Y is for Yes

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pantyhose?”

“And panties. Both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life was good and careless

In the yellow dress

Breeze between my legs

Saying yes sir yes

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

X is for xxxx

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W is for Wolf

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

U is for Ugly

Dear diary,

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

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

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

“Oww!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

Q is for Questions

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

T is for Trying

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

S is for Salad

 

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Not a Monster (Irrelevant p. 2)

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

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

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

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

"Alright, order sushi."

"Thank you! And chicken teriyaki for you?"

"Salmon teriyaki, time to live dangerously."

"Your salmon is cooked."

"I'm not a monster, Iz."

"You are not, Nicky."

"I didn't mean sushi."

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

"With his Little Red?"

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

"I beg your pardon?"

"For what time to order sushi?"

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

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

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

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

Strawberry Filled Forever

Happy Strawberry-filled Croissant Day! 🍓

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

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

Any Beatles fans out there? 

X is for Xanadu

The picture is from the show How to build a sex room. The story continues from W is for What You Want. Can't believe it's the last three letters!! 

Of course, Izzie is closing her eyes again. She's probably got all drowsy the moment he pulls out. So much appreciation for his efforts from the mama bear. It's the second time the expression pops up in Nick's head, better to keep it to himself. 

"How do you manage to fall asleep so quickly? Wake up, wake up, sleeping b-b-bear. You need to eat something." 

"Why bear? Because I'm round?" Izzie mumbles with her eyes closed. 

"No, because you're warm and cuddly. Open your eyes." 

"Real bears are not cuddly, they are dangerous." 

"You can be quite dangerous too." 

"Nick, do you know any feel good words that start with X, not E-X, just X?"

"Will Xanadu work?" 

"What is it?" 

"An ideal place, a dream land, heaven, so to speak."

"Like subspace?"

"I guess. What do you need it for, Scrabble, Wordle?"

"My blog." 

"Your what? It will get traced back to you!"

"Nobody even knows that I'm a woman. I pretend to be a fourty-three years old Dom from Georgia with a younger sub."

"Iz, you can't have a blog. It's too dangerous." 

"The IT guys put like fifteen VPNs on my laptop. It's inpenetre- unpene--"

"Impenetrable," quips Nick. 

"Yes, thanks. Speaking of penetratiion, the guys said I can watch five midgets doing it with three-hundred-pound woman all day long, and even they won't be able to trace it." 

"How is that even possible?" 

"Three holes plus two hands, duh!" Izzie rolls her eyes. 

"Not that! What idiot said that to you? Name!" 

Loud knock on the door interrupts their heated bickering. 

"Saved by the bell, that's our breakfast. Put some clothes on, will you?" Nick nudges the door open just enough to take over the tray overflowing with food. 

"What did you order?" Izzie asks, putting on Nick's shirt from last night. 

"Food! You don't think the kitchen knows by now what would you eat on a Saturday morning, almost lunch time? And don't you dare to drop anything on that shirt." 

"Or what?" 

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

"Put the tray on the table, it's all too messy to eat in bed." 

Nick stares at two plates with full English breakfast. Same same, but different. While his plate is loaded with the most normal food, in his opinion, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and beans, with a side plate of toasts, butter, and orange marmelade. Izzie's 

plate is some kind of a parody: the eggs are too runny, sausages are made out of lamb, vegetables represented by the grilled tomatoes, and the carbs... by home fries. That's a new development! 

"You eat real potatoes now? Or these are made out of cauliflower?" Nick oozes with sarcasm. 

"Ha ha! One more word, and say goodbye to your marmalade." She nudges his left knee out to perch on it. 

"Be my guest. You ok?" Nick rubs her bum gingerly and watches if she would wince. Not too much, he breathes out. 

"If you will also feed me," she rests her head on his shoulder, "I will be in the best Xanadu ever." 

The World is My Oyster

 

I don't know how about you, but I like to check where the visitors to my blog come from, I mean from which countries. Blogger provides you with the total number per country for a chosen period of time and a pie diagram.

When it comes to pies, obviously the biggest, by a mile, chunk is taken by US, how else, followed by the other two coincidentally English-speaking countries, UK and Canada. UK's slice of pie is a tad bigger than the Canadian, which I attribute not to the general kinkiness of UK people, but sheer difference in population. UK has 67 millions, and Canada has only 38 million. Yes, as the population goes, Canada is quite a small country, do with that useless or not piece of information as you will.

Now, there are a couple of anomalies that are quite easy to decipher: one is a tiny country in Southeast Asia that also is a former British colony, and the other one is a small-ish European country where a well known Englishman with certain interests resides. There is also Australia, no wonder there. **Wink-wink, don't be shy, I know that you occasionally read my blog. 

But what really surprises me that Germany is making the top five, and I don't know any of my commenters from there. And it's a substantial number of clicks. France and Spain are the other two but with smaller numbers attached to it.

So, please my German, French, and Spanish lurkers, drop a line, even anonymously, and resolve this mystery for me. 

On this blog, Love Your Lurkers day is every day!!

PS. Do you like oysters? Surprisingly, if bought in a supermarket in a wooden box, it's quite inexpensive treat, compared to what restaurants charge per piece. All you need is an oyster knife or even a flat screwdriver, to learn how to shuck them, and a sliced lemon. We learned that, you know, when we were spending all our time at home, and I had a craving for oysters.

Careful, don't stab yourself, please! Better hold it with a towel. And, you're welcome.

PPS. By the way, oysters are aphrodisiacs, perfect for Valentine's Day. You're most welcome!

