to Gators.” Nick delivers the mighty whacks, with no slowing down. “Do you hear any woofs around here? I don’t think so. Do you see any fine Emory grads in the crowd?”

Nick mixes up two Georgian schools. He has an affinity to Emory, for a reason yet unknown to me, and likes to plug it in a sentence whenever he can. He also switches from twang to drawl and back, from folksy to Atlanta’s best. 

The new lashes reawaken the layers of pain from all the previous strappings of this unending night. I struggle against his grip, and Nick must catch my hand flying back more than once. I don’t want to struggle; I want to give in and settle into it. But his endless speech, interspersed with fixin’ and whuppin’, pulls me back into this mythical reality. I block out my darling Nick into a white noise behind the beats, my most welcoming beats. 

I come back to life, gagless, stretched under the blanket, with Nick’s long body pressed behind, repeating the shape of mine.

“Your butt looks like ten miles of bad road, and that just dills my pickle.” He whispers into my ear.

I yank the ribbon back and forth, the cowbell ringing echoes against the distant walls.

“Alright, alright,” Nick quips. “I say no more.” 

And I slip into a dreamless sleep.

Q is for Quality vs Quantity

I can’t believe I just gave Nick an abridged version of my quality versus quantity speech. Usually I prefer quality over quantity, a hand-picked few over an abundance. Fashion and food come to mind, especially food. My favorite treat used to be a mini macaron with zero-calories green tea, while dreaming about a bagel, slathered in cream cheese, with two thick slices of smoked salmon, washed down with cappuccino, three sugars please. Aldous joked I had a stomach the size of a walnut. Sigh, not anymore.

Spanking is a different beast. While quality, as a derivative of experience, undeniably matters, I will always choose a long and painful session with a hairbrush over a short and painful best of six with a cane. Why? Cane is meant to punish, not to deliver to the promised land. And it’s the promised land, the elusive cloud nine that I crave.

 The familiar sounds behind my back confirm why the unexpected pause. Nick’s shirt rustles as he pulls it free. Oxfords hit the wooden floor. The metal buckle of his belt catches the open zipper. He balances on one foot while taking the socks off, but falls on the edge of the bed.

“What if someone walks in?” I am still bent over two pillows.

“Who would dare to walk in on us in our bedroom? Come here,” he offers me his hand. 

“Our bedroom?” I gasp.

“Of course. We’re home, silly.”

It’s dark but I recognize the tall silhouette of a Tiffany lamp, the stack of books with a thick tome of unopened Iliad on top, the perpetually dripping bottle of lube, and the permanent stain from it, burned onto the lacquered surface. That’s Nick’s nightstand. The pillows smell of lavender oil he massaged me with last night. The hum of the oscillating fan by the window mixes with the thumping music from across the hall. The wave of cold air soothes my ever-burning skin.

I scoot closer. Nick has his bare feet propped on the blue velvet bench, the same bench I dreamed so many times he would bend me over. He folded the barber strop, reducing the length in half, into a short-range tool of the trade with more bark than bite. That’s all we need: more bark than bite. He taps his own thigh with this makeshift paddle a few times. At first gently, hesitantly, then with the force, the way he would slap me: through ouches and sighs. 

Pleased with the result, Nick pats his knee—the universal sign of invitation—with a playful smile and unleashes the twang. 

“I ain’t got no time, young lady. Quit itchin’ and bitchin’.” Nick rubs himself to relieve his own itch or for the sheer theatrics of the obscene gesture. “Hop on the Fairyland express, with the stops at Two doz’n, Four doz’n, and Six doz’n, if y’all will behave yourself all along.”

P is for Please please please

Nick proceeds with my other cheek in the same manner, the only difference being that he restrains my hands, crossed at the wrists. Which is a good thing: it prevents me from reaching back and interfering with the heavy strop. Another good thing, none of my silent reactions go unnoticed by Nick. 

I am silent at first, only count to ten for his so-called practice. Cannot call it practice; Nick’s strokes are quick, stingy, biting, like he’s in a hurry to finish. Mistress Kat was in it for a long evening of torture. Nick’s hurried style throws me off the loop, that’s not what I need. With Nick’s mind-reading skills being flaky, I hesitate to speak up. Nick’s taking a tiny break before the lecture on cursing and part two, and it could be my last chance to intervene before things go wrong. At this speed, things are bound to go wrong. I will not get to meet the pretty fairies, Nick will get upset for doing it wrong. He will blame me for not using my safeword and telling him the truth, I will blame him for not reading my mood.

Even within the dream, I’m anxious and psychoanalyze every step. But then again, how can you dissect what’s going on in real life, during a real spanking, when a heavy piece of leather swings and lands on your bare and swollen skin, resetting your brain every few seconds, flushing out the thoughts, reducing all the emotions to one: how to absorb and survive the pain, how to conquer it. 

This evening needs a peaceful ending; I gather all my courage and tug on my wrist to draw Nick’s attention before it’s too late. And add one word. “Nicky?”

“Yes, my love,” he exhales, startled by the use of his name instead of the usual honorifics. “Guide me, it’s an order.”

“Imagine a wooden spoon or even a hairbrush.” I start from afar. “They sting and hurt, but you need a myriad of small or not so small strikes to get there, dozens upon dozens, uncountable.”

“This strop can do the same, if I lighten up,” Nick picks up on the metaphor.

“Yes,” I nod into the sheets without looking up. “It all adds up. I will wriggle and fight and beg you to stop and forgive me all the same.”

“I love when you wriggle and beg.” Without letting go of my wrists, Nick climbs onto the bed and presses against my sore ass, for me to feel how hard and ready he is for the next part, but I need to sweet torture him and myself just a bit longer.

“But I must earn your forgiveness and beg for it. Because I cursed so many times today,” now I’m just milking my make-believe wrongdoings to get Nick back in the game. “And cannot be forgiven too quickly, right?”

“Uh-huh,” murmurs Nick, not too eager to separate his body from mine. “You need to beg for me to stop, in your sweet little voice, pretty please please please.”

“But you will not stop.”

O is for Onslaught

“Is this too much?” Nick twists and twirls a long strip of leather like a light saber; maybe half the length of a regular belt. I have a gut feeling, what it can be, but not till he brings it back to the stage.

“It’s a razor strop,” I bend the broken-in leather strip, attached to a wooden handle. “Either a real one that barbers use to sharpen razors.” I picture Aldous picking one at an antique shop. “Or a decent replica.” Ordered by the same Aldous online. 

