Birching Bordello is LIVE on Amazon!!!

 

EDIT: fixed the link

Birching Bordello on Amazon

Izzie likes to play. Nick likes to oblige. Yet, for the love of all things pain and pleasure, he can’t recall what she had planned for tonight. Until he sees her dress, plus the thornless rose, which suspiciously resembles a cane, and will sting on her bare bottom “like the dickens”.

Birching Bordello is a short story about one night of Victorian roleplay, a calling card for my upcoming full-length novel. Hush, it's a secret!

For the full list of accoutrements, consult your local adult store. Regard this as your blanket warning.

* * *

Kicking and screaming, Izzie dragged Nick into her world. Not only metaphorically, they had to soundproof this room for their loud shenanigans. Never in a thousand years did he imagine meeting a new love, he was not seeking one, and that his beloved would demand this unbearable amount of pain brought upon her in the most humiliating manner. Alpha male of the boardrooms and town halls, Nick preferred to lay back in the bedroom, his time to get away from the intensity of his real world, but not with Izzie. She handed him the reins, which he took, hesitant at first. No baby steps—it was all or nothing, and through horrendous mistakes and burning bridges, they survived and built this, which no label could encompass. His hand became firm and unwavering, but his heart raced each time, and his mind waited for reassurance, which she never hesitated to provide.

* * *

P.S. My lovely readers, without you, those stories would never see the light of day.

Your reviews will be the best form of support and greatly appreciated.

Book cover reveal for Birching Bordello

 

EDIT: It's now LIVE - Birching Bordello on Amazon

Sounds familiar?? Yep, I put together all the Birching Bordello stories, worked my magic, and made it into a book. My very very very first book with my very very very own book cover. Isn't it amazing? Aren't you all proud of me?

I clicked on the Publish button and nothing happened. Now I'm waiting while it's in review, but as you can tell, I'm overflowing with excitement. I will post the link here as soon as it will become available on Amazon.

Pinky promise, it has new content and way more fun than before. Here is the new snippet for you:

                                                        ***

“I expected a blank canvas,” Nick smirks.

Izzie’s hands fly up to cover her face while her cheeks turn the same vivid pink as her bottom. “Forgive me, milord, I had another... visitor... earlier this evening.” 

“Pray tell, was his name Duke of Brush or Viscount Spoon?” He caresses the telltale round red marks on her bum. 

“Duke of Brush, I’m sorry, I had to take the edge off,” she falters, lapsing into the present. “Why is it always so bright here?”

“Do you want me to dim the lights?” Nick motions at the switch on the opposite wall.

“No, you need the light for better aim.” And Izzie squeals into the sheets.

Nick is too familiar with this sound of embarrassment, usually accompanied by Izzie biting her lip, right after she blurted out what she shouldn’t and quite literally bit her tongue. She calls it “topping from the bottom”, and he’s not supposed to let it slide.

The Western cowgirl and the Stranger: a roleplay

The words of the week were Western and Stranger. 

As always, we suggested one word each. I went with Western, as we missed the Western themed party at the club last week, and you know how much I love dressing up. He chose Stranger. I wasn't surprised; he hinted a few times that a certain hello stranger roleplay was in the cards. And whatever he says, goes. 

It's peculiar, how we choose the accessories for our play. Each has a special meaning or a hidden purpose, like a real life double entendre.

Studded boots with much needed heels will reduce the height difference. His green flannel shirt, too big for me, will keep me warm as the only garment left on. New jeans won't stay on for long, neither will star spangled panties. 

Flirty velvet ribbons braided into my pigtails match the green of the shirt. Neither of us is into ageplay but who can say no to a cowgirl with pigtails and a red bandana around her neck? 

In a sweet anticipation, I listen as wood crackles and pops in the fireplace he started before I came downstairs. The warmth spreads through the room, through my shaking limbs, through my bones. A hot flash hits me like a wall. I can't wait a second longer for him to get rid off my clothes. I inhale hard and whimper to shush my pounding heart. 

When I hear his steps on the creaky stairs, I don't move a muscle, standing still with my back to the door. I don't need to see him, I could always feel his presence. And now he is relishing the view of his present, wrapped in so many layers, for him to take off bit by delicious bit. 

