K is for Kneeling

Dear diary,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perception (a punishment spanking)

 

Dead Dove Warning: Pregnant Izzie gets a punishment spanking.

My dear readers, it's been a while since I posted a spanking story. If you can get past the premise, you are in for a treat, I promise. 

Also posted to Saturday Spankings Blog, linked here

Nick positions her in front of the couch arm. "Shorts and knickers off."

"Do it yourself," Izzie growls back.

"I didn't hear you, try again?" It's not the raised eyebrow, not his hands on the hips, not the way he looms over her, all six-foot-three of a menacing presence, but the disappointed look on his face that sharply knocks her down a peg.

"Yes, sir," she responds in a quick whisper.

"Too late." And he does it himself. The shorts and knickers fall on the ground, and she swiftly steps out of them.

The massage block

And then he brings out the New Toy, the pregnancy massage cushion, more like a solid  block with a deep hollow for a belly, that the brochure called, a stomach recess, and two smaller ones for boobs. That "recess" was big enough for any pregnant belly, not just her puny watermelon.

When they got it a few days ago, Nick was thrilled, squealed with excitement. Finally, she was safe and sound in this body armour, best thing since the sliced bread.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked, still staring at the thing.

"Oh, I'm thinking so many things, my head spins." She couldn’t get her eyes off it.

"No worries, I will always catch you," he grinned. He disappeared in the walk-in closet and shouted from there. "Where did you find it?"

"Google and Amazon, women's two best friends."

"I think you have another best friend." Nick pressed against her from behind. "That can't wait to get reacquainted with you."

Izzie’s hand reached back around his waist and jerked away when met with the soft fabric of Nick’s sweatpants. "It's not there," she exclaimed.

"What's not there?"

"Your belt, numpty."

"I meant my dick," Nick huffed, annoyed and unable to hide his disappointment.

"I meant your belt,” she scoffed. “Why did you change?"

"Because these are comfortable, to start with. Can we be somewhat vanilla for once and play with the new toy?"

Oh, the pleasure of lying down on your stomach again. He laid on top of her for the first time since Ibiza. Really, just laid there, skin to skin, happy.

Now it looks like a full body restraint that will hold her tight in place, locked and loaded. It's all about the perception, they say. One turn of events, and their happy place becomes the chamber of torture. Nick wedges a cushion under the leg end of the massage block to lift it up and level with the couch arm.

"Bend over, Iz," he pats on the couch.

 

Feet off the floor

He helps her to climb over and slide into place, locking her belly and boobs safely in the massage block. But her feet, her feet can't touch the floor anymore. She tries to stand on her tiptoes, looking for purchase, but Nick slides her forward and slaps her thighs hard. Her butt, not fully exposed, is still covered with the hem of his own t-shirt.

 

Hair tie

He puts a pillow under her head. Her hair spills over and cover her face. Like on a cue, the hair tie magically appears in his hand, and he ties her hair in a messy bun, careful not to pull.

"I need to see your face at all times."

"Didn't need the first time," she turns away from him, facing the couch.

"I was an idiot. Turn to me and stay that way." Hand on the back of her neck guides her head to turn his way. "Don't force me to hold you down, because I will."

 

Baby oil

Nick rushes to the bathroom again and brings a bottle of unscented baby oil. Not a game.

"Why?" she jerks off. "It will hurt more."

"I know. Let's speed the things up, shall we?" Finally, he peels back the t-shirt and generously spreads the oil all over her butt and thighs. All his preparations, so clinical, like ticking off the boxes. T minus five. T minus four. It's not a game. T minus three. When he leans over to kiss her temple and brush an escaped curl off her forehead, she starts crying.

"I'm so sorry, Nicky."

"Please don't call me that now."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"What are you so sorry for?" his voice is shaking. Quiet, broken, like it's him who is about to get spanked, not her.

 

Hairbrush

Nick makes another trip to the bathroom and this time returns with her hairbrush.

"Not the brush," Izzie props on her hands, trying to get up, but the hand on the back of her neck promptly pushes her back.

"You don't get to choose today, unless you want to do it yourself. Do you want to do it yourself?" Nick squats by the couch to be face to face with her.

She vehemently shakes her head, refusing his suggestion. Never. She will take whatever it is, anything he will give her, just not to go back to spanking herself.