“Is it bad?” 

“Not if you can control it.” I blurt out, looking sideways. Pointing out Nick’s lack of experience doesn’t feel good, but I can’t control my mouth, even in a dream. Especially in a dream. “I would prefer something shorter,” I huff at my own wrongdoing.

“And I would prefer, if you have more faith in me!” Nick points at the pillow, directing me to pile two of them in the middle of the bed, a standard position for belting. “You should be thankful,” he adds with more sternness. “I could’ve picked up that heavy kilt belt. I bet I control it just right.” He enunciates ‘control’ to confirm that my slip of the tongue didn’t go unnoticed.

“Thank you, sir!” I muffle into the sheets, with my ass already over the piled-up pillows. Don’t tease the man with the belt, I repeat to myself, or a strop, for that matter. Even if he only agreed to this scene to please you. He remains the man with the belt, and should be treated as such, with respect.

“The first ten will be for me to practice my control,” Nick announces. Fuck, he wouldn’t let it go. “After that, we will work on your cursing.”

He yanks another pillow and proceeds to smack it with the strop. I blink in disbelief: I was sure the practice would be on my ass. I cannot unsee that he hits the same spot with a perfect aim. 

“Now let’s practice on a live target, shall we? Count to ten.”

I cuss and pull the pillow over my head.

“What was that, more cursing?” Nick tugs the pillow away. My cheeks are the same red as my ass.

“No, sir. Admiring your perfect aim.”

Swish! Nick doesn’t buy my bullshit, not one little bit.

“Sweet Mary, Joseph, and donkey!” I yelp.

“Just the same old me.” He taps my thigh with the tip of the offending strop. “Count.” 

Whack! The second stroke lands on the same cheek, before I can respond. “Two!” I grab the sheets, just to grab into something, or I will reach back, trying to block. 

“Nope. That was one.” He’s calm as a millpond, but I can hear the smirk.

“Yes, sir, one.” I’m kind of glad he’s enjoying it. “Two!” After tonight’s ordeal. “Three!” He’s not hitting full swing. “Four!” But he hits the same spot. “Five!” What kind of onslaught did I sign up for?

Nicks pauses for a quick rub and switches the sides. “Do you want me to hold your hands?” 

Of course, he sees through me! I fold my hands on my lower back, ready for him to pin with his free hand.

“Oy! Ready?”

N is for No

There is nowhere else I would rather be but to sit next to Nick, on the edge of this bed, on an island of our own. The blinding spotlights are gone, so is Mistress Kat. We are alone on the dim-lit stage, basking in the warm sunflower-yellow light. Even the music is right, it’s my playlist called ‘those hips’. I like to sway my hips for Nick, thus a special playlist. Wrapped in the blanket, like you see in the movies, when the police hand out blankets to victims, freshly rescued from some large body of water. Only my blanket is not the standard issue, but my own fluffy orange blanket, in which I cocoon myself on the couch and fall asleep every day while waiting for Nick.

“You should say ‘no’ more often, you know.” Nick wraps the blanket tighter around my shoulders. That’s not how I wish the rest of the night to unfold, still antsy, still wanton, but I don’t want to interrupt him either. “And not some ‘no no no, it hurts’, which in fact means that you want more. But one firm ‘no’.”

“I have my safeword,” I murmur into his shoulder.

“As per recent series of events, you’re not too eager to use it. A firm no would suffice, for me, for us,” he corrects himself.

“What about ‘fuck no’?” I giggle.

“That would earn you an extra spanking.” Nick swats my more than sore bottom, but the blanket absorbs the blow. 

I prick up my ears at the prospect of how to get Nick out of his funk and back to business. “Fuck no?” I repeat with another giggle, this time as a rhetorical question.

“Young lady,” Nick grabs my chin, and all I can see is his own laughing eyes. I wiggle my eyebrows, he wiggles his. “Shan’t cuss in the presence of a gentleman, unless she wishes—” 

I leap from under the blanket and over his knees. 

“—to end up over his lap. There we go!” He rubs my ass in circles, gauging my reaction. I try not to squirm; I worked so hard to get Nick’s hand there. “Or she can just ask.” 

I shake my head in disagreement.

“You perfectly know that such an infraction requires more than my hand, do you?” Nick sits me up, back in my spot. 

“Isn’t any infraction requires more than your hand?” I tug at his belt, forgoing the essential rule: don’t tease the man with the belt. I know too well that empty-handed Nick is harmless. If you followed me for long enough, you know about Nick’s complicated relationship with pain.

“That’s right,” he hops from the stage to rummage through the content of that awful cart. “Beware of what you wish for. Is that still a ‘fuck no’?” 

His tall frame blocks the view, but I can hear Nick striking various implements on his open palm, followed by ouches of various degrees.

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” I swoon in sweet anticipation.

M is for Measured

We cannot see them from behind the tall headboard, and they cannot see us. And by us, I mean Mistress Kat and me. She knows that her skillful hand can produce loud strikes from the kilt belt without going full swing. Every strike is stingy but meticulously mild. It’s this, or I’m still riding endorphins, and my pain tolerance is up, at par with the damn kilt belt.

“One, two three, four, five.” I count without a fault after each lick, but stop before the second part, as prescribed by Aldous. 

“Go on, thank him,” whispers Mistress Kat.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Elizabeth?” Aldous calls me by my given name. “You are forgetting something. Something that good girls never forget.” He pauses for a quick moment, but I stubbornly keep silent. “It was not a warning, go back to one.”

Mistress Kat doesn’t wait to deliver the next strike.

“One.” My foggy brain, bound to the first five numerals, refuses to yield to Aldous. Not to him, not ever.

“You have been weighed,” louder than before, Aldous recites the first part of the famous quote.

“Two.” One syllable at a time. I can do it.

“Measured.”

“Three.”

“And found wanting.”

“Four.” I count, and Mistress Kat holds a pause, but no further remarks from Aldous. “Five.”

“Just say the damn words, thank you sir,” she hisses to me.

“You will never be a good girl, back to one,” Aldous slaps his hand on the armchair rest..

“One,” I say, the same second I hear the swing of the belt.

“Wait!” Nick stops the massacre with one word. “Turn the bed around.” And they oblige, and I can even see him through the blinding spotlight. “Do you remember your safeword, Iz?”

