Not a Warm-up (from Spanks and Moans)

Yesterday Becca asked me to spank her as a punishment, under the pretense that she was playing a game on her phone instead of writing. I gave her a half-assed spanking, fucked her brains out, and that was it. Not turned half of her ass bright red, leaving the other cheek pristine pale, but put little thought into it.

We don’t have any rules that lead to punishment. Odd, isn’t it? To each their own. I know it won’t bode well with her in the long run, to get spanked or punished otherwise for her wrongdoings. I definitely don’t want her to get into a habit of asking for one, but I let that one-off slide.

It’s my job to watch her and decide when she needs a spanking. And today she needed a major reset. Restless, jittery, still excited about this new place, noticing all the little details that one day will turn up in one of her stories.

Like a puppy chasing squirrels in the park, all at once, except my puppy wasn’t happy. Becca is happiest when she writes, and I want that gleeful smile back.

We won’t see eye to eye in the process; she will protest and argue and fight me but won’t use her safeword. Not so secretly, that’s exactly what she wants: to fight long enough until she gives in and truly submits, like a good girl. My good girl.

“Bee, come here,” I summoned her from the back porch, using her nickname, as calling her Rebecca Tabitha would be met with stifled snickering.

I don’t need to call her by first and middle name to mean business. She has eyes, and those eyes round into saucers behind thick glasses at the view of a cleared kitchen table, except for a stack of paper with a pen on top, pushed to the far end of the table, and a long wooden spoon in my hand.

“Bend over for a warm-up,” I tap the edge of the table with my free hand.

“Wait please, I can explain. I wasn’t writing because I was doing research. For book marketing. It’s very complicated.” She speeds up, thrown for a loop by the word warm-up. She tilts her head, frozen in her spot, trying to pick through the bedroom door, but I made sure that all she can see is the dark towel, covering the edge of the bed, and nothing else.

“You will explain after the warm-up.” I walk across the floor to shut the bedroom door and back. The place is tiny but suits the purpose: to eat, to spank, to fuck, to write for her and read for me, and to watch the sunsets.

“You always warm me up with your hand. Why the spoon? What did you plan?”

“Did you bring the silicone plug?”

“Yes, I put it in the nightstand drawer. On your side.”

“I don’t see you bent over. Do you want me to replace that plug with fresh ginger I bought this morning? You know, it won’t take me long to carve one piece.“ I motion at the fruit bowl with fresh peaches and a big hand of ginger root, each finger perfectly shaped for figging. My well-timed threat sets her in motion.

“I’m bending, I’m bending!” Becca plops over the edge as she is, in a tank top and green overalls, the shorts just covering her bum, such clothes are more suitable for someone two decades younger, but who am I to complain, the more skin she shows at home the better.

I whack her at the exposed sit spots, and she jolts from pain. “How am I supposed to work with it, huh? I need you naked from the waist down.”

Becca shimmies out of her overalls and the bikini bottoms she wore underneath.

“Prepared for the day on the beach, I see?”

“I can write on the beach,” she says with defiance.

“Sir.” I remind her of a skipped honorific.

“Sir, what?”

“I can write on the beach, sir!” She is still standing, with her clothes pooling around her ankles, but that doesn’t stop me from hitting the back of her thighs.

“Ouch! That’s not a warm-up!” She dances on the spot from the stinging pain.

“Quiet, it’s not a discussion. Bend over and stick your ass out.”

“Yes, sir.” Becca plops back on the table.

A dozen pink imprints on each butt cheek, and she reaches back with her hand. I tie her hands behind her back with a kitchen towel and pause for a brief lecture.

From my latest book Spanks and Moans

My dear friends, loyal readers, and other esteemed members of the spanko community! I'm counting on you.

Pretty please with a cherry-red bottom on top (umm it doesn't make any sense, does it? What if the bottom is stuck out up in the air?) buy my book on Amazon (unless you have a family account, I completely understand) or read it for free on KU. It's still listed for only $0.99, so it's not about money making but visibility, and right now my book is pretty much invisible.

If you can't buy it but want to read it, please let me know and I will send you and ARC copy.

Please and thank you!!

Spanks and Moans are OUT!!

