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. 

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.

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!”

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.”

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.”

 

E is for Eager

Dear diary,

You have to understand, at that point Aldous was the only man I've ever been with. We met when I was seventeen, he was ten years older, patiently waiting for me to grow up. We didn't have sex till we got married when I turned twenty one. Maybe one day I will write about that. These days they would call it grooming. But back then, I liked how he was always there for me. He was there in the front row, when I fell on stage. He took care of everything. Maybe that's what I always wanted, to be taken care of.

As long as I could remember, I danced. Always in a pursuit of that perfect stance, perfect jump, always at the expense of an excruciating pain. When I fell, and it was over for me, there was another pain, of loss of something I loved the most. And Aldous was there for me as always. One day he just replaced one pain with another and took it to a different level. I was indeed a pain slut, as he liked to call me, and he was the only one who understood that part of me, how much I craved it, how eager I was to learn all the new ways to receive it. So he gave it to me.

It's weird, from someone who has never been touched sexually, I felt men's hands on my body quite often, of my ballet partners, of course. The hands that would hold tight onto my waist, lift me, ground me, keep me safe. Except when I fell. There was a deep connection between those strong hands on my body and feeling safe. And as anything else, Aldous took it one step further. His secret spot was the small of my back. With his hand there, he would guide me through a crowded party, lead me on the dance floor, nudge me into position. Like it was a switch to turn off my anxiety and connect me to him even more, with no words necessary.

So when Aldous slid his palm down my back and rested it on the small of my back, it wiped out all my fears and hesitation. I was his, eager to take whatever he planned to dole out. But this eagerness was calm and serene, if it makes any sense. Overwhelmed no more, I was eager to serve.

“May I please you?” The smell that sent me into the agony mere minutes prior, was now as welcoming as ever. 

“You mean, please me, please me?” He chuckled but I noticed the familiar twitch.

I was nervous, as we never tried it before, you know, him striking me with him in my mouth. What if I bite him by accident? But Aldous had more faith in me or just wanted to teach his pony a new trick. He unzipped and fed himself into my mouth. I wiggled my hands, still tied behind my back, and got my wish granted. After all, Aldous loved my inexperienced hands on his body, tugging, squeezing, pulling him closer. 

The blows that followed did not distract me, I welcomed them the same way I would his playful swats. The belt bit into my ass time after time, but I sucked on him with a newfound reverence. I even rocked my hips, following his rhythm, eager to feed his both needs: the need to give me that pain and the need to fuck my mouth. It shifted the mood. There was neither place, nor time, only his belt falling on my ass and his cock in my mouth.

Aldous admitted to me once, how many times he fantasized about my mouth, while watching me perform on stage or later, getting off to my videos. He was eager to teach me to suck properly. I couldn't take him in at first, which frustrated me so much. Obviously, I had no one to compare him with, but he explained to me that he was much thicker than average. So, he bought a collection of dildos for me to practice with, though I still had to learn to deep throat.

“Good girl,” Aldous touched my cheek, and I let him go. I didn't even notice that the blows stopped. “Stay here,” he got off the bench and patted my butt. 

Only now I realized how thoroughly he thrashed it. My poor ass burned the same as my thighs, before he numbed them with the cream. I heard the water running and the sound of a fabric being wrung from the excess water. When Aldous pressed the hot wet towel over my smarting cheeks and held me down, I yelped in agony. He was ticking off every single rule in the book of torture.

“You didn't think we're done, did you?” He adjusted the hair that was blocking my eyes, and I saw my pink Hitachi on the bed next to the pillows.

D is for Discipline

Dear diary,

The sounds of Aldous constantly moving behind my back were maddening, but I didn't dare to peek and kept my nose glued to the corner that pleasantly smelled of old wallpaper. There wasn't much furniture in the bedroom. When I heard something dragged to the middle of the room, it could only be the long tufted bench at the bottom of the bed that I knelt on, while waiting for Aldous. The old hardwood floor creaked as he walked to the bathroom and banged a few vanity drawers looking for something, then came back and rummaged through the drawer in the nightstand on his side of the bed, the side that was closer to the door. 