“Yes, Sir.” I note how Aldous gasps, hearing the words flow with no hesitation when referring to Nick.

“What is it and why?” Nick yanks me from the mindless stupor.

“Don Quixote. That day I lost my freedom.”

“She cannot safeword during the punishment!” Aldous loses it.

“In my world, she very much can.” That’s Nick I know too well: this mesmerizing, unwavering modulation. “In my world, it’s lovely when she asks, but she doesn’t need permission to come. In my world, I do not punish but discipline, with love. Say the word, Iz. Say the word to stop this mockery.”

“Don Quixote.” The botched fantasy is coming to an end. 

And Nick is on stage, as before, untying, setting me free, wrapping me in the blanket. “Look at him,” he points at Aldous. “He is not real.”

“Poof!” I blow at him, and my dark magic turns Aldous into a tiny mouse. Still wearing his suit, the mouse scurries into the darkness.

“Did you have enough of this nonsense? Can we go home now?” Nick nudges me.

“Maybe.” When he puts it that way, I’m only reminded of the unfinished business. I blush and squirm and hide my face in his shoulder. “After you make me a good girl.”

L is for Leather

Aldous, despite being only one eighth Scottish, had a strong affinity for the Scottish tawse and the kilt belt. Rated eleven on the one to ten scale of severity, the Scottish tawse is more brutal than the cane, though the sensation is entirely different: a bone-deep thud versus razor-thin sting. Its younger cousin kilt belt is from the same leather family, wide and heavy by nature, but kinder on the bum. Then again, its effect depends on who yields it and for what purpose. The other factor being my post-orgasmic floaty state, and the third but not least, I loved leather. 

That was the pep talk running in circles in my head, and you cannot survive a heavy spanking without some pep talk, better delivered by your disciplinarian, or if not, by yourself. Aldous was not into pep talks or any kind of positive reinforcements; his lectures, usually accompanied by severe spankings, sent me straight down the rabbit hole. Nick’s experience, so far, was limited to my dreams. Whatever I liked, he liked. Whatever stance on spanking I wanted him to take, he surely did: gentle, hard, leisurely slow, or breathtakingly fast; mind reader Nick got it all.

But some dreams are unscripted, and this one is running amok.

“Holy fuck, it’s twice wider than my belt!” Nick yelps.

“And twice heavier too,” replies Aldous. “Don’t fret, she took tawse like a good girl, she’ll be fine.”

 “But she just came,” protests Nick.

“Exactly! The best time to punish her for coming without permission. On her back and legs up,” Aldous concludes with a verdict.

That’s an evil twist! The diaper position (on the back with legs up) is one of the most hated positions for the utmost exposure and the skin pulled tight, with the primary targets being the sit spots and the upper thighs, the most painful areas to spank.

Out of nowhere, a metal canopy bed with a bare mattress rolls out, with the cuffs dangling on a long chain over the footboard. Free of any restraints and on my wobbly feet, I have a moment to stretch my limbs. After the hard surface of the spanking bench, the bed looks like a luxury upgrade, if it wouldn’t be the premise of the next assault on my ass.

“Assume the position!” Mistress Kat barks the order.

I climb on the bed, taking my sweet time, but mindful of a reprimand. I flip on my back and lift my legs, waiting for her to secure my ankles with the cuffs. Maybe if I will be a good girl, she will show mercy. She yanks my hips forward, over the edge of the bed, readying for full access. No mercy yet, I sigh.

“Sorry, mate, no choosing the view for this one,” I hear Aldous. The bed has a tall headboard and moving it around would obstruct the view for my two spectators.

“Quite an opposite,” rebuffs Nick. “Turn her around.”

Ouch, I jerk. Don’t wake up the beast, or Aldous will gnaw his paw to get the upper hand.

“Alrighty then,” says Aldous, and at his command the bed rolls around one-eighty degrees. “Since I can’t see her, I can only rely on her screams.” He agrees matter-of-factly. “She will count, and after each five I want to hear: thank you, sir, I love your kilt belt. Any mistake, we go back to one.”

“Until when?” asks Nick.

“Oh, you will know. It’s a punishment, not some play with your leather trinkets.”

K is for Kilt Belt

“Jackpot!” repeats my marvelous mind reader, Nick McDreamson, and claps his hands twice, both from the excitement and to get Mistress Kat’s attention. 

“You,” Nick points at her. “Your job here is almost done, just light taps on these beautiful lips and mound, and keep it quiet. I will do the talking.”

“Darling, can you hear me?” Nick’s voice changes into volcanic molasses when he refers to me. Rambling, burning, steadfast.

How can I not hear him? “Yes, Sir,” I breathe out.

“Just listen to my voice, will you? And I will get you there,” Nick purrs.

“What the fuck are doing, mate?” Aldous explodes. “You can’t talk to her! Get a room, when we’re done. What is it, some perverted phone sex?”

When we’re done, the words register in my foggy brain. When we’re done, I want Nick to do all the things you can’t do on stage, the private things. Then why am I showcased, tied up, whipped, and forced to come? The continued argument between the two men rudely interrupts my moment of curiosity.

“Read the fine print, you nonce!” Nick rebuffs with an audible annoyance. “Neither of us can touch her but via this Mistress Kat. But it is nowhere in the contract that speech is off-limits. Now, do not interrupt me when I talk to my wife.” He enunciates the last word, and I jerk at his white lie. 

And so does provoked Aldous, screeching at the top of his lungs. “Ha-ha! Wife? Did I miss on a wedding invitation, dear? Oh wait, I do not recall divorcing you!” 

Aldous’s falsetto bounces off the walls, a jarring contrast to Nick’s newfound bass. I’m inside one of Mozart’s operas, getting lulled into oblivion by Mistress Kat’s relentless metronome. Tap, tap, tap. Come back, Nick, I need your voice.

“Semantics, Aldous, you lost. Now, skedaddle.”

“Oh no, Nicholas. She will fail, she will make a mistake, and it will be my turn again, to teach her a lesson!” shrieks Aldous.

“Don’t mind him, darling, you know the drill,” Nick’s voice oozes with the morning nectar from the forest wildflowers and the sunset song of the ocean waves, crushing and slithering away on the sandy shore. “It’s you and me and the riding crop. You don’t need my hands or tongue, my good girl, only my voice.”