 

Ahoy, mateys! Arrrrr ye ready for salmagundi? It’s a pirate feast to celebrate the booty adventures and set sail into its uncharted waters. Expect lots of plot and tons of strict discipline.

Becca, a writer and a squirrel chaser, spends a weekend at a remote cottage to get a long-overdue reset from the firm hands of her more experienced partner and lifestyle mentor, only known as Captain Ray.

Spanks and Moans is a 10,000-word spanking novelette, full of strict discipline, unorthodox writing lines, and a kinky pirate roleplay. 

Spanks and Moans on Amazon for only $0.99, Free on KU

You know what to do. I am counting on you.. As always ARC copies are available, especially for those who cannot buy on Amazon. LMK

EDIT: To get Anti-Prologue, a bonus prequel to Spanks and Moans, absolutely FREE, click HERE

B is for Belt

 

Before becoming a senator, he was known as General Arlinus Maximus, a title he cherished very much and considered much more important than any political nonsense. He remained a military man at heart and ran his household with an iron fist, using his sword belt to keep disobedient slaves in line. In fact, despite the current fashion, he always wore his sword belt over the tunic, not only as a soldier’s habit but as a constant reminder for his staff. For all but one: his dear sex slave, Giulia.

He bought Giulia at the slave market in the summer when she turned one and twenty. Dark blonde with a big mouth and narrow hips, captured in Gaul, a recent widow, spared by the soldiers to fetch a better price, and barren. The first part Arlinus could see himself; the rest of the slave merchant’s rap made his mind spin with the possibilities of what would fit and where, and in what sequence. Arlinus was a man of an admirable sex appetite with perversions and a toy chest to match, way ahead of his time.

“What’s her name?”

“She calls herself Jools,” the merchant replied.

“Jules? That’s a man’s name. I will call her Giulia.”

“But Giulia is a noble name, senator.”

“Are you telling me how to call my slave?”

The girl’s eyes darted from one man to another, who were deciding her fate, but they never reached Arlin’s face. Women from Gaul, besides having a lovely accent, received high praise as more refined and adventurous in bed, perhaps in the local brothels, because this one seemed shy and inexperienced. She kept her eyes downcast and blushed at every crude remark. More fun to break her in!

“Spin around and show me her feet,” Arlinus asked.

Feet so dirty, he couldn’t see her toes, speckles of dried-up blood on her legs from walking barefoot, bright red marks on her wrists from the ropes that she kept scratching, when she didn’t rub the matching red marks on her thighs. Quite a leper she was, but a fascinating one. Nothing that hot baths and aromatic oils won’t fix, and then he will add his own welts to mark her. Note to self: to pick up the rose petal oil from Persia, she will smell divine while writhing under him or trying to evade his belt.

“Show me the rest,” requested Arlinus, and the merchant yanked the filthy fabric that covered the young woman’s torso to show off his product.

The woman, unaware of the slave market’s tradition, pulled the fabric back to preserve her modesty, for which the trader reprimanded her with a whip across her ass.

“No,” motioned Arlinus, “don’t touch my property.”

“Not yours yet,” scowled the slave merchant.

“I beg to differ,” smirked Arlinus, as he handed over the leather bag with coins. “Twenty thousand denarii and my belt on her arse say she’s mine.”

With that, he unbuckled his sword belt, upended the befuddled Giulia and bent her over the edge of the platform she had been showcased on a moment ago. Twelve rapid-fire strikes of the belt covered whatever fading whip marks she had with twelve angry crimson stripes.

And thus, the education of Giulia had begun.

In memory of Uncle Devlin

Gentleman, blogger, soldier, and spanker
Generous always, never cantankerous
Uncle to many but father to none
Disciplined all, ​maids, miladies​, ​and nuns

Boisterous smile and romantic at heart
Turned punishing bottoms into an art
Crimson and ​scarlet and cherry and pink
Parallel lines are not painted with ink

​Paddles and strops ​will ​deliver perfection
Wannabe nieces ​f​lock for correction
Stern words that arouse, firm hand that heals
The journey is long but that's the appeal 

Weaving the story or lacing the flesh
Don't mess with ​the count​, or he starts afresh
E​a​ch ​stinging lash ​will speak straight to her soul
Begging won't help, as it's always his call