I heard Ellis, the gardener, watering the roses and walking away along the gravel path. My mouth felt dry, and my heart was pounding. If I could hear the dainty sounds of water and gravel, Ellis for sure heard me scream. As Aldous liked to joke, this guy worked longer at the estate than I was alive. Will he tell anyone else? Will I lose respect of the staff, or will they feel sorry for me? Will they tell Uncle James? To whom was Ellis more loyal, Aldous or Uncle James? Back then I was still trying to figure out their family dynamics, which our marriage affected so much.

I didn't stay in the corner for long, before Aldous called me out and pointed at the same spot in front of the mirror, but now there was also a bench right next to it.

“Pillows-shmillows, I will buy a proper bench for the next time.” He patted at the end nearest to the mirror. I froze at the words ‘next time', unable to move. “Hop on. Straddle it.” Aldous patted the same spot with more vigor and pulled my hand towards the bench. 

With two hands on my bare waist, he guided me over. My torso pressed flat on the bench, legs spread out wide, feet dangling in the air, face turned towards the mirror. He pulled out one of my scarves from his pocket and tied my crossed wrists together to stay behind my back. I closed my eyes from the embarrassment. His handprint on my ass faded away, the jarring contrast of my white butt and crimson thighs was terrifying and humiliating at once.

“Yes, dearest, I will not wait until you transgress again.” I felt his hand rubbing something cold on my burning thighs. I didn't care anymore, if it was to make me feel better or worse. Either way his conniving mind will come up with a new torture. I just hoped it was not capsaicin cream. “Little girls like you need discipline on a regular basis. Will start with weekly.”

The cream worked its magic, soothing and numbing the scorching pain. I understood his evil plan, to numb the pain in my thighs, so it will not distract me from the new batch. On my behind. But before proceeding any further, he sank two fingers deep inside me and quickly withdrew. I squirmed from the pain and sudden intrusion.

“Oh. You're as dry as the Sahara Desert!” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why? Is my little pain slut not happy to see me?” 

My eyes filled with tears, and I turned away. 

“Answer me.” Aldous poked my hand.

“No, sir. Yes, sir.” I yelped. “I'm always happy to see you, sir!”

“Then why so dry?” He kept his hand on top of mine, still tied with the scarf.

“It's the pun– sorry, the discipline, sir.”

Aldous shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't mean I won't fuck you after. Doesn't mean I won't give you your yummy cummies.” He pinched my ass cheek. “I'm going to teach you a valuable lesson.”

“Please, sir.” I grabbed his hand with mine. I didn't know what scared me more, the further onslaught or the threat to fuck me after. Or even worse, to force me to cum with Hitachi, when all I wanted was to be left alone and fall asleep. All I wanted was for this to be over.

“Please what?” He freed his hand.

“I learned my lesson.” That was the first time out of thousands I uttered the wretched phrase. I learned my lesson. I sold my soul to the devil. I learned my lesson. Aldous was and will control every aspect of my life. I learned my lesson. There is nothing I can do about it. I learned my lesson. My ass is his, in any way he desires. And so is my pussy and my mouth and whatever else Aldous will come up with. I learned my lesson.

“No, darling. We are only halfway through your discipline. One third.” He corrected himself and straddled the bench behind my head. “Can't neglect those pillows.”

One hand on my neck, pressing my head hard against his crotch, I could smell him through the thin fabric of his summer linen pants. The smell, intoxicating any other time, suffocated me to the brink of a panic attack. I thrashed under his hand like a fish out of water, gasping for air. Aldous lifted my head and stroked my hair until I calmed down.

“I need you to stay still, doll.” He leaned forward, pressing one hand between my shoulder blades. And then I heard the belt buckle.

 

B is for Begging

Dear diary,

We left this story with me, marching upstairs, crying my heart out, with my husband's leather belt in hand. But before I will describe what happened next, I need to explain a few things. It helps me to analyze what happened, to move on. I'm not the same person now, as I'm writing down these words. I'm much older, I've been with many men since Aldous. Each and every one of them treated me better. But none of them knew of my real needs the way Aldous did. But let's get back to that dreadful day.