I close my eyes and squeeze my core in between the riding crop taps. I’m on the beach, in a crumpled white wedding dress, on all four. The veil tied around my head, covering my eyes like a blindfold. My breasts hang free, released from the unlaced corset, the wet lace skirt hiked at the waist. Nick’s fingers buried inside me to the last knuckle, I bear against his hand, ready to let it go.

 “All pink and puffed from the crop,” Nick goes on, “from the tiny bites into your tenderest, blood pulsing in your lips, in your mound. Squeeze it, I want to see you drip. There we go, sticking out your ass, coming on all four. Oh, you love it so much, my good girl.”

“Can I please come?” I yowl for permission, the last coherent words, and the long-awaited release crushes and twists my core like an unstoppable painful cramp, leaking the precious drops on the towel under me.

“Aha!” yelps Aldous. “She didn’t get the permission.”

“But…but she just asked for it,” stutters Nick.

“But-but-but you didn’t give it to her!” Aldous mocks him. “Guess what? It’s kilt belt time!”

J is for Jackpot

 The next round is for Nick to choose an implement, and he picks a riding crop, no surprise there, and a small butt plug. He instructs Mistress Kat to lube and insert the plug first; his calm and assertive voice transports me onto a different plane, though not spoken to me. Or is it the plug to blame? For Nick, pain is only a prelude to pleasure; a necessary, in my case, evil to unlock the jackpot. A riding crop and a butt plug seem to be the right tools of the trade on that glittery trail to chase the fairies and the unicorns.

Nick orders to free up my wrists, but the ankles stay locked in restraints. More to that, a spreader bar equipped with extra-wide cuffs forces my knees apart, and she pulls my butt forward, up in the air. Mistress Kat taps my kitty once, like she’s checking if she has easy access. And just from one light tap, I squirm and clench my butt around the plug.

An enthusiastic wolf whistle from Aldous confirms that not only my red-striped ass is on display, but the whole inner workings. A click of a light switch, and I feel a fresh wave of heat from the spotlight directed at my behind. It’s so hot, from the spotlight, from the new level of exposure I never experienced before. Even though my hands are not tied anymore, I do not dare to reach back and cover myself. It’s a lesson in humiliation and discipline.

“You will work her inner thighs first,” I hear Nick’s low voice. “Then alternate between her mound and the lips. Switch when she’s properly wet.”

Hearing him speak of me, like an unanimated object, or a frog dissected and spread open for a scientific experiment, or a marionette, set into motion by invisible strings, lights my core on fire. I make a futile attempt to close my knees, held by the spreader bar. But Mistress Kat already starts her resolute task. There’s no space for her to swing and reach my inner thighs. The tip of the riding crop can only move in between my open thighs, but even then, she makes every inch count. The exact movement and the precision are what the riding crops are famous for. It bites into my tender, rarely roughed up skin, but I welcome the sting of the crop and don’t notice how I stick my ass out further and further.

“Sir, do you want me to check her wetness?” Mistress Kat asks Nick.

“No need, you will see.” I hear him smirk. “But switch to a bigger plug,” Nick orders Mistress Kat.

She pulls out the one in place with a plop, accompanied by a joyful cheer from Aldous at the view of my already gaping butthole. She lubes the new one and points the cold metal at the entrance. I can pretend all I want, but my treacherous body, aching to fill the void, swallows it whole.

And the riding crop is back to its brief journey in between my thighs, like a clapper of a bell, going back and forth, back and forth. Till the sound of the slap changes, hitting a wet patch of skin, and she stops, awaiting the next order.

I get it; Nick wants me to come under the slaps of the riding crop. I crave to hear Nick’s voice, anything for his voice to guide me through. If I cannot feel his touch, I want his voice.

“Jackpot!” exclaims Nick, though we’re nowhere near the end.

 

 

I is for Implements

Flat on my stomach and tied to the spanking bench, Nick’s body blocks most of my view, but I can see Mistress Kat peeping over his shoulder, eager to take over the stage. The accidental break is over. I am eager to face the next part, and Nick’s dilly-dallying only annoys me more. He pulls on and readjusts my wrist and ankle restraints a few times, offering one last forlorn look before finally leaving the stage. And I’m all hers.

“Gentlemen, heads or tails?” Mistress Kat’s coin hits the floor with a bang.

“Tails, of course,” hurries Aldous. “Can’t wait to see her tail blistered.”

“Heads,” echoes Nick.

Mistress Kat bends to pick up the coin that landed right next to the bench, her long ponytail almost wiping the floor. Might be hair extensions, I note to myself, for the first time observing my nemesis. A perfect bubble butt, fake eyelashes, glued-on nails. I hope the young thing knows what she’s doing and not just looking for a sugar daddy to settle with. Choosing her was Aldous’s doing, who rarely made mistakes with to whom he entrusted my livelihood. Except, obviously, himself.

“Tails,” announces Mistress Kat. 

I hear the rattle of the metal cart that Aldous pulls closer for a better look. I can see him too, picking a short dark implement. She turned the bench around; so I’m facing my audience for the coin toss and the choices made for the first round. The implement appears to be a round leather paddle—could be much worse. I’m surprised and relieved and care little, if they will see my face or my ass. So, when Nick orders to keep me facing him, I pity him and close my eyes. I will not give Aldous the satisfaction of watching our silent eye contact.

Mistress Kat might be young but experienced enough to ask the last determining part, “How many?” 

To which Aldous hurls back with a wicked cackle, “Until I say ‘when’.” 

His evil plan is simple, he can break me with any implement, even the lightest, if used long enough, and he just let me know.

She starts slowly and alternates the cheeks without fail. The agony of the Scottish tawse, soothed by the ice pack, comes back with a vengeance. The light leather paddle might be fine and tolerable on the blank canvas, yet each strike reignites that bone-deep pain. Five, ten. I count in my head from habit.

“I will be a good girl, I promise!” I cry out.

Fifteen, twenty. 

“Please, I will be a good girl!” I yelp, my voice breaking.

More and more hit the same spot on my upper thighs. She broke me with a leather paddle, how will I survive the rest? 

“I learned my lesson.” I lost count, I beg, I cry.

She stops, just like that. Or has been stopped by someone. I will never know. I don’t care, I’m just trying to catch my breath.

And that concludes the first round of implements.

H is for Home

I see nothing; I hear nothing. I can’t feel anything but blinding pain. 

Nick’s first words rip through the deafening silence. “Bring some ice!” And like with all his orders, someone takes off, receding steps pounding the wooden floor towards the rear. The squeaky door opened and slammed shut.