He reaches from behind to untie the bandana on my neck. The new fabric rustles when he folds it into a strip and gives out the smell of my parfume. A makeshift blindfold covers my eyes. 

The massive silver buckle clangs when he pulls my belt through the loops and secures my wrists behind my back. He unbuckles and pulls out his own belt next and folds it in half with a sound clap, so I have no doubts of what this Western adventure will entail. 

Slight nudge on my neck, and I bend over the antique rocking horse that I dragged into the middle of the room, my bare stomach pressed to the well worn leather saddle.

His favourite rope, coiled into a lasso, lays motionless on the floor, but for now he doesn't need it. He yanks my tight jeans down to the ankles and smirks at the view of the star spangled panties. He rubs the bare skin before pulling the panties down. Now the double elastics trap my feet in place better than any rope. The hem of his flannel shirt folded up to reveal the blank canvas my body is for him, at his mercy. 

I am the Western cowgirl, and he is the Stranger. 

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.

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

V is for Velvet

 

Dear diary,

I thought of many words that start with V. Vicious, vile, vengeance came to mind. I'm not seeking vengeance anymore, karma will eventually get everyone who did me wrong. But vile things keep happening to me, none of them I wish to share in my diary, a home of my happy place.

When I think of a truly happy place, I see a green velvet couch. I don't know where it will be, in which house or even in which country, but I can see the couch so clearly. Apparently, they are a thing, both on the internet and in real life. An interior design darling for many years, unassuming soft velvet in any shape and form, I prefer those with big tufted arms, so comfortable to bend over. In many hues of green, from British racing green to dark khaki and back to lemony neon green of tennis balls. For me, the more neutral and soothing the colour is, the better, because many nasty and naughty things will happen on and around that green velvet couch, or sofa, as Nick would call it. 

With blankets and throws, so soft and cozy, folded neatly at the end of the day or left crumpled in the corner, to cover, to hide, to cuddle, to keep warm, to fight the inevitable chills I get at the end. With an array of oversized pillows in magenta, baby pink, and orange, some made of leather, some shaggy, some in matching velvet, each to play its own role, to fit under the right limb, to tuck, to prop, to lift. 

Right now I'm bent over the back of the couch, face down and hands clutching the pillows, naked from the waist down, my ass sticking high in the air. Not my favourite position, just a nudge better than the dreadful legs up, but I can decipher why Nick chose it. With my high heels on, my ass is at the perfect height for the main event, for him to fuck me after. 

Not sure why people call it a main event, as for us the main event starts when he guides me over and throws a blanket over the couch, not so much to protect the couch from the aftermath, but for my comfort and arousing soft touch of the fabric against my naked skin. Or even earlier, when he announces the verdict, how many strikes and with what I deserve for my imaginable crimes. Or what roleplay is in the cards, out of a long list I confessed to him earlier. I live and breathe for the moment he takes my hand in his and announces, “It's time.”

My crime today was leaving the pool toys in the pool and, gasp, a martini glass made out of real glass on one of the floats. In my dreams I drink martinis with extra olives, smoke an occasional cigarette, and wear skimpy bathing suits. This time it was an orange bikini, two tiny triangles over my tits and a thong, with full access to my butt cheeks. Nick still had to make a show of taking it off me and gagging me with it, for some peace and quiet, as he noted. 

A potential broken glass was a serious crime that required an equally serious weapon, so Nick brought out the cane. Nough said. The martini glass was obviously made out of clear plastic, I would never go near the pool with real glass, but Nick was itching to try the new cane on me, hence the big crime. 

“Why can't you be more careful? Why do I have to resort to the cane?” He tapped my butt cheek lightly.

I mumbled through the bikini bottom. 

Nick was faced with a dilemma, either the gag is out, or his speech will become a monologue. He loved my smart mouth more than his peace and quiet, and the gag was out with a caution. “That was a rhetorical question, keep it quiet, or I will gag you again.”

