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.

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.

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… 

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.

J is for Journey

 

Dear diary,

When one uses the word transgression, ordinary things come to mind. Like forgetting your phone at home or even leaving it there on purpose, just to spend a couple of hours unaccounted for. Or like on that day, wearing a dress too short and coming back from the walk after dark. Mouthing off with an attitude. Raising my voice. Staring back. Undressing too slow. I left all that behind, the man and his controlling pettiness. I will not go down this rabbit hole today, thinking of him. That's not why I'm here, in Uncle Ar's room. I pressed my forehead against the wall and drew a deep slow breath. 

Uncle Ar sensed my hesitation. “You don't have to recite the whole list, my dear.”

“I do, at least the big ones,” I sighed. “I quit, I failed myself too many times. I could've had another surgery to fix the damned foot and go back to dancing, but I didn't. I chose Aldous.” I realized that Uncle Ar was not aware of my life story, but at that point it didn't bother me, I just clarified. “I made a lot of wrong choices. Aldous was bad news. It took me too long to come to terms with it. You don't hand over the control to someone like him. You just don't. Does it make any sense? Any of it?”

“Of course, you're blaming yourself for not leaving that man earlier, but you shouldn't. You did what you could, when you could.” I could hear him pacing the room behind my back.

“I betrayed myself, I failed myself. Over and over.“ I turned around to face him with a burning face. Quite a confession booth, with my shorts down and the dress barely covering my crotch. 

“And me bending you over my lap will make it right?” he chuckled, as he settled on the bed and laid the paddles within an arm's reach.

“You know how it works. It will make me feel better.” I was determined to go through with it, with a total stranger. If I did hook up with total strangers, why couldn't I have one talk some sense into me with the help of his hand and other things. By the way, that was another major transgression I didn't mention. In my attempt to get over Aldous, I let too many into my bed. Hanging out with the Eurotrash crowd, turn you into one very quickly. I needed to become more choosy of whom to let into my life, even for a short stay, especially for a short stay. 

“Who am I to disagree?” Inadvertently Uncle Ar quoted an old song, as he tapped on his knee. “ Let's get on with it, young lady.”

I would've preferred for him to start over the shorts, but it was a bit too late for that. Laying across his lap, with my head and torso comfortably on the bed and my legs locked in between his, I didn't have to wait long. Arlen delivered that first hesitant smack to gauge the reaction and rested his hand on my butt. It's been a while since anyone spanked me. We are all adults here, I can use the damn word, it's just a word. The weight of a man's hand on my ass, there is nothing in the world to compare to this simple act. Of my surrender, and him taking over the control. I wanted it more than anything. I needed it.

There was nothing sexual about it for neither of us. A silent understanding, what has to be done, be done and no more. It could be that riled up later, back in my room, I would reach for the vibe and let it rip. Right now, there was only one purpose, one goal, to take me to a place where I will be at peace with myself, even by means of a painful journey.

While not being spanked by a man, I did use my own hairbrush on myself. Not as effective, it did the job and kept my pain tolerance level high. So his first dozen swats did no damage and elicited no reaction from me whatsoever. He adjusted the impact and the next few forced my feet off the floor and to kick, for which he quickly reprimanded me with the customary attack on my thighs. 

Coming from Uncle Ar, it all made sense. There was no anger, no foul temper, no revenge, only the quiet strength to lead me on the journey from point A to point B. Point A being desperate and miserable. Point B, a safe haven with no regrets.

Uncle Ar clearly had a few decades of experience under the belt, or better say, with his belt. He read me like an open book, picking up the intensity when it felt right and slowing down when he decided to give me a rest. He rubbed my butt before switching to the paddle and pressed it against my already sore flesh to show that he was ready to continue. He leaned over me to whisper into my ear words of comfort and effectively locked me with his body, like a full body hug, holding me tight, except his right hand, like a clock, would rise and fall, each time taking me further on that journey.

Happily Submit

Forgive and forget. Let go. Don't dwell. Don't recite all my wrongdoings till the cows come home. Don't blame all of our failures on me. Don't yell at me. Control yourself first. Own your mistakes. 

Lead. Take responsibility. Make me feel safe and secure. Protect me. Watch me. Don't let me go by myself after dark. Don't encourage harmful habits. 

Laugh with me. Read with me. Watch me dance. Leave silly notes for me. Cook with me. Share a meal not food. 

Don't put tomatoes in the fridge. Don't try to sneak a pair of black socks into the white laundry. Change that lightbulb without a gentle weekly reminder. 

Tell me, I got you. Call me a good girl. Take care of me like no one else before. 