 
Decades of practice, impeccable aim
​Dispens​ing his kindness through​ dreadful pain
​From naughty girls into chastised young ladies​ 
A story as old as Persephone and Hades
​
Red Riding Hood left her drawers in a hurry
Over his lap to abandon her worries
For unwavering hand, undeniable wit ​
Willing bottoms had sought blue-eyed charming Brit

Spanking on camera, telling his stories
​Filled us​ with ​awe of his grandeur and glory​ 
​Naughty angels​ aren't sinners, who made it to heaven​ 
​Please greet​'em with the soundest​,​ best best of seven​!​ 
​
I added an extra, or is that a crime?
Am I a good girl for making this rhyme?

PS I didn't know Devlin O'Neill, joined the party too late, but you know me, it never stopped me from writing a poem. May his memory lives on!

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.

I tell stories, naughty or not

 

I dance

I sing

I tell stories, naughty or not

I write poems, naughty or not, rhymed or not

I lied on the beach, letting the sun to crisscross my body with tan lines,

Only pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to crisscross the pale triangles

Later I will give you proper thanks 

For creating a splash of colour on my monochromatic body

For morphing my body into art 

For letting it sing together with yours

For having it dance under your restless hands

For making it yours

I write poems, naughty or not

I tell stories, naughty or not, real or not

#3RHwriting

Anyone out there?? Yes, I know, I haven't been posting in a while. 

I'm on a verge of something big but first i want to publish a few short stories. Any publishing advice? Please drop me a line.

-- Sore/3RH

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.

U is for Ugly

Dear diary,

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

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

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

“Oww!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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.

P is for Punishment

Dear diary,

My life will never be the same after what happened two days ago. Whatever good was left in me, was killed. I know I cannot say that in my situation. I promise not to do anything to myself, but I will never be the same.

And it's all my fault. Some people are poison, they do not deserve to live. I'm glad I didn't kill her, for a very practical reason. What if it will ever come out? They won't let me, the murderer, back in the States, and I will eventually have to go back. As always, I live on borrowed time, only in this case I chose the wrong place to borrow it.

It's all my fault. Why did I run away? I could've stayed and waited it out. No celebrity scandal lasts forever, fifteen minutes of fame pass, and there is a new set of someone else’s dirty laundry to air, to sniff, to lick. Fucking vultures chased me away from the place I was safe. The island had its share of stray and unwanted, but at the end of the day, I was surrounded by people who had my back. How did I end up half a world away and on my own with no one to trust? And chose to trust the wrongest one.

I can't even imagine if I will ever let anyone near me. Or touch me in the way I like to be touched. Even Nick. I used to like touch so much, I craved it in any form, whether for pain or pleasure or both. Not ever. Can't even look at my body. Disgusting… Look what I'm wearing, a floor-length potato sack. 

It's all my fault. Trusting her, putting myself in harm's way. Aldous was right, I'm not allowed to put myself in harm's way, and if I do, I should be punished. A crazy thought crossed my mind, to call Aldous, of all people who can come and rescue me. Aldous will hop on the plane and will be here tomorrow. He will punish me alright, to the point I won't be able to sit for a week, kiss it better, and then whisk me away on the first plane home. 

Why on earth would I think of Aldous at this horrendous moment, the man who was a horror himself, when I finally got rid off him, as much as you can ever get rid off someone like Aldous? Because of the punishment. I need a punishment. No one in the world can punish me as badly as Aldous. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, just to have it done to me, to get over it. I cannot live on otherwise. In my wicked twisted mind, there is no other way to get over it. Unless… I will write more a bit later.

I'm back.

Right after I thought that there is no other way, I found the other way. To do it myself. I'm writing right now, in bed, lying on my stomach, because there is no way I will be able to sit or lie on my back for the next few days. I did it. I fetched the bath brush from my suitcase, I was carrying it around all these years, just in case. A bath brush is no match to a hairbrush, let me tell you. Anyone who watched The Secretary can swat their ass with a hairbrush a few times and pretend they are one of us. A long and heavy bath brush, better if one that was actually used for washing one's back, not a smooth and polished hairbrush, that's something you can be really punished with. Being in a desperate helpless rage as I was, helps too. 