I just nodded in agreement. In the dream, Nick was as funny and clumsy as in real life. We've already fooled around on the same green velvet couch and knocked down the whisky tumbler he left on the side table. The next half an hour we spent on all four, trying to find all the broken glass pieces and shaking off the rug. Since I was already on all four, one thing led to another, and the first round, forewarned by some nice warm-up with a leather paddle, was out of the way. 

I didn't invent that trick: cum first, spank later. I read about it and always wanted to try. Today it just happened without any planning, and I could see it by the playful glint in Nick's eyes, he was happy to take it off my bucket list.

Maybe my martini glass was imaginable, but my ass was paying for Nick's own mistake. Kind of the same way like the birthday spanking works. It might be his birthday, but I will be getting the spanking, to his and my delight. On the same green velvet couch.

PS Picture from Tumbler.

R is for Real

Dear diary,

What is real? The dark shadow hanging over me or the white sand of the beach?  The clear baby blue sky that reflects in the still turquoise of the warm ocean? The myriads of small islands on the horizon, covered with greenery, as seen only in this part of the world? I choose real. I have to choose real, if I want to make it.

It's so similar and different from Ibiza. Same crowds of tourists, though more families with children here, maybe because I'm not on the partying island. Better for me, less chance to run into someone I know. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I wonder how small the world actually is, an oversized village. No matter to which bubble you belong, you're bound to bump into your peeps. Not interested.

I bought a couple of long summer dresses. It's not unheard of here, and no one bats an eye at someone covered head to toe on the beach, in jarring contrast with the bikini-clad or thong-only crowd. My new tan lines will be on my ankles, and so be it. The long dress with the sleeves solves so many problems at once. No one will stare at my old scar on the left arm that runs from the wrist to the inside of the elbow. No one will see the bruises on my thighs and my butt cheeks, which I replenish regularly with the help of my faithful bath brush. No one will take a second look at the woman in such a dress, wide-brimmed hat, and big sunglasses. Perfect, I don't want to be seen.

I spend most of my time on the beach, my happy place, doing real things. I alternate between writing in my diary and drawing in the sketch book. Yes, I went back to drawing and doodling and calligraphy. I have nowhere to cook here, and why to bother? Food is cheap, tasty, and plentiful. I can't dance, I have no space and no desire. Dancing got shoved onto the farthest back burner. So, it's me versus paper. Blank pages never scared me, I could always find words and images to fill them with.

Like now, I'm filling the page with my top recurring fantasy, a portrait of a man, who looks suspiciously like Nick, in navy whites, taking his aviator sunglasses off. Full disclosure, I do not like men in uniform. That confession got me in trouble once, but that's a different story. But navy whites, there is something about them. Before Nick , there were three candidates who wore them best. First, the original officer and the gentleman, Richard Gere. Then, that dude from JAG, I watched a few reruns, kind of like the X Files, but instead of chasing UFOs, they were a couple of lawyers in the navy, with plenty of opportunities to wear navy whites. And the third but definitely not last one is Tom Ellis himself in Miranda, a British comedy most Americans have never heard of, unless they are Lucifer fans. I think he was impersonating the original officer and the gentleman, but who cares, such eye candy. 

You would probably wonder, how in the time like this I can talk about eye candies. Quite a whiplash, right? In my last entry I wrote that I can't imagine anyone ever touching me again, and now this. I will try to be my own shrink and make some sense out of it. When something bad happens to me, I cocoon and hide from the real world. This time I deliberately make the real world my cocoon and invite this one fantasy into it, as my anchor. 

In the absence of real shrinks, I became an expert in deciphering and psychoanalyzing my own dreams and fantasies. Of course, the man in navy whites is a stand-in for the knight in the shining armour to rescue the damsel in distress, me. And the white limo represents the white horse. Right? Wrong. Limo, because we need enough space and privacy to put me over his knee, flip my summer dress up, and… Hmm, if Nick wears those white gloves, his hand will hurt less, good point. Now, no more interrupting.