Braid my hair. Pull me onto your lap. Hold me tight. Fall asleep with me. Kiss my forehead in the morning. Check on me. Don't let me drop. 

Look me in the eyes. Hold my chin to look into yours. Touch me for no reason. Pin me. 

Buy me an almond croissant once in a while but not too often. Make me presents that money cannot buy. 

Listen to me. Support me. Inspire me. Lift me up. Don't refer to anything I'm into as crap or bullshit. Believe in me. Cheer me up. Root for my success. Be proud of me. Cherish me. 

Accept me for who I am. 

Then, I will HAPPILY SUBMIT. 

PS Yes, it's so much easier to pour my heart out to complete strangers in hope that maybe, just maybe, my words, this instruction manual, will make a difference in someone else's life. 

PPS That’s Ralph Marvell and Samantha Woodley on the picture, and the still is from a Shadow Lane video (thank you, Erica, for identifying). A famous photo, popular in the community, mercilessly cropped by yours truly (unintentional pun) in order not to get nuked over one picture. No, I will not send you the original. What, you haven't seen enough red bottoms already?

and think of England - Birching Bordello part 7

 

Next instalment of the Birching Bordello story, sorry to keep you waiting for sooo long. To read from the beginning, click here

“I’ve got you, Isabel.” Nick resorts to the familiar words, lips pressed against her temple. The first minutes of the post-play haze are the hardest, perhaps even more so than the act himself, especially when she cries. Even though she cried for him, for putting him through this, time and again. 

Nick seeks reassurance. He needs her to confirm he did well, that she still loves and wants him. His hand, hidden under the many layers of skirts, circles and rubs her stinging butt with more and more purpose. 

Even for a big guy like Nick, it’s challenging to maneuver Izzie and her giant dress on his lap. “Are we done with this Victorian nonsense?” 

“Why?” Izzie lifts her eyes to meet his, with the serenity that only comes after the storm, a shy smile curling her lips. Ha! The sign he was looking for. 

“Firstly, we need to get you out of this dress before you suffocate.” Nick yanks her up to stand in between his legs and reaches for the sophisticated bow that still holds her unlaced corset together. 

"No, leave the bow, there is a zipper under." 

"Alright," Nick acquiesces and drags down on the secret zipper. The dress cracks open like a can of sardines, and Nick yanks it down for Izzie to step out of it. He got rid of her white pantaloons earlier, so the only garment left are the white stockings, rolled down to her knees. He discards the stockings the same way, shaking his head with hasty annoyance. 

"Secondly, to attend to another pressing matter, quite literally, pressing." Nick drags Izzie's hand to his crotch. 

"Want a blowie?" Izzie slips into the parlance of our times. She leans against him, eager lips touching the soft skin of his neck, just below the stubble. 

"No, darling, I want an old fashioned fucking." His hands wander up and down her narrow back, inevitably gravitate to the magnetic warmth of her arse. "If you don't mind, be a good girl and open your legs for me." Nick closes his eyes as he awaits the consequences of such a brazen tirade. Whatever. He is done with the games for today. 

"Why you can curse, and I can't?" she pouts. Her fingers, drifting along the rigid outline under the thin fabric, do not bring any relief. 

"A difference in anatomy, I guess." Nick catches the tantalizing hand to press it harder against his already aching self. 

"Nicky!" 

"Nicky was a fuckboy whose heart you broke in Ibiza." He bites his lower lip, as the bitter confession leaves his mouth. 

"I want Nicky back." She doubles down the plea, two arms circled around Nicky's neck. 

"Me too." Nick cranes his head to the side to give her a better access. Funny, it's usually him who's kissing it better. 

"We screwed up again, didn't we?"  

"Majorly," he nods. 

"Fix it." Two dark eyes are staring into his. "You fix things for everyone. Please, fix it. I will do anything."

"Will you lie back and think of England?" Nick cautiously weaves a tale. "Not all of England, just one particular Englishman."

"Yes, please." Izzie steps back to sit on the bed, then slides over till her head hits the pillows. Long legs stretched and firmly pressed together, hands folded on her belly, she's a naked vision of a virtuous obedience. If only he wouldn't know better. 

"Now, will you trust that Englishman and let him make you happy?" One eyebrow raised, Nick leans over and waits. 

"Yes, I will." Little feet walk up his lithe body in tiny steps till her ankles plop on their respective shoulders. 

Left ankle gets its own kiss, then the right one. "Good girl."

For Saturday Spanking Blog, sorry for the last minute entry

Tanning the tan lines (with JM)

Lovely Jean Marie of Butt Stuff posted about tan lines here. Since I'm a huge sucker for tan lines myself, I replied with a snippet, JM picked it up and took it further, and on we went. Then JM got busy and I just finished the story with a twist. 