I chose the worst position as pain goes and surprisingly the easiest one to reach, the famous diaper position. Hate the term, I like to call it legs-up. Flat on my back with legs up and folded in half, I held tightly under the knees with my left hand. The right hand clutched the very end of the handle. And it worked. After a while, I got into a steady punishing rhythm. No one in the world could've stopped me at that moment or open the iron grip. I got bruises from my fingers, just above the back of my knees, from holding too tight. My ass, don't even ask, I delivered more than I bargained for. 

Do I feel better now? Not by much. I will repeat it, maybe more than once. But one thing is clear, if I could deliver this punishment all by myself, I will make it. I don't need anyone. I will stay here as long as I want, by myself.

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.

N is for Need

Dear diary,

Here we meet again. I bought a new notebook at the airport and now have three hours before my next flight. Plenty of time to finish that ping pong story. Real life is so bad, I have to stick with my happy place, and writing down these fantasies seems to do the trick just fine. So, without further ado, I will get back where I left myself in the dream. On the floor.

Spread-eagled on the rug in front of the green velvet sofa, I tried to get the damn ball out with the help of my ping pong racquet. The damn sofa, as Nick called it, was way too low to fit my hand with the racquet. While trying to rescue the stuck ball, I pondered whether he would spank me with his paddle or the one I'm holding, to make it even more humiliating. I squirmed at the thought and pushed my knees together.

“Tsk-tsk, keep them open, bad girl, and hurry. Ain't got the whole day.” Nick's attempt at the Southern twang was funny. He bounced another ball on his paddle. Of course, there was a full box of fifty ping pong balls, an unlimited supply, conveniently set on the same side table as a crystal decanter full of whisky, his other unlimited supply. 

“Why am I a bad girl?” Back to the ping pong table, I pouted my lips. “I want to be a good girl.”

“You're always my good girl, when you don't keep me waiting.” Now Nick was hitting the ball high up and catching it with the other hand.

The addition of ‘my’ to compulsory ‘good girl’ is known to weaken the legs of the said girl. Not fair before a ping pong match. And bullshit about keeping each other waiting. That bratty anticipation banter was the best part in each dream. Getting me all warmed up, oozing with need. He knew what he was doing, a wink here, a raised eyebrow there. How I would ogle his bulge, when he would purposefully adjust himself in front of me. The perfect man of my dreams knew how to push all my buttons.

“Rally for the serve?” He bounced the ball off his side. “One, two, three,” he counted the slow rally shots. I expected the fourth to be a thunderous winner, but no, like a hungry but playful cat, he liked to toy with his pray, and graciously let me win the serve. 

I considered myself a decent player. Ping pong was Bobby's favourite leisurely activity, beside fucking, in the little time he had left off court or gym. I managed to learn a trick or two from him and got offended by Nick's overly gentlemanly attitude. But I decided not to try my luck.  He will have me no matter what, but at what cost to my ass. I did some mental math, which is always a challenge in a dream. His example of fourteen swats per match, times three, to win the best of five, meant a hefty forty something licks of a ping pong paddle. Do I really need that much? Ouch! 

Nick grinned as I rubbed my pristine butt. “What's wrong, love? Writing cheques you can't cash?”

“I will cash,” I stood my ground and served. 

Few mild shots later I missed, and it's love - one. That's zero - one for the uninitiated. Love means nothing, as the old tennis joke goes. Three serves later the score was love - four. On my fifth and last serve I managed to slam right behind the net and earn my first point, one - four. It's his serve now, and I've already seen how he serves. Nick decided he showed enough mercy and it's time to speed things up, literally. On his fourth serve, I learned to get to the ball in time. On the fifth, I played it back but still lost the point. That's nine - one to him. 

There was no chance in the world I could get any points off him on his serve, maybe a few on my own serve. Do we really need it play by play? The final score was 21 - 5. Wet hair stuck to my forehead and out of breath, luckily I wore a tank top, or I would be sweating buckets. Nick brought me a glass of cold water and took it from my hand as soon as I stopped drinking. What did he think, I would throw it in his face, cause a scene? Not my first rodeo, but definitely the first time betting my ass on a minor sporting event. Don't ask, I could foresee more betting in the future.

“I prefer to collect my debt as we go,” Nick quipped with a tap on the table. “Need proper height.”