He will only spank me, no touching. One step at a time. He will go slow over my sheer white panties. Not much of a protection, but I don't make the rules. No, first he will unbutton that white jacket, too formal and not too comfortable especially with a squirming woman over his knees. Because I will squirm and make ungodly sounds after a couple of dozen swats. Then he will slide off my panties and put them in my mouth, despite all my protests. Again, I don't make the rules. He will say that even with the partition up, the driver can hear me, and we can't have that, do we? He will spank me long and hard, while holding me tight, my hand on the small of my back covered with his. He will rub my butt and whisper, good girl, I got you, everything will be alright. He will take me back to my hotel, tuck me in bed, and sit with me until I fall asleep, which won't take long. And when I will wake up, everything will be a little bit better. For real.

The picture is of Tom Ellis from Miranda TV show.

F is for Fantasy

F is for Fantasy

I think I finally found my groove for the A to Z challenge. I will write what I like writing the most, spanking stories. This one is dialogue-only. Set in Izzie-and-Nick-verse.

“What empanadas will you make? I want the ones with beef, olives, and boiled eggs.” 

“Nick! Is that the only thing you’ve heard, empanadas? No comment on CNC?” 

“Izzie darling, calm down. There is no CNC. Little Red bumped into the Big Bad Wolf in the forest, that’s a scripted roleplay.” 

“Wolfie tied Red to the bed.” 

“To munch on the empanadas in peace. I stand corrected, still scripted roleplay.” 

“Are you hungry? You just finished breakfast.” 

“What’s wrong, Iz?” 

“What if tying me up will still trigger me?” 

“Why do I have to tie you up?” 

“Because I need you to push me. And we never did real bondage. Holding the wrists doesn’t count.”

“We, as in royal we?” 

“Did you have to? No, as in you and me.”

“You and I. Sorry, darling.”

“I will not allow some skanky whore that dared to tie me up to ruin bondage for me!.. What, you are not going to spank me for the skanky whore?”

“Firstly, that’s exactly what she was. Secondly, don’t have time now. But if you insist, add it to the Little Red’s rap sheet.” 

“Nick, I can’t wait for so long.”

“Wait, when is this unfortunate encounter supposed to happen?” 

“As soon as your wolf costume will arrive.” 

“My what?” 

“You heard me. That’s for CMNF and furries, two more off the list.”

“There is a list...”

“Of course, there is a list! You said we can explore my deranged fantasies within a safe roleplay setup.”

“I didn’t call them deranged.”

“Perverted?”

“No way I said it.”

“Ah! Unconventional, that’s it.”

“Izzie, the queen of all kinks. I should start playing the lottery. Please write it down for the next time, I compared meeting you with winning a lottery. Not drawing the short straw or being luckless. Winning.”

“Yeah, especially, getting me pregnant part.”

“I meant the whole package, Iz. What should I do that you will finally believe that I’m in, for better or worse? Speaking of which, when are we getting married?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Whom else should I ask?”

“Soon. If you will let me fuck you in the wolf costume.”

“That language! Little Red will have a sore bum to match her name.”

“It was a verb!”

“Sure, if you say so.”

Love Me Tender part 2

For part 1 click here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like when you taste like strawberries." 

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

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

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

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

"I will change! Nick, come back."  

To be continued.

Love Me Tender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For part 2 click here

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!

Mermaid Needs New Legs

UPDATE: now includes link to the poem Never in anger, never in fear as part of the story.

What on Earth is Nick wearing? A ridiculous puffed shirt, long brown vest, can’t see the britches because he’s sitting down on the couch. It’s not the fisherman costume that I bought, it’s the pirate costume from the Pirate and the Duchess, that we both hated. The pirate costume, not the Duchess, of course. Nick loved the Duchess and showered her with all his attention Nick-style; first, the way the I like it, rough and hard, ahem, the way any typical everyman’s Pirate would treat a captured Duchess, warming the way to her heart by thoroughly warming her bottom, and then the way Nick likes it, as gentle as ever, that is.

Nick is furiously typing away on his laptop. It always amazes me how fast he types, how fast he talks, how fast he moves. Always. Except when he is with me, the world stands to a halt, like he has all the time in the world. And I blew it, again. 