Aaand, the Saturday Spankings are around the corner, so I linky linked it, see the link at the bottom.

Sore is more:

He dragged his tongue across her cheek along the sharp tan line that divided it perfectly in half, wondering if it would taste differently, and yes, it did indeed. The paler, almost alabaster triangle, was smoother and more tender to the touch than the few shades darker part on the other side of the border, roughed up by unforgiving Mediterranean sun.

Jean Marie:

He takes his cue from that unforgiving sun. He would “rough-up” the tender, alabaster skin for her. He begins to spank her, but not like you would a naughty child. This was a very adult disciplining, hard slaps across both ass cheeks, making her cry out, making her beg and plead. She sees that this makes no difference, so just hides her face in the crook of her elbow, and offers her ass up to his hiding, this tanning where she wasn’t tan.

When he finally stops, they both cannot help but rub the abused flesh, magnetized by the radiating warmth, mesmerized by the rosy color. He rubs lotion into the skin as if it was sunburned. It was Sirburned, and she got down on her knees to thank him. She worshiped his erect dick as he had her erotic derriere.

Sore is more:

“A proper young lady –” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he let it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent as he puts it securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder; a triumphant grin stretching her lips morphs into a hesitant frown when she sees him folding the belt in half. An eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable, his eyes, kind and playful just a few minutes ago, now flooded with disappointment and hurt. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still the shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'." 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the bed. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of the punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip to not mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already swollen bottom. 

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with when it all started tonight. He drags her to the edge of the bed and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of hers to keep them from flying off.

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." Deep breath out. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all came to this single moment that he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast to let her apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. 

He falls on the bed next to her and pulls her closer and away from the edge. He's drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over in a record time. Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.

Sore is More (teaser)

Kathryn posted a very interesting comment on my Personal page here. It took me a while to figure out how to respond, and I think my reply to her deserves a separate post and I need to expand on it as well:

IMHO and confirmed by my research into the matter, dominance can exist without any punishment component, especially natural dominance. But let's not mix fiction with reality, as all my stories are fictional, and yes, they are not standalone stories but excerpts from the future book.

My biggest dilemma is that I butchered my lovely vanilla novel (steamy vanilla with a few kinks here and there) by throwing it into the direction of spanking, I was even trying to keep it at PG-13 but, alas, that train left the station long time ago.

I didn't post that very first spanking scene yet, but I still stand my ground that I got it right, on pure intuition. It's highly controversial even within the spanko realm. I don't like labels, but I think the closest is a Service Dom, that's what Nick will eventually become to Izzie, and I never read or heard of any novels about Service Doms, it's almost like a curse word or so I heard. 

Izzie and Nick do not switch, but the power exchange is fluid, going back and forth, sometimes within the same scene. It's more of yes-ma'am than yes-sir. Lots of drama and lots of fun to write! Oh boy, how did my somewhat vanilla book ended up with this??

The scene in question, promptly called Sore is More, was inspired by the famous spanking scene in Outlander, that's what Izzie was watching on TV. Now, to whet your appetite:

Nick yanks the door to the drawing room, and with the sound of the opening door, the TV goes off, but not before he could catch a glimpse of what Izzie was watching, and he doesn't like it, not one little bit.

"I saw it, you were watching it again, you perv," Nick points at the black TV screen.

"I can't help myself,” she protests. "It's hot as fuck."

"Darling, you can't admit it in the civilized society." Nick sinks into the couch, and she straddles his hips.

"We won't stay civilized for long. What is my safeword?" Hand curled around his neck, she whispers in his ear.

"Don Quixote. I want to stay civilized."

and now, Sore is More part:

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"Who's a beggar in this scenario?"

"Me, of course." She sighs with discontent. "I still can't believe that he didn't fuck her right after."

"She was in pain!" The things you have to explain to this woman. Medieval!

"Exactly. My heart bleeds for him and his dick. But you will fuck me after, right?" Izzie coos seductively. "You won't be a pussy like him?" 

Nick pinches his nose. Pale, another shade of pale. His face goes from pale to blush and back to a whiter shade of pale. "Are you sure, you are not running one of those anti-feminist groups?"

"I ghost write the slogans for them. Listen. His choice is my choice. I don't own my pussy, my man does. Sore is more, that's my favourite. One more, umm, sore ass, not sorry ass."

"And we're back to the ass," Nick closes his eyes.

We all heard of topping from the bottom, many of us guilty as charged. But what do you know or heard about Service Doms?