Bum-mer

Let's talk about the weather, a very safe topic, even safer than food. Because there are vegetarians, vegans, pescatarians, gluten free, carb free, dairy free, fat free and sugar free. I'm trying to be food free, which other people call 'intermittent fasting'. What a boring name for a diet, intermittent fasting! I'm definitely forgetting many other ways to make yourself miserable. Once I tried bread diet, it's a happy diet as it boosts your serotonin. Did I lose weight? Take a wild guess, I wouldn't be trying 'food free.'

You will be surprised, but there are people out there, that unlike most of us, have trouble gaining weight, I know one in real life and one fictitious, Izzie. I even wrote a song for her called, Pound song. Do you want me to post it??

Back to the topic at hand, or in hand? The weather. After a few days of snow, the sky is finally bright blue and it's sunny, which means super cold but looks so beautiful and crisp through the window.

Bummer, I forgot to snap a picture. Bum-mer, get it? I forgot to put bum-mer on that great list of spanking expressions... And you thought that I would write a post that doesn't mention spanking, shame on you! You earned one right now!

For the full list how to say spanking without using the word, read the post called Let's start it with a bang here

The picture that you see is from a few days ago. You see how the sky is white? Now it's a gorgeous blue.

Cheers!

Legs Up! (Mermaid part 2)

Part 1 of the Mermaid story is called Mermaid Needs New Legs, read here . For all the other stories in order click on the Almond Croissant (top right), because Top is always right, right?

I struggle to zip up the bottom of the mermaid costume. It was too tight the last time we played, even tighter now. My head didn’t grow, for sure, but it’s so much hotter in this red long-haired wig, I just yank it off. The door opens, and I quickly climb on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed. With my ankles locked in the tail and the zipper bothering the hell out of me, well, this costume was made for skinny people with a perfect sense of balance, of which I’m neither right now. I don’t care what Nick would make out of it, when I awkwardly fall on my side, face down in bedsheets, and wait for an inevitable remark.

“Are you playing tipping the cow, all by yourself? Please, let me try.”  All I can see is a white plate, right next to my nose, with a half-eaten burger with all the trimmings and a huge pile of still hot matchstick-thin fries, generously sprinkled with the coarsely grinded pink salt that hangs there like crystals of rose quartz. It smells like heaven, scratch that, heaven should smell like these French fries, lovingly prepared by Sarah. I can see Sarah nodding yes-sir and grabbing two already peeled potatoes to julienne the shit out of them, so they will fry faster, as Nick is pacing the kitchen, picking up on pickles, olives, and whatever else he can lay his wandering hands on while waiting for his burger and fries. The kitchen staff doesn’t like when Nick just shows up there, never in the right mood, and everyone skedaddles out of his way, but not Chef Sarah, she will be there to take the heat and maybe, maybe bring him back to Earth. 

Right, Nick, hiding behind the pile of fries. I push the plate aside to meet the softest and kindest eyes ever, staring back at me at my eye level. He must’ve been sitting on the floor. I shove a few shoestring fries into my mouth, Nick takes another big bite of his burger. And as a follow it with hungry eyes, he hastily puts it down on the plate. 

“I’m sorry, should’ve ask to make two.” He breaks a piece off the meat with his fingers and brings it up to my lips. “But you would still eat from mine, right?” I nod, and we alternate the small pieces of the burger with fries. A well-oiled machine, aren’t we? “I brought you a salad, I think it’s Niçoise.” He waves at the container he left on the side table.

“Does it have tuna?”

“Duck, I think.”

“Then it’s Toulousaine. Did Sarah put extra olives and tomatoes?”

“Yes, she did,” Nick smirks.

“Pickled beans?”

“I think it’s time for you to write your own cookbook. Sarah says there is no such recipe for a salad, Toulousaine or not. You might as well call it Ibizan.”

“I ate it in Saint-Martin, and it was delicious. I will eat it after.” I wipe my greasy fingers with a napkin and take his dirty hand in mine to wipe his. No, not looking up at him.

“Right,” Nick swallows hard and pauses with the burger midair. “After,” he repeats. “I guess, the show must go on. Is that right, Muriel?”

“Yes, it does.” I wipe his fingers one by one, like it’s the most important job in the world.

“It doesn’t have to, you know?” One nudge of a finger under my chin, all it takes to make me look him in the eyes.

“It does. Especially after everything I’ve done today.”

“It’s for me to decide.” He turns to put the plate away.

“And I trust you to see it through. Will meet you on the other side.” And with these words I rise on my knees again, trying not to trip again.

“No, no, Muriel. If it’s for me to decide, we’re doing it my way. I want to see your face.” He tips me on my back, wraps one arm around my knees, so conveniently trapped in the tail, and drags me to the edge of the bed. “Legs up! I mean, tail up.”

Glittering tail up in the air, I grin. My bottom, he’s so desperate to get or more like, not to get access to, is still inside the mermaid’s costume with the zipper securely guarded under my back. Quick push to lay me on my side and a tumble with a zipper, he yanks it open down to my knees, like a jar of sardines, folding the fabric back, all my flesh freed up. The tiny bikini in matching colour, only another layer to peel off, Nick is never the one to hesitate. 

I’m burning with anticipation, what cool air, a cold shower won’t cool me down. Nick pulls me further over the edge of the bed, so my bum is all out in the open, not dangling, but ready for his assault, as he puts the tail with my ankles in it on his shoulder. No, not Nick, it's Flynn the Fisherman, my hero, my lover, my protector. I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Action!