Nick raises his index finger without turning his head, not stopping to type for one millisecond. Do not disturb or else. And then the left hand just goes back and joins the right one. I still hold my gloves that stink of the wet dog, Bear was sitting on my lap in the car, so the coat is wet and stinks too. The suffocating smell is everywhere, and I cough. Damn it! 

“I can smell that retched dog on you from here. Take off all your clothes and get rid of them, or you will be coughing the whole night.” That index finger again, and he is back to work. I silently nod and do what I’m told, a good girl that I am, yeah, like it’s going to change anything. “Go take a hot shower, while you are at it,” comes the next command from the couch.

When I open the bathroom door, all squeaky clean, wrapped in his favourite fluffy robe with pink flowers and a towel turban on my head, Nick is still working. He has some sixth sense, because without turning around he says, “Dry your hair, will you? You have time.”

I try not to think of what ‘you have time’ means and with a vengeance flip the hairdryer on the loudest setting while standing in the doorway, in a last-minute sudden spurt of brattiness. Nick clears his throat loud enough for me to squirm and shut the door quickly. Hair dry and tied in a high ponytail, I reach for the body lotion and stop. An eternal dilemma, to put the lotion on or not, I weigh all the pros and cons. Nick likes the smell a lot, but it will hurt so much more, and I don’t remember, if Nick remembers it. What if he does and goes easy on me, then the lotion will do its silent job. Right, lotion it is.

Nick stands by the window with the thick and wide leather belt he just took off, the fisherman’s belt I got for today’s play on Etsy. “Where did you buy this monstrosity and for what purpose?” He smacks the back of the couch with a deafening crack. “It can break bones, you know. To strangle you with it? Or better, hang myself?” Nick quickly sheds off the vest, the puffed shirt, and the britches, down to the black boxer briefs and barefoot. “Itchy!” He disappears in the closet, but the tirade continues. “May I remind, I haven’t seen you for three days? All I wanted is to come home, make sweet love to you, have a nice quiet dinner, just the two of us, watch some TV, and, if we are both in the mood, have another go. Is it too much to ask?” Ah-sk. Mad as a hatter, red as a beet. No, he’s not mad, frustrated, yes.

“I’m sorry, Nick.”

“That’s how fishermen dress up in my village, deal with it.” He comes out tucking the dress shirt into dark dress pants and puts on one of his regular belts. I wince but mentally thank him for not changing into the sweatpants. At least I know what’s in the store tonight.

“Are we still doing it?”

“Of course. The mermaid needs new legs, isn’t she? What’s her name?”

“Muriel.”

“Muriel the Mermaid. And the fisherman’s?”

“Frank.”

“I don’t like Frank. I will be Flynn.”

“Why Flynn?”

“It’s a good name for a fisherman, Flynn the Fisherman,” he repeats. “A big, rough fisherman, is that what you want?” he riles up, and I decide to pretend that the question was rhetorical, maybe it was, because Nick has no trouble to rant on. “You said, you are sorry. For which part are you sorry, Iz? The mermaid and the fisherman part, or you getting lost alone with this retched dog part, or me, losing my mind over it, thankfully, only for twenty minutes? Where is your mermaid costume?”

“I thought that…" 

“Don’t think. Chop-chop, I’m starving.”

“But what about this afternoon?”

“You wanted your bottom red, you’re getting one. You think the fisherman can’t deal with a wayward mermaid? She’ll get more than she signed up for, that’s for sure. He is not a gentle guy, like me, you know. It seems like you do not appreciate me, is that right, Izzie? Or, shall I say, Muriel?” His voice goes up another notch.

“Nick, you’re mad at me.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“You’re scaring me!” 

That’s stops him right in his tracks. “Never in anger, never in fear,” he recites from the poem we wrote together. Hands in his hair, he combs it through back and forth with open fingers. “Alright, I’m going to grab a quick bite. Do you want anything?”

“I ate.” I lie quickly, and Nick raises an eyebrow. “I had late lunch. Nick, I can’t eat now, I will eat after.”

“After,” he shudders, “that’s the word. The story of my life, feeding you after.”

“Can you please go already and come back quickly?” I plead.