I huffed and bent over the edge, resting my head on folded arms.

“On the bare,” he added in a stern voice, and I hastily pulled the shorts down to my knees. “How many?”

“Fifteen.”

“Sixteen. Where did you learn math?” Nick shook his head.  “I need you to count.”

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.

I is for Impact

Dear diary,

Impact is a peculiar word to choose as a part of the traditional term, as most things that impact and shape our lives are not in fact things and rarely physical. The second part of it, play, also seems misleading, but what is it if not play. This carefully pre-negotiated encounter, a three-act scripted mixture of commands, petulance, and, yes, countless strikes, interspersed with pleas and whimpers of pain, or maybe, with moans and sighs of pleasure, that inevitably, if you play your cards right, culminates in a cathartic cleanse for both and blissful aftermath.

Impact play. An exchange of power, an ultimate rise up to the task counterbalanced with a willful surrender, a sinful but unapologetic fulfillment of needs and desires, a choreography of predetermined stances, positions, and moves. Impact play, the cornerstone of the lifestyle.

Uncle Ar’s room was on the first floor, same size and layout as mine, except that instead of a balcony he had a French patio door that led to the garden. Might be useful to flee the scene after all is said and done and come back through the hotel's main entrance door, to avoid a walk of shame and a chance to bump into someone I knew.

I was jittery enough from a double shot of espresso in my affogato. Sometimes Diego would forget that not everyone lived on his night owl schedule. That much caffeine after midnight was giving me shakes. Or maybe it was the view of Uncle Ar, laying out the familiar safe-to-travel artifacts: standard ping pong paddles, varnished wooden racquets for paddleball, a vintage hairbrush, a formidable bath brush, and, of course, the leather belt. Very much on the domestic side, as any weathered traveller would become, anything to avoid an awkward explanation to the airport security about that flogger or riding crop found in your suitcase. While the vibrating toys or even plugs were widely acceptable and wouldn't elicit anything but a giggle, mixing them up with handcuffs or chains would earn you a visit from the supervising security officer. No siree Bob. But Uncle Ar wouldn't be a true Englishman, if he wouldn't smuggle a thin cane, disguised as a fake flower, the kind a magician pulls from the hat.

“Since I don't know you at all,” he broke the silence. “I will break the tradition and will allow you to choose.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don't mind any of it.” I paused. “Not the cane, though. Unless it's your favourite. I just want…” I hesitated. It's not really acceptable to ask for what I want. Or at least, that's how I was taught.

“I am at your service today,” he chimed in, reading my mind. “Not very typical of me, I have to admit. But, please, tell me what you want?”

“I want it to last. Not fast and hard, like a punishment.” Uncle Ar winced at my last word. “But to have time. To feel remorse, I guess. To let go.”

“Oh, there must be a list of transgressions you should share.” He took my hand and led me to the corner. “Let me see those famous panties of yours. May I?” Uncle Ar picked the hem of my short dress.

“It's so wrong, it's so wrong.” I chanted into the corner.

“What's wrong, my child?”

“You, asking for permission.” No one ever asked for my permission. Well, Aldous was the only one who could have, but the blanket agreement was that he doesn't need to. But still, it was so nice to hear the words. “Can you please not ask me? For the next two… for the rest of the night. Please?” I sped up, trying to get it all off my chest in one go. “And don't mind me if I say ‘stop’ or ‘no’.”

“Hold on there. If I can be so blunt, what's your safeword?”

“I will not safeword, I promise.“ I lifted the skirt up and held it myself, with my hands crossed behind my back.

“That's what I'm afraid of. Do you have a safeword or will you use yellow and red?”

“Don Quixote.”

“That's better.” He lowered my Azotarme shorts down to the knees, baring my butt. “Let's hear all those transgressions first, my Dulcinea.”

 

H is for Healing

Dear diary,

Let me remind you where we left off. It's midnight, and at our tiny hotel that means quiet. I was sitting at the bar, right across from the new espresso machine, lapping and chomping on my affogato like a stray cat that's been miraculously offered a hearty meal. I could feel his sideway glances burning my left cheek. Him being the English dude with a Cuban and almost empty gin and tonic, at the almost empty bar. Don't ask me how I knew that he was English, without even hearing him speak. One of my special talents, I guess, and travelling all around the world might have contributed to it as well.

