Z is for Zenith

Dear diary,

While in my real life I've been trying to rebuild my life, starting from scratch, zero, nada, zilch. As far as A to Z goes, it's the last chapter, kind of like bookends. Or doors, one door closes, and the other one opens. I hope so much that the new door will bring me some sort of break. So far, despite all my most recent disasters, I reached the zen-like state, which is a polite way of saying, zero fucks given. 

As you can see, I deliberately sprinkle this entry with an excessive number of words that start with Z, not sure yet, which one of them will play a bigger part in the story. Because we have a story to finish, the Red and Wolf story. Remember where we left them or need a recap? After a sweet talk and a long hug, Wolf threatened to use the freshly cut switches on Red, and Wolfie, a wolf of his word, doesn't issue empty threats. Without any further ado, I will give the stage to Red.

Zing! The first strike of a supple willow branch zapped me like a thousand volt charge. Nothing can really prepare you for that first blow, no matter how much warm-up my poor ass already received. Switching is definitely out of my comfort zone. Every year in spring it's the same song and dance of ‘will he won't he’. At the end, he always does, there is no talking out of it.

Willow branches are Wolf's favourite, talk about the sentimental attachment, as they come from his tree in his forest. The same willow tree by the water he escapes to and sits under it for hours looking at and listening to the stream, when we have rare arguments. Everyone thinks that Wolf has a bad temper but he never acts on it. He would come back home, calm and resolute, and we would have a talk, which ultimately ends up with him removing his belt. If we had a fight bad enough to send him running for the hills, or the willow in his case, there is no other way to resolve it. For us. Either way, we never go to bed angry.

Switching in the forest is definitely the zeitgeist of our relationship. Bend over a tree trunk with my panties down, getting my ass whipped with the willow branches. That's public enough to bring out the humiliation in me, from the fear of being walked on, found out. But who will dare to go that near the Wolf's house without an invitation? That's the other side of it, Wolfie's pride for his forest and every part of it. Doing it in the forest, in the open, feeds his possessive side, claiming the ownership of me and the forest as one. Claiming, owning, marking, that's all Wolfie. But what about me, what do I get out of it? Despite all the hesitation and the attempts to forego the spring ritual, I crave it with all my heart, as every year Wolfie adds something new to it.

“How is my little zebra doing?” Wolfie stops after the first three to rub my butt.

“Zebras and wolves don't live on the same continent.” I snap back and immediately regret it.

Zing! Wolfie strikes again. “Au contraire, my dear African cousin, Canis Lupaster, is very fond of the local zebras.” Zing! “Any snarky comments why I called you a zebra?”

“Because you're giving me the stripes.” I pant.

“That's right. Perfect. Red. Stripes.” He punctuates every word with a swift whoosh. “You see, you get snappy, I turn zappy.” He stops again to give me a break.

“Zealous. Overzealous.” I dance on the spot from pain. “Please, enough.”

“Enough is not your safeword.”

“Pitchforks!” I yell.

“Where? What?” He howls and frantically sweeps the surrounding bushes.

“It's my safeword, pitchforks, you forgot?” I turn around to face him

“And I agreed to that? When?” Now he clutches his hairy chest. 

“I don't know, ages ago. Wolfie, I called a safeword, I'm not crying wolf.”

“Wolf is here.” He wraps me in his arms, still panting. “I'm sorry, my reddelicious, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. That zebra thing threw me off, and then it was too much.” I can't let the zenith of my year end like this. “Did you want more?”

“Just three more. Can you take it for me?” Wolfie whispers in my ear.

Why in the fairytales everything is counted by three? Three questions, three choices, three roads. Three more zaps, and it's over. I'm carried home in Wolfie's big arms, pressed against his big chest, my fingers buried in the hair behind his big ears. Whatever happens next is nobody's business. Hint, it involves Wolfie's other equally big parts. Not telling, I get incredibly shy after a good spanking.

Zee end.

H is for Humiliation and Humility

This story happens right after G is for Going Going Gone, but can read as standalone. Warning: graphic details abound. 

H is for Humility and Humiliation

At first, Izzie thought that Nick is putting on a show for her, giving into her humiliation kink. With all the permissions negotiated and granted in advance, taming and taking seems like a scripted game. 

Too powerful in real life, Nick always avoids spilling his innate dominance into their bedroom play. His version of D/s is timid by any standards. Sarcasm and snarly remarks are reserved for the verbal fights only. Nick prides himself for exceptional self-control, but Izzie heard him roar on a few occasions, though never unleashed onto her. 

But today the hand on her throat, not choking, but firm and unyielding, was there to convey a different message. Nick is not putting on a show, but running the show. 

"Which one of your three holes should I use first?" Izzie's full body shudder doesn't go unnoticed. "Is that what you want to hear, sweetheart?" She mumbles incoherently in response. "That was a yes or no question."

"Yes, sir." 

Nick steps away to grab a pillow from the couch and throws it on the floor. "Kneel." 