"Then it's up to me." A bare hand smack. "Remember?" Smack. "When, how, and for how long." Smack. She squints her eyes with every swat. Nick gets up on his feet and out of her sight. All business now, he switches to the hairbrush. The first few hesitant strokes, clearly too mild, just for him to gauge her reaction, they remind her of the horror of her self-spanking days, the time he caught her up in the bathroom. She squirms from the humiliation and hides her face in the pillow. He pauses and clears his throat, the hairbrush resting on her smarting butt. He waits until she turns his way. He waits by her side until she opens her eyes and looks at him. And that’s the last break that he has given her.

 

The Punishment

Nick picks up the pace and doubles the intensity. The baby oil indeed is doing the trick, it hurts so much more, and besides the first few blows, he didn't start slowly either. In no time her hands, buried under the pillow, dig into the fabric in a futile attempt to stay there and not to fly back to cover her flaming bottom. Uncomfortable enough with her feet off the floor, last thing she needs is her hands pinned down behind her back. Locked in the massage block, she cannot wiggle, so she kicks her feet even more than usual, but today Nick is giving her a few swats on her thighs for every kick.

It seems like it has been going on forever, the relentless fury of deafening, stinging, searing blows, every single one of them biting into her flesh, but probably it wasn't, probably it lasted mere minutes. Time moves differently during spankings.

He stops abruptly. No, she's not ready for this to be over. She did not beg for mercy and didn’t cry. She desperately wants to cry. He gingerly rubs her bum, for which she's grateful, and sinks into the couch next to her head. He strokes her hair in a complete silence. He's definitely not done, it's just a break. The pain settles in, it is everywhere. Her thighs burn like hell. Her butt burns like hell. He has never been so thorough before, covering every inch of her butt and her thighs. He never hit her thighs before. He always jokes that he enjoys her curling on his lap without squirming. But then, he has never punished her before either. Judging by the pain, she is already the brightest shade of pink, maybe a few bruises, where he pounded the same spot over and over again. She wouldn’t dare to lift her head to take a look, not with his hand still raking through her hair. She will not ask. She fell into a habit of speaking only if spoken to during the spankings, like any good girl should. It’s so nice to melt under his hand gently touching her hair, the same hand that just spanked her. She will not ask.

Any other person would think that it was all part of an evil plan, devised long in advance, but Izzie knows him better, Nick never planned to punish her, ever. All this came together, when she forced his hand, while he was walking through the house, he put all he knew together in action. To make the spanking humiliating (because a punishment should be humiliating), uncomfortable (nailed that), effective (he hates doing it), and above all, undeniably safe. To make it memorable and not in a good way, he said it out loud quite a few times already, to make sure that she remembers it long enough and well enough, they don't have to repeat it any time soon, or better ever again.

"We're not done yet. You know that, right?" he finally asks when her breathing slows down to normal. She nods with a tiny sigh of relief. "Colour?"

"Green."

"Good," he exhales. "That was the punishment part. Now, the lesson."

He rises on his feet and unbuckles his belt.

Bloody Green

Believe it or not, the picture is of a label on bedsheets. 

This story happens more or less at the same time as May I have another?  

For all the stories in chronological order click on the Almond Croissant (top right). Pun, isn't it? Top is always right. 

Aaaand, spoiler alert, this story mentions a Dom drop, you don't see it often. So read on and drop me a line in comments.

Nick stands in the bathroom doorway with a toothbrush in his mouth, staring at the back of Izzie’s head that sticks just above the couch. With her straight spine, long neck, her hair in two high pigtails rolled into two small buns, she does look like a meerkat, not as horny now as before but still always ready to go.

Izzie stares at her phone screen with their latest banter:

Me:

Bathroom before bedtime?

                        Nicky:

                         Sure.

I want more rough.

                        Rougher. I want more brattiness.

Screw you.

                        You. Gladly.

Nick takes the toothbrush out and clears his throat. No reaction from the meerkat beside a small jerk of her head, the one you bestow on an annoying fly. He wishes he could nuzzle into that soft spot on her neck, but, no, this has to wait, he has a job to do first. Nick whistles softly, and Izzie turns around with a frown.

"Did you just whistle?" she scoffs aghast.

"Uh-huh," he grins.

"Care to explain?"

"Feels better than to text you. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah. And?" Someone ordered more brattiness? Bring it on.

Nick disappears in the bathroom. She can hear the sounds of him rinsing his mouth. "You have ten minutes to turn in. As per our rules, remember?" He reappears with a towel, wiping his face.