Now Nick himself covers the short distance between the front row and the stage with a few giant steps. I will always recognize his light steps, same as at the end of his workday, when he climbs up the stairs, undoing his tie and pulling out the hem of his shirt, as he skips them by two. To jump my bones, to devour me. Except now, he’s in a different hurry. 

“Stand down!” he barks at Mistress Kat.

His hands are everywhere: unbuckling the restraints and freeing up my hands, caressing my hair, rubbing my back. He doesn’t dare to touch my burning ass, the only place I crave and despise his soothing hand to be right now.

“You promised—” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.

“I know I promised not to intervene, but you took it too far, darling.” Nick angles my head to see my eyes. “You always have a choice.”

“Fucking amateurs!” Aldous yells from afar. “Nicholas, you pulled her out of the scene.”

“Bugger off and stay there,” Nick responds, without turning his head. “Never in a million years, I would want you to think that you can’t decide, that you don’t have a choice.” 

The sound of ice cubes, clinking and crackling in the plastic bag, is like manna from heaven. The sharp pain from the cold, as always, overrides the burning pain in my bottom. For a few moments, Nick focuses on rearranging the ice bag and keeping it in place. 

“I made my choice.” At last, I lift my hand to touch his cheek. “You are my home.”

“Then let me take you home,” Nick pleads. 

“I can’t.” I dread what comes next and crave it all the same. Why is it so hard to explain, to put in words, that I crave this debilitating pain and not just the pain, but all the humiliating ways to inflict it? I need to beg for mercy, only to be denied of it. To plead and had nothing but harsh and unwavering strike in response. 

“Of course, you can. Just say the word and end this hell.”

“I want to become a good girl. I need you to be a part of it, of making me into a good girl.”

“Alright,” Nick nods. The prospect of transforming me into a good girl has some magical, unexplainable effect on him. “Did I pull you out of the scene?” he whispers.

 “Uh-huh,” I confirm. “But she will bring me back.” I glance at my torturer.

Mistress Cat springs into action. “The ice, sir, better take it off. Or she will need a prolonged warmup.” Bitch!

Nick cringes, but yanks the ice bag off. “Can I,” he hesitates. “Can I hold you while—” he trails off.

“It’s not that kind of scene,” I whisper back. “But, thank you.” I leave so many unsaid words behind a simple thank you. Thank you for understanding, even when you don’t; for doing it for me and with me, when your very soul screams not to; for trying. 

Still crouched beside my face, Nick places one chaste kiss on my forehead. “Whatever happens, remember, at the end of it, I’ll take you home.”

G is for Good Girl

“Get up, chop-chop,” Mistress Kat barks her orders from the stage. 

I notice how gross the floor around me is; it hasn’t been washed properly in ages, with a wad of spiderweb stuck to the leg of Nick’s chair, mud splashes from the outdoor shoes everywhere. And I’m sitting on that disgusting floor on my bare ass!

I jump on my feet, forgetting what I’m here for, or both men watching me from their seats. But what Mistress Kat reminds me at once of the order of the day: she fidgets with the restraints at the top and the bottom of the spanking bench, preparing them for me. The towels that covered the contents of the medical carts are gone too, but I can’t see it yet.

“Let’s go through the rules of today’s session.” Mistress Kat seems to enjoy emceeing this most unusual play. 

While she speaks, the stagehand takes both carts down the small ramp and brings them in front of Nick and Aldous. Each gets one cart, chockful of every implement imaginable, all laid out in rows like the surgical instruments. I try to follow up the ramp to get on the stage, but he lifts me over one shoulder like a wayward rag doll and slaps my bottom with gusto while carrying me to the stage. He stands at the edge of the scene, facing the audience, with me still hanging over his shoulder, while Mistress Kat recites the rules.

“Each of you, sirs, will choose one implement from the cart. We will flip a coin to determine who starts. Then the other sir will choose whether the girl will face you, or her bottom will. The proverbial head and tail.”

What a perverted version of how the tennis matches start! When the umpire flips the coin, and the winning player chooses whether to serve or receive, and the other player chooses on which side he will play. Except in this case, there is only one person who can be on the receiving end: me. The stagehand lowers me in front of the spanking bench, secured in the middle of the moving part. Red-faced from hanging upside down and from the embarrassment, I notice another metal cart with gags, blindfolds, ropes, and cuffs. Thankfully, no hoods or sleeves that are my hard limits. Clearly, someone went through the list of dos and don’ts. 

“I personally guarantee, that by the end of the night,” Mistress Kat wraps up her speech. “She will be a very good girl, for a lucky winner to take home.” 

“No!! I need to decide, you can’t do that!” I scream and attempt to escape, but with my ankles secured in the restraints, I fall face down on the bench. The stagehand saddles me, and I thrash for my life like a fresh-caught fish. “It’s not game, it’s my life!”

Mistress Kat gags me with a red ball and waits for the stagehand to secure my wrists and tie my torso to the bench with another leather restraint. “Every time you speak out of order, you get three strokes of the Scottish tawse. Are you familiar with tawse?”

I nod, unable to speak. She removes the gag, and I babble as quick as I can. 

“I will be a very good girl but let me decide. Please!”

Not bothered by my screaming for a bit, she doles out three thunderous strikes, sending me into perpetual agony but still screaming the words.

“I need to decide!”

Another three break me down fast. I choke, unable to breathe, without a coherent thought in my brain. Muted.

“Good girl,” she says.

F is for Fallacy

The spotlights continue to point at the fellowship of two in the front row: Aldous and Nick. I can’t see their faces from the stage, but I can tell it’s them. Something feels fake in their act. They both sit in the exact same position: hands propped on wide open knees. Both lift their left hand and start tapping on the knee, like an invitation. Tap-tap-tap, come here little girl, tap-tap-tap, bend over my knee, tap-tap-tap.

“Go on,” the Mistress Kat nudges me with the riding crop. “Your Sirs are calling you for a warmup.”

What warmup, I fret, already whipped enough by the feral Mistress. Warmup is a fraction of what follows. If they call me for a warmup, this night will last forever, until I faint or slip into the fairyland and then, nothing else would matter. But I’m here for a fateful lesson, to be taught despite all my freakish fantasies. 

Frisky and overwhelmed, I pause at the edge of the scene, frantically tugging at the festive see-through shirt that barely reaches my bellybutton. Two men had seen me naked before, but never like this, and I fear the countless spectators, invisible to me.

