A Splash of Colour (for the New Year)

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 sun criss-cross my body with tan lines,

A few pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to criss-cross the pale triangles

Later I will give 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

Inspired by the following quote:

“Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

Happy New Year, my lovelies!!

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.

Tanning the tan lines (with JM)

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

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

Sore is more:

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

Jean Marie:

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

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

Sore is more:

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For saying 'shut up'." 

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

"It's the punishment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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