L is for Labels

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All hail Pleasure Doms! Damn labels… 

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.”

 

Please No

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

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

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

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

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

"Please no please no."

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

"Why did you stop?" she pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I consented." 

T is for Tears and Taken

 

It's part of the Alphabet story. To read in order start at G is for Going Going Gone, then H, I, L, M, and N. Sorry for juggling a few things during A to Z. The picture is from Wiki. And, it's been a long day for me, so a shorter story today. 

We are picking up after N is for Nothing. Izzie and Nick are in the middle of the morning spanking, my favourite cliffhanger. She asked to spank her to tears. 

"Does it count as tears?" Nick asks a rhetorical question, as he wipes a lonely tear with his thumb.

Izzie shakes her head.

"Alright then." Nick shuffles her over his front leg, readying for his makeshift paddle. He folded the belt so short, that it's no different from a leather paddle. Nick wonders, if it would still count as belting or paddling in Izzie's book. But who really cares, if he was asked to spank her to tears, that's what he will do.

She is definitely still quite sore after yesterday's beating. That's what it is in his mind, no matter how consensual. Brits are more casual with the term, considering spanking a milder counterpart. If there are implements involved, especially cane, no siree, can't call it a spanking. Thankfully, Izzie doesn't object to the word. As long as Nick agrees to inflict it on her, she doesn't really care how he calls it. 

The few swats that he just gave her with his hand warmed her up enough. But he hesitates for another moment, and like on cue, he feels The Kick. Izzie was leaning so tight against him, her pregnant belly to his stomach, that Nick freezes sucker-punched. 

"Nicky, he's fine. If I'm happy, he's happy." Izzie snakes her arm around his neck. 

"You're crying." Nick whispers into the top of her head. 

"Not yet, but you will make me, right?" she tries to lift her head to look up but he presses it harder against his shoulder. 

"Give me a moment, please." 

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

Love Me Tender part 2

For part 1 click here

"It was not a nightmare or a disaster back then. It was what it was, and I didn't want to change it, but I wanted to have it with you. With you." 

Nope, she didn't get the memo. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and he tries to shake it off, but she keeps her hand there. 

"You would never believe that I wanted it, that it was my doing, unless I would put you through it, for which I'm really sorry. I'm truly sorry. Can you hear me?" 

"I can hear you." His voice is low and muffled but clear enough.

Izzie can't see his face now, buried in the pillows, but when he came back, she saw that his eyes were still red and puffy. Nick doesn't cry, period. Except that time after the knee accident, but then again, he was high as a kite, accidentally overdosed. Nick would not cry from pain. He would shut down, collapse, throw up, but not cry. But he did just throw up. Is he in pain and hiding it? 

"I said, I'm sorry," she repeats. Nick's hand snakes out from under the pillow and wraps around her legs. "Aldous didn't speak to me for a week and moved to another bedroom. He would come down for dinner, and we would eat in silence, on our honeymoon." 

Izzie pulls the pillow that covers his head, and he lets her, but promptly turns his head the other way. "So, Nick, if you want to do better, it's your hour to shine. You can take another shower, drink whiskey, have a smoke, scream into the wilderness, but I want you back, preferably soon, with your magic fingers and a dirty story to go with it." She lets her words sink. Nick stirs in silence. "And bring me some strawberries from the fridge on your way back."

This is simple, strawberries, fridge. He can do simple things. Nick takes his sweet time as he stumbles to the kitchen and back. He waits by the bed till she bites into the first one, and the smell, the smell of ripe strawberries and summer reminds him of what he wanted to do for what seems like eternity, to kiss her on the lips. 

"I like when you taste like strawberries." 

"I know." She breaks the kiss. "Go, Nicky, get some fresh air and come back with a story." 

It's not about me, it's not about me, it's not about me. It's about her, and Her Highness gets what Her Highness wants. The princess and the strawberries, I can work with that. 

Izzie smiles at how red his lips are, not just kiss-swollen, but from the strawberry juice he picked from her. In her daze, she watches as he slides down to put his head on her lap and presses his lips, red lips, against the white fabric. There is no way he won't freak out, the second he lifts his head, the second he sees the red stain. Izzie slides her hands under his cheeks to lift his head and asks him to close his eyes, and he does, he does, till she shudders from trying too hard to stay calm. His eyes widen in horror, the same horror as when she screamed from pain, and he immediately came inside her. 