I leaped off the bar stool and reached over the counter to grab the tub of my beloved vanilla ice cream which Diego left on the counter, knowing that I will go later for another scoop. My sundress rode up revealing my thighs and possibly butt, a deadly sin according to Aldous, but I could care less, I was wearing shorts.

It's been fifteen years since I stopped dancing and got off the steady salads and yogurts diet and gained a good thirty pounds. At first, it was all Aldous, feeding me like a goose before Christmas. After a while, when I realized what a pleasure food can be, and how much of that pleasure I've been missing my whole life, there was no stopping me. But eating ice cream straight from the tub was, of course, an ultimate fuck-you to the goddess of all diets.

The English dude cleared his throat, which sounded awfully close to my ear. Indeed, he moved over to the stool one over from mine. Diego has been ignoring his tapping on the empty glass, more concerned about my wellbeing. I gave him a reassuring nod, please, I'm a big girl, and Diego begrudgingly refilled the guy's G&T.

“I'm Arlen,” the guy introduced himself without offering his hand. “But I've been called Uncle Ar most of my adult life.”

“Lots of nephews and nieces?” I inquired without offering him my own name in return.

“Mostly nieces. And not related by blood,” he winked.

Now, that was creepy. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to ice cream.

“A proper young lady shall never roll her eyes.” His wide smile contradicted the stern tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?” I hid behind the familiar English phrase that at this moment meant, are you fucking with me. Crap, how did he deduce, am I marked or something?

“I've been teaching proper manners to many young ladies.” Arlen emphasized the words ‘proper’ and ‘young ladies’, a deadly combination, coming from an English gentleman of a certain age. 

Like a code phrase it left no doubt that he knew.

I blinked. 

He finished his drink and added. “Sometimes they just need to learn their lesson.”

“How?” Dumbfounded, I couldn't think of a better response.

“I think you know how.” He winked again.

“How did you know?” I pressed on.

“Oh that. Your garments, my dear. Well, undergarments.” He nodded towards the hem of my sundress that rode up high enough to reveal the edge of my pink shorts. My Azotarme Duro shorts. If anyone is too lazy to Google translate, that's Spank me hard in Spanish. I've never blushed so hard in my entire life. Thank God, Diego stepped out to the restroom and did not witness this most embarrassing conversation.

“No need to be embarrassed, my dear. I understand you better than you will ever imagine.” Arlen covered my hand with his. 

And for the first time since forever, I trusted him. I believed him and trusted him. It sounds absurd, how can someone trust a total stranger you met at the bar and only exchanged a few words with. Even more absurd, my encounter with Nick started exactly the same way, and in the same spot. When I felt that overwhelming urge to confide, to open up, to let go. Except with Nick I knew who he was.

“I picked the wrong shorts in the dark. I never wear them in public,” I mumbled.

“No one owns a piece of garment as such with no intention of showing it to someone, my dear. At some point.”

“Stop calling me my dear,” I snapped and pulled my hand away. 

“Very well. Firstly, you didn't volunteer your name. And, secondly, you will not tell me what to do. Especially not in that rude manner. Your name, please?” His curt tone didn't leave any room for an argument.

“Elizabeth.” He raised an eyebrow. “Elizabeth Ball.” That's the name I used in Ibiza.

“Well, Miss Ball, I gather you and I will need to talk, preferably in private. I suggest my room as one more adequately equipped for such discussion.”

“What do you mean?” I blurted out and blushed again, quickly realizing what he meant.

“You will finish the sentence with sir or Uncle Ar.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I repeated without a fault.

“If you must know, I have a small collection of certain instruments that could be useful in expediting the learning.”

“Or healing. Sir.” Whatever he had stashed in his room, nothing could scare me off after Aldous and his collection. I was ready. I looked up at him, hoping that my pleading eyes would convey enough. It was humiliating enough to ask for it, but to explain why was even worse. Uncle Ar, as I already called him in my head, seemed to be wise enough not to ask.

“I beg your pardon?” It was his turn to sound puzzled. Wise but puzzled.

“I've been through the learning my lesson part.” That was the only explanation I gave. “I need healing.”