There was another word that Aldous avoided at all costs, punishment. When we discussed the consequences of me breaking the rules, Aldous referred to it as a disciplinary action, without getting into too much detail, except that it will be severe enough for me to avoid breaking rules. The conversation we just had downstairs defined the action clearly enough. Whipping my ass with his belt. No matter how much I argued, Aldous would not budge. The belt that he handed over to me as I was leaving the room was a vivid reminder that it was really happening. My first disciplinary action. With his belt. That he never used on me before.

Aldous was not into the domestic side of kink. He was quite the opposite, obsessed with high aesthetics of black lace, leather toys, and other shiny accoutrements. We didn't try too many at that point, but I could see the logic, to separate play from discipline, pain for pleasure from pain for remorse and tears. The belt seemed like a universally accepted tool for it, an ideal weapon, scary but not excessively harsh. In theory.

From the videos I used to watch, the belt massacre would often start over the jeans, and then would peel layer by layer after each dozen, each stroke accompanied by a scream. Just the thought of a belt hitting my behind a dozen times, even protected by fabric, made me shudder.

I was wearing a knee length sundress for a walk. So I sat down on the bench at the bottom of the bed and bared my thighs. Smack! Ouch, it was way worse than anything else Aldous ever tried on me, which, again, was not that many things at the time. But his hand could be heavy enough, if he wanted it to be. 

Wearing jeans was not an option. That was not an outfit for a proper lady. Proper lady my ass, if hitting me with a belt is! One thing was a fantasy to get off too, and a completely different thing was actually waiting for it to happen. With Aldous possibly already on his way. He didn't specify when he would come or how long I would wait, but he clearly ordered me to be ready, which I was not.

I darted to the dressing room to change. Off with the dress, I put on a short blouse that barely covered my stomach. A blouse that was meant to be worn with some high waist elegant pants, but all I had on below the waist was a pair of panties, which I decidedly got rid off too. Mirror, mirror on the wall. A skinny twenty something, with big round Audrey Hepburn eyes and tiny neatly trimmed bush, terrified out of her mind, was staring back at me. That's what Aldous wanted, his own Audrey or Jackie Kennedy look-alike, perfectly groomed and dressed to perfection, hourglass shaped and well mannered. His own perfect toy. And now he was about to teach his toy a lesson.

I've never felt so vulnerable in my whole life. Yes, he saw me completely naked hundreds, if not thousands of times, and taught me how to do all these nasty things in bed and purposefully caused me pain. But today was different, this pain was not for fun or his pleasure, but for me to cry, to regret, to plead, to beg. Yes! That's what I will do when he gets here. I will beg. Because I cannot go through it, I cannot let it happen, I can't. No one is immune to my begging. I will ask for his forgiveness, and Aldous will look into my big sorrowful eyes and reconsider, right? Right?

No, I have to get ready before I could wallow in self pity. Back to the bedroom! I've seen it done so many times. Somehow almost all actions that involved belts happened with two pillows under the poor woman's stomach. To make it look more presentable? To get a better access to the tender sit spots? To be easier to hold her in place if she moves? I doubt that her comfort was of any concern. I quickly piled up two long pillows along the bottom edge of the bed, climbed and knelt on the bench, and bent over the pillows. Hoping that my bare ass looks presentable enough to my husband's high standards. I panicked and clenched my butt at the thought, which was another no no, I'm not allowed to clench. As I clenched, I felt that I was still tender from this morning session, so not ready for the belt. How can anyone be ever ready for the belt?

The belt! Where is the belt? In my hurry I forgot it on my side of the king sized bed, too far to grab from where I was. I could swear I could hear Aldous’s steps, which was impossible, as all the hallways were laid with long runners. Maybe it was my own heart thumping. To the belt and back into the same position, bent over but now with my hands crossed on the small of my back, holding the damn belt, chanting in my head. 

I will be your perfect little toy, your obedient wife, but please please please reconsider.

A is for Arrangement

Dear diary,

I stumbled upon an interesting challenge recently, an April A to Z challenge. You're supposed to post on your blog a post each day, each day the topic of the post should start with the corresponding letter of the alphabet. A on the first day, B on the second, and on and on. You know, I do not have a blog, and I'll never be able to post any of my revelations publicly, but the idea seems quite alluring. As my Manhattan shrink liked to say, writing is healing. So, let's begin with the letter A.