“When I come back, Muriel,” he enunciates, “I expect to see a mermaid here, wig on, tail and all, bum in the air. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Flynn,” I whisper. Thank you.”

“For what??” he snaps.

“For not backing out.”

For part 2 called Legs Up! click here. For all other stories in order click on My Stories or Almond Croissant on the right.

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!"

May I have another?

Not surprisingly, Nick feels more comfortable within the roleplay scenario, especially our own tried-and-true. He knows now that he is not hurting me but being able to experience it as a different persona, allows him to relax and truly enjoy it, and who am I to complain.

    My mermaid costume got more mileage with a new twist, in order to get her wish granted, new legs and all, the Mermaid has to be spanked by the Fisherman. And if Princess Summer bumps into the Peasant Boy while prancing around her lavender fields, needless to say, the next morning her royal bum requires an extra pillow to sit on. The only one he refuses to repeat is Milord and Milady’s wedding night, a hint, Milord has a swordbelt. Well, virginity is one of my kinks he’s not happy to oblige. Funny enough that was the first time when he deliberately differentiated Milord from Nick and mercilessly pecked at Nick.

    In Nick's version of all-time fans’ favourite, Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf got married and lived happily ever after. Unless, of course, Red happens to cook up a storm, packs some freshly baked empanadas and home-made pickles, and goes to visit her grandmother, or, ahem, some girlfriend in New York, alone, ditching the security, again. Then all bets are off, as Wolfie takes the security rule too close to his heart, and no lingerie set, even red, will distract him from the task at hand or in hand. Red is a very sorry good girl after everything is said and done, mostly done. This one had too much resemblance to real life, for my liking. 

    But roleplaying as Dom and sub? That’s Dominant and submissive for you, vanilla people, although I doubt that anyone needs a translation since The Fifty came out. How is it different from actually being D/s in the bedroom, beats me, no pun intended. Are we gradually slipping into the bedroom D/s? I don’t know, don’t fix what’s not broken. Nick-what-Nick, it’s Sir for you, young lady.

    “Are you going to count this one, or shall I start again?” Nick raises an eyebrow.

    “No, Sir. One. Thank you, Sir.”

    We are on the same couch that Nick promised to burn after the Disaster, in the same position, my knees on the seat, bent at the waist, head on the folded hands on the back of the couch, hair in a high ponytail. I wear my favourite short dress with long sleeves, it’s comfortable and loose enough for an easy access. Nick says that access should be my middle name, you know, Izzie Access, yeah, Nick and his dad jokes.

    I glance at him over my shoulder and catch a tiny devilish twinkle in his eyes. What a sight! When he came in after work, he already took his suit jacket off and held it in his hand, while tugging at the tie with the other. He always looks strikingly handsome, like a teenager in a forty-four-year-old body, but now in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the undone tie hanging loose around the open collar, just wow. I looked perfect fifteen years ago, he is perfect now. Nick clears his throat and combs hair to the side with his hand, his version of ‘eyes up here’. The long and bumpy road that brought us to this moment was all worth it. I smile at the thought, and Nick beams back with pride.

    “Good girl. You're welcome." Nick is oozing with buzzwords, and so am I. The edge of the belt taps my bare cheek. “Back in the position.” Swat.

    “Two. Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

    “You may,” he smirks at a classic phrase, “but no need for such formality. Are you trying to slow me down?" Three more strokes come in a quick succession.

    “Three, four, five, Sir,” I quip.

    “No, darling, that was extra for stalling.” Sir is in a playful mood but does not hesitate to add extra swats for any infraction, bogus or real. Shocking how much his aim had improved. I don’t want to know where he gets the tips on his belting technique, but now he holds the business end with the other hand and lets it go the last moment, so there is no more twisting, but ouch, he can aim for the same spot and get it, if he wants to.

    My hand flies back to cover my butt, and he catches it just in time, the belt landing on my thighs, quelle surprise, as a reprimand for trying to block. It hurts like hell. “Nick, you bloody bastard!”

    “Ah!" Nick gasps for air with a thoroughly faked offence. "I don't even know what number to assign to such obscenity.”

    “Then don't!” I slap my hand on the back of the couch and straighten my back.

