L is for Labels

Dear diary,

It's been four days since I saw Nick last time, still not a word. It looks ridiculously like ghosting, not sure if he is aware of the term. He doesn't seem like a person who would disappear from your life without saying goodbye. I should probably stop mentioning his name in this diary. I worked hard enough to keep my life private in this corner of the world. One word or one picture, and I can say goodbye to my peace and quiet.

No matter what will happen, I'm grateful for these two days. It felt so much longer, when in fact we had only two nights to ourselves. I was shocked how different he was from his public image. Don't get me wrong, Nick is a highly likable person, no matter what the circumstances are. But in the bedroom, he would shed his authoritative armour as fast as he shed his clothes. With me, he wanted to follow, not to lead. And I was comfortable telling him what I wanted.

I heard about powerful men turning submissive behind the closed door, a known trope. Seeing one in real life was an out of body experience. Nick adamantly preferred to kick back and enjoy the view. I probably went on top more times than in ten years with Aldous. This doesn't mean Nick was lazy in bed. No, he was the most generous lover, yummy cummies abound. I could see how he earned his nickname in college, Gentle Nick. With his head between one lucky girl's legs.

The only time I saw the other side of him was on the second night, in the pagoda at the beach. He pushed hard but, thankfully, backed out with grace, when he saw how vulnerable I was. I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready to hand over the reins. For me it would be five steps back, when in fact, in my ideal fantasy world, it will be ten steps forward. 

Oddly enough, in that awkward conversation we both mentioned giving and receiving, acknowledging the liquidity of power exchange. What really puts one on either side of the slash? It's not who puts what in where, and not who yields the leash, but the puppet and the puppeteer, even for a few hours at a time. 

It's not coincidental that Aldous avoided the use of labels like a plague, when it came to our relationship. I always defended him to others, a very few of those who knew bits and pieces, always insisted that our relationship was consensual. But looking back and analyzing, was it really? Aldous was a master of blurring the line, toeing the line. At the end the tables turned, the same words, camel's back, played in my head, when he disregarded my consent, plain and simple.

In the years after Aldous, I immersed myself in the vanilla world and vanilla relationships, with a rare exception of Uncle Ar and my hairbrush. And after a while, I became more selective in bruising my cervix department.

Could it be that there is a middle ground between the two worlds,  the vanilla one and the kink one? Is it possible to enjoy all the benefits of a vanilla relationship but kick it up a notch or two or a hundred when the mood strikes? To satisfy those pesky unexplainable needs? The same as one encounter with Uncle Ar, when clearly he was very much in control, driving the message home, but the message was articulated by yours truly. If I would dare to use any labels, does it make Uncle Ar a Service Dom? Or in Nick's case, a Pleasure Dom? 

Am I onto something? Isn't it what so many women want, someone to take over the control but in a perfectly prescribed way? Reign me in at my command! 

All hail Pleasure Doms! Damn labels… 

G is for Gentle

Dear diary,

Enough reminiscing over Aldous, it hasn't always been bad. We had our good days too. I will write more later. The most important thing is that I've been my own woman for five years, and I don't depend on any man. Now, as I wrote the words, I realized that I've never said it out loud. And not so sure how I feel about it. Do I want to be my own woman? Do I need a man to lean on? Feminists, don't listen. I'm joking, no one will ever get their hands on this diary, it's my private vault. 

Fast forward to yesterday. You will never believe whom I met yesterday. That's another thing to keep in the vault, no one will ever know about us. It can ruin his life, he's married, my life, it will be a ginormous mess. Besides, what ‘us’? He's a unicorn, a true unicorn. You don't get to keep him. It's a catch and release kind of a situation. Enjoy every second of it, and voila, he's gone and nothing but a memory.

I met him last night in our bar downstairs. Can you believe it, Nick X. himself in this hole in the wall, sorry Senor Pereira, hotel bar? That's not his initials but his real name is Nick. And he spent the whole night in my room, in my bed, doing all kinds of gentle things to me. He confessed that in college his nickname indeed was Gentle Nick. He's so fucking awesome, I've been fangirling for a while but, seriously, how a man, in flesh and blood, could be so awesome? Every single inch of him. Smell so good, look so good, taste so good. That million dollar smile. He can have any woman in the world, but he chose me, even for a night or a weekend, who cares. I'm not exactly a nobody myself, but he doesn't know who I am, and I like to think that the world forgot about me. 