"And if I won't, what will you do? Let it slip again?"

"Watch it, young lady!"

"You watch it. I'm reading."

"No electronics before bedtime. Eight minutes."

"Alright, alright, I'm up. I'm up!" She brushes against him on her way, nudging him out with the bathroom door.

Nick waits till he hears the toilet flushing and opens the door again. "Someone needs an attitude adjustment, don't you think?"

"I'm here, it's eight minutes. Duh!"

"I said, attitude. Maybe to give you a little taste of how it will feel like, when I won't let it slip, as you graciously worded my shortcomings." He grabs her chin and forces her to look at his reflection in the mirror. "Colour?"

"Green."

“Green who?” he quirks an eyebrow.

“Green, sir,” she corrects herself quickly. No hesitation here.

He folds her arms on the vanity top, the wide part of it in between two sinks, and pushes her shoulders down till they land on her arms, while his other hand peels off her shorty shorts and white lace panties. Smack!

He bends over to whisper in her ear. "I will tan your hide regardless, but will it be the good girl tanning or the bad girl's?"

"Good girl, please."

"As you wish."

In her three-inch espadrilles and shoulder wide stance, her small bum sticks up high in the air. Nick kicks her feet back closer together, always thinking forward, not to hit accidentally between her legs, only to confirm how impossibly different he is. He sets into an unrelenting pattern of an open hand swat and squeeze, swat and squeeze.

"I don't think that will do, because you were not a good girl today.” Smack! “You were a complete brat, that is.” A harder smack! “A very disrespectful brat." He pauses to rummage through the vanity drawers and picks up a hairbrush.

"No, not the brush," she jerks away. The hairbrush reminds her of the self-spanking days, not a trigger but kind of off-limits. Ah, what the hell, it was worth a try and to add some spice to the otherwise orchestrated scene, thanks so very much.

Smack! "Are you telling me what to do?" He promptly drops the hairbrush back in the drawer and slams it shut. "Bad girls don't get to choose." Smack! "Bad girls get what they deserve. Hold it there."

Nick leaves and comes back with the belt. Izzie rises up while locking eyes with him in the mirror, gleefully in sync, and he pushes her shoulders down again.

"Colour?"

"Bloody green."

"Blood is actually red. Let's try it again. Colour?"

"Green, sir."

All said and done, they are in a so familiar embrace. Nick perks on the wide edge of the tub with Izzie curled up on his lap. He pulls a plush towel from the towel warmer on the wall and wraps her in it.

"Thank you, sir."

"Hope the thanks were for the warm towel."

"You know they weren't."

"Can you drop it already?"

"You like your buzzwords and rituals, I like mine."

Nick nods at the array of bottles and jars on Izzie’s side. “Which bottle can I use?”

“Anything but that expensive face cream.”

“I think that's exactly what I will use. Your sore bum is no less important.” Nick hums contentedly their own Bottom Song to the tune of some long-forgotten lullaby, while spreading some cream over her reddened cheeks. But the pause between the chorus lines is getting longer, his hand just hovers over her bum now. Nick, only surviving there, a wind-up toy with no juice left, the last splash of energy spent on moving them back in the bedroom to crash onto the bed.

"It's over, Nicky. It's all good. You did so well. I'm so proud of you." She coos as she strokes his hair, caresses his cheek, his soft stubble, traces his eyebrow.

"We are not normal, aren't we? Isn't it I'm who's supposed to praise you?" he sighs with a little glint, a sure indication that he’s coming back to life.

She reaches under the covers to check on him. More of a perfunctory check to switch his mind to what's coming next. "Mmm, you're ready for the fun part." She reaches over for the lube bottle and puts tons of it on the only place between her legs that's not wet yet.

A whiff of coconut with some flowery undertone hits his nose. "What's that smell?"

"Coconut lavender. You like coconut, I like lavender, so I made the lube myself."

"You made it??" This woman will never seize to surprise him.

"It's not a rocket science, you know, just added some oils for the scent. I should run a workshop, make your own lube."

"Please don't," his voice finally soft and calm. "By the way, oils are not safe for condoms."

"Thanks for the PSA, Mister Know-it-all. I made it for us. Ready?"

His eyes squint in a triumphant smirk. "I'm not done with you, you insolent brat. Hands and knees. Now!"