    “Colour?”

    “Bloody green, get on with it.” The hand on the small of my back nudges me down.

    “Who is that Nick fella?" Swat. "I asked you a question."

    “No one, sir.”

    “Then why do I keep hearing his name from you, hmm?”

    “Won't happen again, sir.”

    “Was he a lousy lay?” he lays the trap. Ouch!

    "Yes, sir. No." Smack! I bit my tongue. "No one is like you, sir."

    "Too late," he withdraws. The belt buckle hits the floor with a loud clang. "Corner!"

    “There are no corners in this room,” I protest. It’s so unfair! That question doesn’t have a right answer, whatever I say, he can turn it against me.

    “Have no doubts, I’ll make one for you.” He promptly drags the heavy armchair out of the corner and taps the wall. I pull up my panties and head over. “I do not recall giving you a permission to put your panties back on.”

    “Sorry, sir.” He is still there, standing by the corner. He wouldn’t move, and I have to squeeze in to get into my not so solitary destination.

    “I'm not done with you, young lady,” he scowls as he pulls the panties down himself.

    “Thank you, sir,” I whisper.

    “For what?”

    I can feel him pressing against my back. What does it mean? He wanted me badly, I screwed up, he put me in the corner, and now he can’t find a way out. Sir needs help, my Baby Dom needs help. Helping is not topping, helping is guiding.

    “For not being done with me." I turn around to see his reaction.

    “Nose to the wall.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Did you have to say it?” he lilts in his signature English accent.  

    “Nnn--,” I stutter, “Sir said it first, I just confirmed, I’m sorry.”

    “Well, you shouldn't have.”

    “It’s not fair. It’s hard to think when my ass is on fire.”

    “Your bum,” his hand promptly smacks my bum. “Or bottom, rear, behind, backside. So many excellent choices.” The art of punctuating, another one he mastered recently. He so rarely spanks me with his hand, I don’t know what to make of it. With his super low pain tolerance, just a few smacks send him howling, so he either decided to suck it in or maxed out on his daily painkillers just to indulge me.

    “I'm truly sorry.” I turn around again to face him, and this time he doesn’t stop me.

    “You will be sorrier.” Hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, that’s more like it.

    “May I please come back?”

    “You surely may,” he gestures back to the couch. I trudge back with the panties around the ankles. I make it look more difficult than it is, anything to distract Nick from his funk.

    “Nick looks very much like Sir, same eyes, same hair.”

    “Same dick?” he wonders matter-of-factly, as he helps me to climb back on the couch.

    “I would never compare Sir's cock with another--"

    “Pray tell,” he nods, pleased that I switched to the allowed nomenclature of body parts.

    “Only Sir knows what I truly need and gives it to me. Will you please forgive me?”

    “In due time.”

    “Will you please help me earn your forgiveness?” Why is it that one of us always have to screw up and crawl back, only this time it’s also my butt on the line.

    He finally picks up the belt from the floor and folds it in half. Here goes the scolding and the lecture rolled in one, punctuated with the loud blows for the extra clarity, but his anguish and disappointment hurt more than the sting of the belt.

    “Whom do you belong to?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Whom do you obey?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Who takes care of you?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Makes you happy?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “What about Nick?” he pauses.

    “I need both you and Nick in my life. No," I raise my hand to stop him and turn around. "I need Nick more than I need you, Sir. With all due respect, without Nick, none of this matter." His face is mere inches away from mine, hurt melting away from his eyes. It takes all my willpower not to close the distance. I do not touch Sir without permission, Sir touches me, Sir uses me as he deems fit, Sir most definitely does not kiss.

    Nick’s lips, as always, taste like strawberries, duh, he’s addicted to the strawberry gum and probably had a strawberry mousse cake in strawberry reduction for dessert. He picks me up to carry to bed. Sir is gone, it’s all Nick now, his strawberry lips all over me, bringing me to the oh-mon-dieu-Nicky moment in a record time. He follows me with a sing-a-song ‘oh darling’ instead of the usual ‘oh fuck’ and collapses beside me, both of us sinking quickly into a deep dreamless sleep, and I cannot be happier.