And that goofy English accent, he can switch back and forth. You know how I love accents. Stuart was Australian, that was golden. Bobby was Italian, their English is ridiculously funny. I had to pinch Nick to switch to that posh Londoner lilt. I noticed he winced every time, same as when I bit his finger. There is something wrong about it, I will probably not have time to figure it out. 

You know how the celebrities wear hats and sunglasses, so no one would recognize them? He had glasses on, a simple pair of  black Wayfarers, he usually wears contacts, and no one recognized him. One guy in the lobby asked if he was him. Nick laughed it off dismissively. Said, I get it all the time, I'm his doppelganger. I saw it on TV recently at some tennis tournament. Yes, I still watch Bobby's matches. Ok, short version, if you insist. Bobby wanted me to go on tour with him, which meant to sit in his player's box for the whole world to see, with a camera in my face. I said ‘no’ and stayed in Ibiza, and we left it at that. Bobby was nice to me, another gentle giant.

Back to the story, at that tournament, for fun, a few tennis players acted like they were parking attendants or security at the gate. All on camera, of course, and if someone would recognize them and ask for an autograph, they laughed it off, no, I just look like him. Pure fun. No one knows how little time for anything resembling fun these winning machines have. I do. And in a tournament of sixty-four players, there is only one winner and sixty-three losers, that's tennis for you. 

With Bobby, it was getting serious, and I got to the point, I felt I needed to scratch the old itch. Not by myself, but with someone I could trust. I trusted Bobby, but he was undeniably vanilla. That was the deal breaker for me, and, of course, to come out of a five years of hiding.

But there was one time, when I got to scratch the itch. It was way before Bobby, maybe my second year living here. Summers are always hot, even hotter in the kitchen. I finished my shift at eleven, and went upstairs to my room to take a shower. It was a weekday, I would usually go to bed but I was really craving an affogato or just a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Silly, isn't it? Me, craving vanilla ice cream. I picked up a sundress or oversized top, I could never figure it out. It was too short to be worn on its own, without shorts or tights. And I grabbed a pair of clean shorts in the dark. Hint, that was a crucial moment in this story that defined the course of the evening.

So I went downstairs, the bar was still open. I've already been friends with Diego the bartender, who kept my personal stash of ice cream in his freezer. And here he was, an English gentleman, white beard, thick cigar, nursing his G&T at the other end of the bar.

Lithuania

“Where did you go, you silly kid?” Huh? A slightly overweight blonde boy calls out Little Eddie in a so familiar drawl. No fashion sense. Ugh, his swim shorts pulled up all the way to his belly button. I have no idea how old he is, can be eight, can be twelve. I can’t tell how old Nechami’s kids are, have to ask shamelessly every time.

“This is Martin, he’s from Lithuania,” says Eddie. You’re joking with me, right?

“Do you know where Lithuania is?” Martin repeats in a perfect sing-song London accent.

“Say what?” I swoon and suppress a giggle at the same time. How is it even possible, to swoon and giggle, that is?

“Li-thua-ni-a,” he repeats, syllable by syllable. Up-up-down-down. Four round notes form a pleasant melody. No wonder all the greatest musicians came from there. How do they do it, so effortlessly, unaware of what it does to us? But most of them know. Nick knows too well, that bastard, and milking it. Out of all them, he milked it to the highest degree, all the way to the White House. No wonder I have to beg him to do the accent.

“Of course, I do. Baltic Sea. Do you live there?”

“No, I live in London.”

“Were you born in Lithuania?” I ask more inquisitively this time.

“I was born in London.”

Bummer, should I tell him? If any girl, woman, chica, bird, even sheila, don’t see too many of those here, asks you ‘where are you from’, for the rest of your very long life, you will answer, ‘I’m from England’! I get it that your parents want you to remember their roots and traditions, but, darling, we are not deaf. You open your mouth, and I can pinpoint your accent down to the city. You open your mouth, and I smile like an idiot, sorry, like a numpty. Nah, no more meddling for today. He will figure it out on his own in about three years, maybe even earlier. Those Brits don’t waste time.