I turn to Aldous: his eyes feign empathy, while his lips stretched in a devious smirk. I turn to Nick: his eyes widen in sheer horror, mouth rounded in a silent no.

I walk up to Aldous and he yanks me over his lap, shocking me with an immediate frenzy of the stingiest spanks that feel not like a hand but a heavy leather paddle.

“Foolish little girl, you thought you will wiggle your way out?” He doesn’t lose tempo throughout the entire tirade. “Fussy and feisty no more, Mistress Kat will show you, who you really are.” 

I squeeze my eyes to keep the tears in. He’s making it all up: I’ve never had a chance to be fussy or feisty, not with him, not ever. 

“And whatever she doles out today, will be your Friday maintenance from now on.” Aldous lets me go with a finishing slap, when I’m already on my feet, staring at Nick.

“Don’t fall for the fallacy.” Nick pulls me over his lap, only to whisper into my ear. “You don’t need to go through it, your fetish.” He mindlessly rubs my throbbing butt in circles. “Wake up, and this fiction is gone. And I will take you home.”

“What home?”

“Our home.”

“But I need to learn my lesson, or I fail,” I mumble into the floor, still flailing over his lap.

“Fine,” Nick flings his palm at my ass with palpable frustration. “Fetch me a flogger, and I will teach you a lesson myself.”

“No,” a finicky protest comes from Aldous. “You cannot flog her; the festivities must come from the Mistress.”

“Then what is she doing over my lap?” Nick asks.

I just listen to the ridiculous exchange, like a ping-pong bouncing from one man to another. 

“For a little frisson,” Aldous flexes his shoulders. “Besides, flogging is not your forte.”

“You fucking fraud,” Nick jumps on his feet with his fists in the air, dropping me on the floor. 

“Filter, gentlemen!” hisses Mistress Kat. “Fair warning!”

Alice must have been proud; off with my head. And I open my eyes.

E is for Education and Embarrassment

I’m in a private club for those seeking to indulge their certain inclinations or, in simple terms, a dungeon. I’ve never been to one, but that’s how I imagine it. A small stage, bracketed by David Linch-esque velvet curtains, more like a dim-lit alcove at the back of the drowning in darkness rest of the public area. Rows of wooden chairs scrape the floor, the invisible spectators rustle their intricate costumes and murmur in anticipation. The chains rattle and clank when tugged, the slaps on bare flesh mute the playful ones, the whimpers one by one get hushed with gags. 

I cannot see any of it, as I’m on stage, in a blinding spotlight. I wear a sheer white blouse with nothing under, which is definitely the Aldous’s doing, as I never go bra-less. My tits, still small and perky, are on full display, and my nipples harden against the thin fabric, despite the heat of the lamp, directed straight at me. I look down and feel the play collar on my neck, preventing me from moving my neck too much, but I can still see a tartan mini skirt, high stockings, and Mary Janes. With my hands free, I take the opportunity to check if I have my panties on. I brush my behind under the skirt, and it’s all covered in fabric, some hideous old-school bloomers with frills and not my usual thongs or skimpy bikinis. Some hodge-podge Catholic schoolgirl outfit. The entire setup stinks of Aldous, but I can’t see him anywhere.

With a loud pop of the switch, the second spotlight points at another person on the stage, a tall dominatrix, in a real leather outfit, not some cheap pleather, covering her from head to toe. Her heels are high but sturdy, and not a fake collar in sight, because Dommes do not wear collars, as in the movies; we do. Her long hair tied up in a high ponytail. I cannot see her face, as it’s half-covered by a black mask.

Aldous threatened me many times, to take to a pro Domme to further my education. He claimed he loved me too much to do certain things to me. He never specified what things. 

The black riding crop looks like an extension of the woman’s gloved hand. She puts something on the tip of the riding crop and offers it to me: two hair ties. She nods at my unruly hair, falling down my shoulders, ordering me to tie it into two ponytails. Dutifully, I lift my hands and separate the hair in two, but the skirt rides up, revealing the awful bloomers. I drop my hands to tug at the front of the skirt.

Swoosh! She hits across my butt and taps on my elbow, ordering my hands up. Another tap on the back of my neck, and I cross my hands there. The skirt rides up again, but I don’t care. I do, but I will do what I’m told. Because this is just the beginning. I feel the blood reddening my face—I don’t know who’s watching me in the dark. I can cry, I can beg, I certainly can’t leave. She won’t stop until she’s done with me.

She hits me hard three more times, over the bloomers for now, and points at my hair with the crop. I tie my hair in two ponytails, as I was told. The first tear drops on the sheer fabric and leaves a damp spot. Is it a tear of embarrassment or pain? I can’t tell. A tap on my elbow, and my hands return into their back of the neck position. I’m learning quickly.

The riding crop digs into the panties, pulling them down to my knees. Then pulls on the secret button that held that makeshift skirt together, and the skirt ends up on the floor in a red circle. My hands drop for a second to cover myself. Swish! Another reprimand, and the hands are up. I close my eyes; I don’t want to see. If I don’t see, I’m not a part of it, just my body is. Instead, the crop touches my face to force me to look up.

The stage help rolled out a spanking bench and placed it on the moving part. He gives it a twirl, to make sure it moves without fail. The plan is simple: to put me in full view, to show my face, smeared with tears and snot, or my behind, covered with welts and red blotches from the crop. The help rolls out two metal carts, covered with towels, akin to those used in surgeries, to hold the surgical instruments. I freeze; the riding crop, though a terrifying weapon, was just the beginning.

“I am Mistress Kat,” the woman speaks. “But you will not address me. I’m here as an extension of your Sir’s hand, and you will address only him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” I mumble.

A thunderous smack of something else she picked from the cart moves me from my spot.

“Yes, Sir!!” I yelp and raid the darkness. He must have been somewhere, to watch my embarrassment, to watch the education he paid for.

As on command, the spotlights pick two men at opposite ends of the front row, while the rest of the room kept in the dark: Aldous and Nick.  

D is for Dozen

I have a recurring dream of Nick spanking me in the car. Clearly, something from the farthest corners of fantasyland. I’m told his car is not only bulletproof, but soundproof too, when the partition is up. In the dreams, Nick already took a full advantage of that but for sex, with heat and music cranked up just in case. The windows steam up, like a clock.