Izzie lowers her knees on the pillow in front of him and watches mesmerized as Nick unbuckles his belt and pulls it through the loops with a holy whoosh. 

"Don't get your hopes high." He sends the belt flying to the corner, taking down something with it in the process. An eyebrow raised, Nick follows the trajectory, curious if there is broken glass involved. Unbothered, he turns his attention back to Izzie. "No beloved belt for you today, I have something else planned. Lots of new toys. You love toys, right?" 

Izzie pouts at the news that the belt is off the table and shuts her mouth into a thin line, just in time for Nick's dick to touch her lips.

"What, your big mouth is too small for my cock, all of a sudden?" Izzie's jaw drops open, taken off-guard by the unusual obscenity, and Nick doesn't waste any time guiding his cock in. "Hands off!" He doesn't apply any force, god forbid, she is as willing as ever. But there is a new unrelenting determination and tenacity in everything he does today.

"Someone has been too mouthy lately." Nick continues his lecture. "Getting her way too much, talking back, forgetting her place. Someone needs to be taken down a peg or two." One hand in her hair, the other holding her chin, he punctuates the words with deeper thrusts, taking her to the point of gagging and sputtering saliva. "Someone needs to be reminded of who's in charge around here."

Nick withdraws as swiftly as he shoved himself in. 

"Did you lose all your deep-throating skills, darling? Or just out of practice with your loving and caring boyfriend? Talk!" 

"I don't know, Nick!" Berating his loving and caring alter ego was never a good sign. He prefers to be loving and caring, no quote marks required.

He pulls her up on her feet and turns around to pin against the wall. 

"Nick?" Pressing into her back, he whispers in her ear. "Nick is not here. You can scream, no one will hear you. This room is soundproofed, you soundproofed it yourself, how lovely. No one will come to rescue you, damsel in distress. Isn't that what you fantasize about?" He grabs both of her wrists and folds them to rest on the small of her back. "That someone will, um, forcefully take you?"

Nick's hand slides under her skirt and in between her legs. Izzie arches her back and opens her stance wider. He pushes the panties to the side and sinks two fingers in." Hoover Dam! Aren't you happy to see me? Talk!"

"Yes, sir," comes out more like a moan.

"What about the last one?" Nick holds down her shoulder to keep her in place, while he pulls out his fingers, dripping wet up to his knuckles, and slides it over to probe her pink hole with the middle finger. "By the time I will get to this tight spot, your arse will be too raw to notice. So, enjoy now." 

He nudges against the rim till she does open up. She rides his finger almost against her will. They say it about guys that their blood is all drawn south, and they can't think with their brain. That's how she is right now. 

Nick is lying through his teeth. He knows how much Izzie loves anal, how she will squirm, wiggle, thrust back into him, how easy it will be to make her come. But all this dirty talk and humiliation make her arousal to shoot through the roof. 

He pulls the finger out with a pop and brings it to his nose, and then to hers. "Phew! Is that how you get ready for me?" He wipes the fingers with the hem of her dress. 

"Nick! It's my favourite dress!" Izzie yelps with annoyance.

A resounding smack on her bottom, the first one since they got into the bedroom, without a failure, puts her back into the submissive mode. 

"You won't be needing it tonight." He pulls the dress up and over her head, leaving her in panties only. Another yank, and the panties join the dress on the floor. "Go clean yourself up and put on a top and leggings, on bare bottom. Off you go!" Another smack sends her on the way. 

Red from the embarrassment, Izzie scoots to the bathroom. She scrubs herself inside out with a makeshift secret brush that she uses when there is no time for enema. 

Tight top and leggings, that's what Nick wants. Of course, to peel the leggings off just enough to expose her poor butt and thighs only. It's worse than being fully naked, she hates it. But she craves the humiliation that comes with it and loves how well he knows her by now.

She adds the platform heels to her outfit. All white to contrast her soon to be scarlet bottom. And pulls her hair up into a high ponytail, like a good subby that she is supposed to be. 

"Come here." Nick calls her when she reappears in the doorway. 

He takes everything to the next level today, fiddling with a new toy, a foxtail butt plug. The plug itself is a medium size, much smaller than his dick, but, hey, it's stainless steel and probably cold. 

"Do you know what it is?" Nick watches like a hawk when she presses her legs together and clenches her butt in anticipation. 

"A foxtail." 

"No, my dear. It's a reminder of who's in charge here."

He pulls her leggings down, just enough to expose her bottom, and rubs it aimlessly in circles, waiting for her to relax. 

"Bend over." Nick reaches for the lube and spreads it generously on the plug. 

A simple command sends Izzie into a chain of familiar steps: bend, spread, hold. Nick swats her hands away. 

"Did I tell you to spread?" 

"No, sir." Hands fall to the sides. 

"That's right!" Nick accentuates every word with a loud smack. "I. Did not. Tell. You. To spread." He pauses. "You see? You do need a reminder of who's in charge." Her butt swallows a well-lubricated plug like magic. Only the bushy tail treacherously propagates the tiniest movements of her tensed muscles. 