“How old are you, Martin?”

“Eleven.”

“Martin, it’s quite grand of you to take care of young Eddie here. See you around, boys.”

Just a short snippet today, no spanks, no smut, maybe a tiny smidge. The scene is happening on the beach. A quaint day on the beach, Izzie is drawing a little boy Eddie, when another boy Martin comes over looking for Eddie. The very first days of Izzie and Nick story. 

Is anybody still reading it?? 

Please No

This story is from the very early days of their relationship. Nick knows nothing. 

Izzie's fingers, now done with caressing Nick's cheek, slide into his thick hair. She struggles not to pull on his curls too hard. Beats her, how a simple act of caressing one's hair is considered an encouragement. She hates a hand on her head whilst she bestows the hand owner with a blowie. But Nick doesn't mind, and  he definitely doesn't need any encouragement.

A stray thought shots through Izzie's agonizing brain, who knew that Nick is so good at... How many women out there know, in a very biblical sense, that Nick eats pussy like a pro? With each lick, bite, tug, and swift circle, he quickly ascends to the top of her personal eat-it-like-you-mean-it list.

He doesn't waste any fingers. While the palm of his hand applies some delicious pressure on her mound, the fingers spread the pink lips wide open for his tongue to dive in. The fingers of his other hand sink in and out, following the tempo of some heavenly song. He cautiously circled around her back door once, and she shook his hand off from there. Not all at once, Mister. Leave something for the next date. But that was the only time she intervened in his proceedings. Magnifique, he was simply magnifique.

She didn't notice how her usual 'please please please' mantra became audible, and seconds later interlaced with no's.

"Please no please no."

Screeching halt. All digits and tongue withdrawn at once, he jerks away too fast, dragging his stubble against the sensitive skin of her thigh. The burn is surprisingly pleasant, but not the feeling of the cold air where his face was just a moment ago.

"Why did you stop?" she pants.

"You said, no." The sound of his voice comes from somewhere awfully close. She opens her eyes, and, bam, he is staring at her, like a deer in the headlights, his worrisome eyes just a few inches away from hers.

"I didn't mean it," she mumbles. "Go back." She nudges his head down.

"Wait, wait a minute. What do you say when you do mean it?"

"I doubt we'll ever get there." She muses, pushing away a forgotten memory. But no, he doesn't buy it, still waiting for an answer. "Don Quixote."

"Is this some kind of a safe word?" Nick asks. 

"Yes," she nods. "It's my safe word." That was not safe enough, her memory reminds her. The safe word that was discarded, disregarded, violated. That night that broke her, send her running for the hills, and eventually, to this island. That changed everything, and most of all, her ability to trust, to put herself in the hands of the other, guarded only by one little word that draws the line between whatever they do and abuse. Since then, years past but she never tried again: to trust. 

Whatever Nick sees in her face, he freezes, but it doesn't stop him from asking more. "Did you ever have to use it?" 

And she can't, she simply can't admit, the shame, the betrayal, the failure she felt. How later she got caught up in a lie. It's so much easier to invent a lie, even only to herself, than to admit the inexplicable. So she repeats the same lie. 

"I consented." 

V is for Vanilla

It's sooo late right now, and I'm writing a post to publish tomorrow morning. So, a cheat day, aka a poem day. 

V is for Vanilla

No one is ever vanilla

Everyone has some sort of kink

Tiny one or the size of Godzilla 

Pause, allow these words to sink

Sleep mask is a makeshift blindfold

Playful swat is an impact play

The Look that will keep you mindful

Strong as leash, be that as it may

Holding wrists is a type of bondage

Roleplay bound are Santa and elf

Naked Red, in Halloween homage, 

Riding Wolfie, is C-M-N-F

Primal is marking and biting

'Not yet' is permission to come

Playing hard or barely acting

Don't you dare to yuck my yum! 

Jamming

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

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

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

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

And now the story. 

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

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

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

Pink with a touch of purple

 

Here they were, ripe luscious globes, rapidly getting that warm pink hue with a touch of purple, boiling hot, tender to the touch, sweet, delicious, smelling of cinnamon with a whiff of vanilla. 