This time he stumbles out of the room in no time, grabbing his jeans from the floor, and into the kitchen. 

"I will change! Nick, come back."  

To be continued.

Love Me Tender

Let' start the Valentine Day week with this throwback to the earlier chapter in Izzie and Nick relationship, when they just started exploring their kinks and roleplay.

When Nick comes back from the bathroom, Izzie is sitting against the headboard, in the same white nightie, now down to her knees, legs stretched and crossed, no doubts, it is his Izzie, somber eyes, tight lips, ready to read him the riot act. Nick falls on the bed, face down in the pillows, if she doesn't get the hint, he pulls another pillow over his head.

Red flags, where do I start? What can go wrong, if you both have some sort of virginity kink to work through and decide to roleplay a do-over of the first time, her first time? Everything! Nick has been with a virgin only once when he was twenty, and she was eighteen, it was not bad, but he could do so much better now, if he could give some advice to his twenty-years-old self. Ha! Right, define 'better'. Nick always knew that something went wrong between Izzie and Aldous on their wedding night. No judgement, but seriously? Then again, she was only twenty, doing only ballet, and that douche Aldous was watching her like a dog and not letting anyone near her since she was sixteen.

Izzie wanted to start everything from scratch, a fresh start. And if it meant to replace Aldous in popping her cherry, Nick is in, pun thoroughly intended. All joking aside, if it would help her to put Thailand behind, he would do anything. Their sex life went back to normal, but she still had her nightmares. and he still hasn’t seen her fully naked, she would always leave something on. He asked her once, if a sleeping mask counts as clothes, she laughed but that was it. He would say and do anything to hear her laugh.

They decided to do it on the weekend, in the most remote chalet in that ski village they both liked. Good choice! Izzie announced it on Tuesday and kicked him out of her bedroom to make sure that by Friday night he will be horny as hell.

When they were finally alone, he didn't even notice when everything went pear-shaped and turned into a shitshow. It was not his Izzie there but her twenty-year-old version, wide eyed, antsy, jittery, restless. That's when Nick asked her to call the whole thing off for the first time. She insisted that they need to consummate their marriage, or it's not real. He wanted to calm her down, but she wouldn't let him talk. It felt like they were in Jumanji, trapped on this giant bed. Her anxiety spread onto him like a wildfire, he was shaking like a leaf, like it was his first time too. They kissed like two horny teenagers, not aware of the existence of the third base. Real Izzie would be soaking wet by then. Young Izzie didn't let him touch her or kiss her anywhere below her waist, let alone undress her.

She asked him to take everything off, and her eyes widened even more, when she looked down, like she'd never seen a naked man before. It was surreal. Her tanned face went pale. He begged her to stop. She asked him to make babies, right now. She laid on her back, pulled the nightie up, and opened her legs. He saw that she still had her panties on. They both blushed as he pushed her knees back together and lifted her bum to slide the panties off. And again, her legs fell open for him.  He knew that Izzie could flex and hold any muscle of her body, but it felt insanely tight. He stopped and asked her, he does not remember what he asked her, but she grabbed his shoulders and demanded not to stop until it's over. And as gently and slowly as he could, he did. Love Me Tender Award of the Year.

He noticed the forgotten bottles of lube and the lavender oil on the nightstand. Izzie never needed lube, they used lubes and oils just for fun. Now he wished he would remember to use it. What if he would pull out and put some, will she notice? It's still unbearably tight. Izzie, that loved rough sex, any sex, was motionless under him. She was quiet at last, and he whispered dirty nothings into her ear. She blushed and finally smiled. She lifted her hips, and he helped her to wrap her legs around him. He kissed her before picking up the pace. He was watching her face, eyes shut tight, mouth open, forming little o's with every shallow thrust. They were doing great, all things considered. He wanted to bite down that lip to stop it from quivering. He leaned forward when she opened her eyes, full of tears she couldn't hold back anymore, and screamed at the top of her lungs, screamed his name, a scream that turned into uncontrollable sobs, and his world turned upside down.

"Nick?" Izzie pulls him back into the present.

How on earth did this happen, how could he misread it so badly, the signs that she was in pain, that quivering lip? Nick presses his hands on top of the pillow that covers his head, an international sign for 'I don't want to hear a word'. But yet she speaks.

For part 2 click here