A is for Arrangement 

It happened during the second year of my marriage. I was still settling into the role of a spoiled young wife. Aldous has been laying down the ground rules left and right, finishing off the gilded cage with equally gilded barbed wire. I went on the walk after dinner, Aldous was never a fan of those. Who really walks around here, along the country road, with an occasional car whooshing by? Before I left, he reminded me not to be late or else. We've never got to ‘or else's part, and I didn't think that Aldous would actually do anything about it. He would playfully swat my ass before or during sex, I will write more about how we started later. But this was different, my butt was tingling and not in a good way, while I was scurrying back home, ten minutes past my curfew.

I found my then-husband in the library, reading by the fireplace, with a lit cigar in his mouth and a double-folded belt on the otherwise empty desk. It was kind of hard to miss, a brown Italian leather belt, that was holding his pants when I left, now sitting on top of the polished like a mirror antique writing desk.

“If anyone would as much as lay a finger on you,” Aldous commenced with his speech. “I will have to hunt them down.” Way to refer to his ample gun collection, of both antique and modern warfare. “And then dispose of the body. Thankfully, plenty of space for that. But, considering the modern technology, who knows, I might still end up in jail!” He yelled the last part at the top of his lungs and then continued in his usual near whisper tone. “Without any conjugal visits. And we wouldn't want that, innit?” 

That last ‘innit’ really did it for me. I squirmed and blurted out. “If we had a dog, I wouldn't be walking by myself.”

“But we do not have a dog, at the moment. Do we?” Aldous was a master of stating the obvious and finishing a sentence with a question. 

“No, sir.” Why on Earth did I just call him a sir? Was it the years of pent up fantasies? Was it his stern voice that implied the only answer.

“I wish I could call you a good girl.” His lips turned up into a vicious smirk. “But we're far from it, the misfortune I am about to rectify.” He put the cigar down. “Did I tell you what happens to naughty girls, Elizabeth?” Aldous nodded at the belt.

“You did, sir.” 

“Then why did you disobey your husband and put yourself in harm's way?”

“It's just ten minutes. I was ten minutes late.” I still tried to wiggle out of the inevitable.

“Do we have an arrangement that you so blatantly broke?”

“Aldous, I'm really sorry, it will never happen again!”

“It's high time to stick with ‘sir’, Elizabeth. And, yes, I will make sure that you will take my words more seriously from now on. Because I do deliver, do I not?”

“Yes, you do.” I nodded and hastily added. “Sir.”

“Good. Now go upstairs and get ready.” All I could do was nod. “What will you make yourself presentable for? I want to hear the words.” 

“For you to whip me, sir. With your belt.” Aldous avoided the word ‘spank’ like a plague, and so did I. “For coming home late. And putting myself in harm's way.” I was filling the scary void with the words.

“Excellent. You're halfway to learning your lesson. Now go and wait for your imminent encounter with my belt.”

As I marched up the stairs, I burst into tears, unable to hold them any longer. I knew that it was the first time of many. Many dreadful whippings coming my way. And there was no way I could change any of it.

PS My dear readers, for those of you who has been following Izzie and Nick story. First of all, sorry for disappearing!! And thank you for all your kind words! 

In January, Sage Blum wrote to me and explained WHY Izzie and Nick are so awesome. I was blown away by her words. At that point, I was halfway through writing a spinoff about Stuart and Sherry.

I thought long and hard about Sage's words, because Izzie and Nick are indeed my favourite couple. I'm happy to report that I'm back on working on that book. The problem is/was that initially it was written as a vanilla book, smutty vanilla as I call it. I needed to introduce kink, so... drum roll.. I'm writing Izzie's back story as a diary. You can read it this month of April 2024 as part of the A to Z challenge. Aldous is Izzie's ex-husband. It's quite dark and ambiguous, but I hope you will enjoy it!

And as always, I'm dying to hear what you think. So, don't be shy, leave a comment.