This time it’s different: I slide over his lap as soon as he pulls down my sweatpants; another dissonance dreams are so famous for. As Nick is wearing a three-piece dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt with a matching striped tie, and I’m sporting the same I-love-New-York pink hoodie and sweatpants I picked up in New Ark airport on my way back to the land of the free. Remember, I didn’t have any winter clothes on that day. Nick always jokes that I would look good in a burlap sack. Well, that’s my equivalent of a burlap sack. The sweatpants didn’t stay on long neither on that day, nor in my dream.

Technically, I’m lying not over his lap but over one knee, with both my legs dangling in between his. Here’s where the dream becomes tricky: Nick is part mind reader, part hesitant spanker, not sure what to do with a wriggling maiden over his lap. He thinks at first that I chose such an awkward position to give his fingers an easier access to the holy wetland and plunges them in. I’m wet all right but from anticipation of what he’s going to do to me, unbeknownst for now to him. I yank his hand out and move it over my cheeks. Nick reads it wrong again and starts the approaching circles towards my butt hole, all the while pulling my hand to his unzipped crotch.

We don’t exchange any words. Sometimes in dreams all you have is action and the weirdest little details: like a wayward strawberry Tic Tac, Nick’s favorite, stuck in between the seats, or the smell of perfume I had last night on the puffy coat Nick folded and put under my head instead of a pillow, or the dark spot from the first drops on his boxer briefs.  

To make my intentions clearer, I shift his right hand back to my sit spot and press his other hand to the back of my neck, encouraging him to keep it there, keep me there. Nick stills, sensing the change in the mood. I wiggle under his warm hand, what else can I do without saying it? It’s a dream, read my mind, ffs! And after the second wiggle, he does.

I can feel the colder air where his hand was. It comes down with a light but firm smack. The crackling sound of his hand on my bare skin startles Nick. The deep breath he took before that first spank, he’s still holding it. I feel sick of having to guide him through it. I offer him my free hand and lock fingers with his. It will stay on the small of my back, not sure who’s holding whom, but it’s the best reassurance that we are in it together.

The next few smacks felt light as the first and caused no reaction from me but another invitational wiggle. Nick switches the tempo and the tenacity, making them count, now interspersed with my oooh and aaah. He stops after every six to rub the sting away, but now the sting accumulates, and so does his determination. A few more iterations, and I cannot keep my legs there without kicking—not the best scenario in the confines of the car, even as spacious as his, and Nick locks my legs in between his, what a pro.

Steadily I’m sliding into where I want to be, but I want him closer. I tug on his shirt; he lost the suit jacket long ago, the classic one sleeve rolled up, even breaths through methodical smacks, meant to cover everything any good spanking should: the cheeks, the sit spots, and, oh horror, the upper thighs too. I tug again, and he stops for a moment and dips: his mouth to my ear, leaning over me, just like in my favorite picture. Not sure what he whispered, but I never felt safer, locked in between his torso and his knee. 

“Count down the last dozen,” I hear him say.

C is for C-word

 

Nothing was crystal clear about my relationship with Aldous, and yet, I heard or uttered the words every so often.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Crystal.”

Never crystal clear and blurry from day one. Never discussed or defined: rules implied that I never agreed to, punishments meted with no rhyme or reason. The more I think of it, nothing good could grow from it. No wonder my body refused to conceive. Aldous dragged me into his darkness too fast and too hard.

He despised labels, and to this day I’m having trouble defining in words what it was or what he was, but one word stands out: cage. When I learned more about lifestyle, I saw pictures of the cages where the slaves slept. Like dog cages, but bigger. Aldous didn’t go that far, although he liked to put the leash on me and the chains, and everything else that goes with it. To each their own, I do not intend to yak on anyone’s yum, but I never agreed to any of it.

The entire house became my cage: the heavy curtains always drawn shut, crystal chandeliers dimmed, double ceilings echoing his steps while chasing me upstairs, plush pillows absorbing my screams. The metal canopy bed, like a torture chamber, already had all the rings to hook up the constraints or tie the silk scarves to.

Aldous cut all the ways out when he put the ring on that finger. He slipped the word obey into the vows and gave me a knowing wink. He claimed me, the twenty-one-year-old with a thin teenager’s body, in a sheer bridal nightgown, shaking from a fear of unknown. It hurt like hell, but I was afraid to make a sound and disappoint him. Thus, the education of ER began, driven by a fear to disappoint.

A month passed from that day till the first spanking, which I already wrote about in my first notebook. I have a weird feeling that Stanley found my notebooks and read them. Ugh, the occasional stern glances this man gives me. I don’t care what he has on me, so long as Nick doesn’t know.

But Aldous knew; I blurted it out to him when he spoke first about my misdemeanors and punishments they would entail. How I wasn’t a punishment virgin, as I’ve already got the taste of the cane from my teacher’s hands and what it did to me. How he listened in silence and nodded with that signature smirk, making mental notes, watching me blush and squirm and press my legs together. He took me from behind right after, driving it in one deep hurting thrust, while slapping my ass fast and with vigor, whispering in my ear about his vast cane collection. How my body betrayed me with a telltale squeeze, milking him dry. From that moment on, he knew. Whether I agreed to it or not, my fate was sealed. My obedient, disciplined self didn’t realize until years later, what other C-word was missing.

Consent.

B is for Blindfolds (and Bondage)

My current bag of tricks is unassuming and tame these days. We didn’t use any, but a girl can dream, right? I can close my eyes and keep them close, if I’m told to do so. I can keep my hands folded above my head, if I’m told to do so. But the presence of fabric, metal, leather, or rope are not just a restraint, but a physical proof of what we do or, in my case, what I want us to do. 

Some I hide in the carry-on, under a pile of packing peanuts, some lay in plain sight, like my beloved hairbrush or my fluffy sleeping mask in the shape of a sheep’s face with tiny ears on top. Or the wide leather bracelets I picked at the floating market in Pattaya, with metal rings all around, so handful to hook with carabiner clips. Or the collar I wear from time to time, a solid leather strip with a ring in the centre, so easy to attach to a leash with another clip. Except it’s not a leash, but an extra leather over the shoulder strip from my handbag. All reminders of old times.

Aldous, of course, needed no substitutes. A leash was a leash. A collar was a collar. And for sure, anything hitting my ass was of a proper provenance. Every tiny thing was from a specialty store, the one that delivers at any time of day or night within an hour, its merchandise wrapped in discreet packaging and delivered in plain black paper bags, like an haute couture boutique in no need of advertising. I will mention Aldous a lot here. What we had was sick and wrong. I long for that sick and wrong back into my life, and I will find the right way to do it.