"Corner!" Another command, accompanied by another swat on the already reddening cheek, sends her waddling to her lonely destination, the fox tail swaying from side to side by the force of gravity. Whoever came up with the idea of tail plugs, had a wicked sense of humor. 

Nose to the wall, Izzie can trace everything Nick does by the trail of the sounds. He ventured to the next room to slosh whiskey from to the crystal decanter he picked from the mirrored tray. He slammed back the wooden humidor lid after picking up the cigar. Not too big, as he is not planning to smoke for long. The leather couch creased as he settled back in to admire his work. He clicked the lighter a few times before he got the cigar going. Izzie inhales deeply the pleasant cigar smoke. 

She dares to look over her shoulder. "The fire alarm will go off, just saying." 

"For the life of you, you can't stop." Nick huffs with a relaxed smile but fishes out the phone to send a message to the staff to deactivate the alarm in the bedroom. Izzie grins, and Nick winks back at her. "Nose to the wall, muñequita."

Nick never calls her Spanish pet names, but today that's exactly how she wants to feel, his little doll. Mind reader, he is not, but he repeats, as he takes another puff. 

"Mi muñequita linda."

*mi muñequita linda - my lovely little doll (in Spanish)

Jamming

Jamming, like making jam. No, keep reading, plow through, there is a story at the end, I promise. 

I'm notoriously bad at choosing fruit. To the point that I've been told many times, we're out of apples but don't buy any, I will buy them myself. 

I have no problem choosing vegetables, zucchinis, cucumbers, carrots, an occasional daikon, all firm, not too long, not too thick, just the right size. Or bananas. Or ginger, but that's a story for another time. 

So here I am, making another small batch of jam out of wrongfully chosen peaches and plums. 

And now the story. 

She slides back on the edge of the bathtub, now her naked bum, a living metaphor of a low-hanging fruit, a peach or an apricot specifically, a super magnet to his eyes and lips. Suffice to say that a drunken lounging in an empty bathtub with a bottle of quickly diminishing whisky never paid off so well.

Drowning in a heavy scent of vanilla, probably from the body wash she used after, well, after the unfortunate events of this never-ending night, he tips the bottle again. Vanilla, no siree Bob, he will show Her Highness that vanilla he is not.

He leans over to the right cheek. At first, it's just a kiss, his teeth graze over the soft flesh, sucking it in to leave a mark. He licks the sting away. His hands push her hips down to hold her in one spot. The encouraging moans she makes, and the way she slow rolls her hips despite his tight grip. He lounges into the same spot, now biting into it harder, holding onto it, waiting for her to move away, out of his reach, but she doesn't. She wiggles and moans and squirms but doesn’t try to move away. He lets it go and moves to the next spot, then the next one, and one more, closer and closer to her pinkhole.

What matters/Inspection

This post was inspired by Kink of the Week (KOTW), and this week's kink is Inspection! I clicked on the red lips on lovely Fondles website, and voila, here I am, rambling about inspection...

How did I miss it, oh how did I forgot to mention all these little things in my recent recollection, My Submission. 

Inspection, such a cold, clinical word. Inspection, if he would only know, how all the little things he does are called in the world of kink, he would freak out, step back, clam up. My journey so far is one-sided, taking and gratefully accepting whatever he doles out, without putting any labels on it, without calling it what it really is.

Inspection, his gentle fingers graze the contours of my face, my nose, eyebrows, my mouth. Like in the movies, when they always check that the newborn has all ten fingers and toes, they can see it but still always count. He slides the fingers inside my mouth and pulls it at the sides to open wider, touching my tongue and my teeth, and I start sucking at his fingers in earnest. 

His fingers poke into my nostrils, not to deep, just mockingly check if they are clean enough. Then the same with my ears. The fingers squeeze and mush my cheeks, with intent but without causing any pain.

He checks on the hollow of my navel, if it's washed properly. Full confession, I used to skip, or more like neglect it, and an occasional tiny bit of lint would get stuck in there, bringing up an aha! reaction on discovery. Not anymore, the navel passes the inspection with the flying colours.

He smells my armpits, and it will depend how late in the day we are, since I last took the shower. No, he doesn't like me to take the shower right before, always quoting Napoleon's letter to Josephine, “I will return in three days. Don't wash!” 

By that point my smell changes, it always changes when I'm aroused, to the one resembling the smell of a skunk or weed. Haha, I'm Mary Jane, I'm Spartacus. He laughs it off with a fake disgust.

He grabs and squeezes all my curves, including not the sexiest ones, hello tummy, that's so hard to get rid off, and sometimes I protest, hey, everyone has extra curves when they lay on their side, riiight?

Through moans and giggles he turns me into a ragdoll, his ragdoll, and he didn't even touch me down there yet. That's reserved for the main course, we are not done with the appetizers.

These undeniably possessive touches that claim me without marking. That proclaim, you're mine, louder than any words spoken. That take me and make me his, while giving so much. That remind me of who's-who and what matters.