Except sometimes, he will doll me up in all my old ballet clothes: the famous blue skirt, the golden Venetian mask with the eyeholes taped over, the pointe shoes, and will use extra ribbons to tie my wrists. The full outfit, as he saw me first, along with the entire country, but now on pointe, bent over, the skirt hiked up with nothing under. Aldous loved the theatrics. Can’t blame him, who wouldn’t in his position? When he threatened to have me all to himself, he meant every word.

When I think of Nick, I see a different scene in my mind. To show him how by taking away the vision and limiting his mobility, not only heightens the other senses, that’s a well-known fact. But to tune out the outside world, focus in the here and now, create the new bond. That’s something mild enough for him to try. 

One of my scarves covering his eyes, no picking. Wrists tied behind his back with another scarf, not too tight, just to keep them in place. His erection pushing against the stretchy fabric of his black boxer briefs. He sits on the back of his heels on the Persian rug in the middle of the room, as I circle around him in a flowy robe. Grazing his stubble with the back of my hand, running his length with my fingertips, touching his bare chest with the silk sleeve, opening the robe to envelop him in the heat and the scent of me mixed with the lavender of a recent bath. He stopped darting from side to side, choked on oh so familiar to me sensory overload. Nostrils widened, his breathing, quick and shallow before, slows down. He’s giving up. I step in front of him and stay there still, letting him bury his face against the flesh of my thigh. He sinks his teeth and sucks it all in. 

“Animal!” I yelp. “My wolf,” I whisper.

Blindly bound to me. 

A is for Agua, Asking, and Again

“Fanta, cola, cerveza, agua!” chanted for the umpteenth time the teenage seller of sugary liquids. The glass bottles clanked against each other with each step the boy took towards the arena. 

Sugary, but one. Having been limited to water for so many years, I devoured them all. But agua kept a special place in my life, no matter what. A recurrent theme, if you ask me. Spinning the bottle after the ballet class: first touch, first taste, first kiss. The giant claw-foot bathtub in Hudson Valley where Aldous soaked me for hours; the bastard knew all too well how it intensified the pain of vicious spankings that followed. Mediterranean Sea that tied Nick to me once and for all. The scolding hot shower that washed away the blood of my knuckles. More drama, more water. Until N. compared the ocean water to mikveh that cleanses and heals, and I believed her.

Then why on earth would I wish it upon myself again? Why do I see myself with my six-feet-three giant, with whom I finally have a chance of some normalcy, covered in heaps of lavender foam, pruning my fingers away, and after that, bending over the tub’s edge, baring myself to him, eager to receive the pain? I can see it so vividly: the puddle on the floor with an accidental bubble floating on the rainbow surface, the wooden handle of the bath brush on the low bench, the stack of the whitest towels next to it, and my wet skin, covered in goosebumps, not from the cold air around but from the anticipation and from the need to ask. 

Because that day will arrive, when I will have to ask, explain, and ask again. How his beautiful face will turn pale, and the eyes will widen in disbelief, while mine will flush from the embarrassment. Nick has some weird relationship with pain; I cannot pinpoint it yet, but he winces from the smallest discomfort. How can I explain to him that I crave the pain, the same pain he shies away from the smallest slivers of it? The tremendous unimaginable pain, delivered in the most humiliating way, through inevitable screams, tears, and snot. To be inflicted upon me by the one I love. 

Asking, the first and the hardest part.

PS I'm back, in time for the April A to Z. Missed my blogging friends and posting here...

The Western cowgirl and the Stranger: a roleplay

The words of the week were Western and Stranger. 

As always, we suggested one word each. I went with Western, as we missed the Western themed party at the club last week, and you know how much I love dressing up. He chose Stranger. I wasn't surprised; he hinted a few times that a certain hello stranger roleplay was in the cards. And whatever he says, goes. 

It's peculiar, how we choose the accessories for our play. Each has a special meaning or a hidden purpose, like a real life double entendre.

Studded boots with much needed heels will reduce the height difference. His green flannel shirt, too big for me, will keep me warm as the only garment left on. New jeans won't stay on for long, neither will star spangled panties. 

Flirty velvet ribbons braided into my pigtails match the green of the shirt. Neither of us is into ageplay but who can say no to a cowgirl with pigtails and a red bandana around her neck? 

In a sweet anticipation, I listen as wood crackles and pops in the fireplace he started before I came downstairs. The warmth spreads through the room, through my shaking limbs, through my bones. A hot flash hits me like a wall. I can't wait a second longer for him to get rid off my clothes. I inhale hard and whimper to shush my pounding heart. 

When I hear his steps on the creaky stairs, I don't move a muscle, standing still with my back to the door. I don't need to see him, I could always feel his presence. And now he is relishing the view of his present, wrapped in so many layers, for him to take off bit by delicious bit. 

He reaches from behind to untie the bandana on my neck. The new fabric rustles when he folds it into a strip and gives out the smell of my parfume. A makeshift blindfold covers my eyes. 

The massive silver buckle clangs when he pulls my belt through the loops and secures my wrists behind my back. He unbuckles and pulls out his own belt next and folds it in half with a sound clap, so I have no doubts of what this Western adventure will entail. 

Slight nudge on my neck, and I bend over the antique rocking horse that I dragged into the middle of the room, my bare stomach pressed to the well worn leather saddle.

His favourite rope, coiled into a lasso, lays motionless on the floor, but for now he doesn't need it. He yanks my tight jeans down to the ankles and smirks at the view of the star spangled panties. He rubs the bare skin before pulling the panties down. Now the double elastics trap my feet in place better than any rope. The hem of his flannel shirt folded up to reveal the blank canvas my body is for him, at his mercy. 

I am the Western cowgirl, and he is the Stranger. 

A Splash of Colour (for the New Year)

I dance

I sing

I tell stories, naughty or not

I write poems, naughty or not, rhymed or not

I lied on the beach, letting sun criss-cross my body with tan lines,

A few pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to criss-cross the pale triangles

Later I will give proper thanks

For creating a splash of colour on my monochromatic body

For morphing my body into art

For letting it sing together with yours

For having it dance under your restless hands

For making it yours

I write poems, naughty or not

I tell stories, naughty or not, real or not

Inspired by the following quote:

“Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

Happy New Year, my lovelies!!