Ahem, I was talking about making the apricot jam. I know, no good deed shall go unpunished.

Such a sweet way to start the day! Some apricots were about to go bad, so I threw them in the pot together with leftover blackberries and a heap of sugar, and voila, the jam was on the way, and my deprived imagination was taking notes, rolling the reality and the fantasy in one...

Now, get off your lazy bums and go read  Never in Anger  or any of my stories and comment! Pretty please with a purple blackberry on top...

Count Me Down (Carpe Diem)

I can't believe it, I found a Carpe Diem T-shirt today, see the picture above! You will have to read the story to find out why I'm so excited.

That soft weary voice on the phone, so endearing and tantalising in his begging, and yet she can't resist the urge to drag on and play him because that's what he wants, that's what she wants, whether she admits it to herself or not. 

“Izzie? Are you in bed? I can't see.”  

She moves the phone camera around, she’s indeed sitting on the bed. “Izzie who?” 

“My morning star,” he responds like it’s the only possible answer. 

“Good god, what do you need so badly?” 

“Can you count me down? Please?” 

Who can say no, when he is pleading like that, looking like the original sin, all bundled up in a white hotel robe, propped on one elbow, the other hand combing through the wet hair, trying to look better for her? Is it even humanly possible to look better than that? “You know, there are phone lines with professionals for that.” 

“I can't dial those numbers from my phone. Besides, I want to hear your voice.”

“How sweet. From a hundred?” 

“More like from twenty.” 

“I see, already warmed up. Give me one good reason why should I.” 

“I had a rough day. “

“When don't you?”

“When I get to talk to you at the end of the day.” 

“My, my, such a blatant suck up.” 

“Touch you at the end of the day.“

“What else?” 

“Are you wet?” Nick asks. 

“Nope.” 

“Check now.“

Her hand slides under the covers. She quickly wipes her fingers and wiggles her hand in front of the phone. “Not even the slightest.” 

“I just saw you wiping your fingers.” 

“Oh, did you now?” 

“Will you come for me? “

“Not today,” Izzie replies, and gets a happy giggle from Nick. “Why are you giggling, numpty?” She didn’t call him a numpty for so long, it short-circuits his already struggling brain.

“It was a perfunctory ask.” Nick confesses with ease, despite the voice in his head calling him a numbnut, she can kill you for less, you daft git. Let me be, Nick pleads to the voice, for once she accepts me for what I am. Let me be.

“When you want the answer to be ‘no’. You are such an –"

“Manipulative narcissist?” he asks, and she lets it slide too. 

“An arse.” 

“That I am. I hate when you come without me.” 

“I hate that too. Go on. Carpe diem, Nicky.” 

“I will carpe diem your brains out when I'm back.” 

“You will, Nicky.” 

“You will be begging for me to stop.” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“Why am I doing all the talking?” Nick whines an octave higher, breaking the character.

“Because that's what you do for a living,” she coos.

“I do, I do,” he’s back on track. 

“Because your mouth is not otherwise occupied.” 

“Sadly.” Nick's camera falls and stays pointed at the ceiling. 

“Nick?” 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“No further questions. Tits?” 

“Yes, please.” 

She pulls her t-shirt over her head. Throws her hair over one shoulder. “Ready, cowboy?”  Silence. “Can't believe how easy you are.” 

“Izzie.” 

“Yes, that's what I said, easy.” 

“Iz!” 

Aaaand that's how you do it when apart. Thank you, Hermione, for the reminder! Some fluff read for the weekend. Enjoy and don't forget to click on the Almond Croissant to read all the other stories and comment. I command you to comment! Pretty please...

Good Girl

Two stories for the price of one today.

First, a personal one. Someone casually called me a good girl in a business conversation, thankfully over the phone. While shocked, I played along and responded with 'yes, I am.'  But after I hung up, my brain short-circuited. You never call 'a good girl' another man's good girl. Never ever ever, you useless prick! And that is my rant of the day.

The second one is fiction, a part of the same series about Izzie and Nick, that happened in the very early days of their relationship, hence the reaction to these two magic words. Enjoy!

GOOD GIRL

Finally, the perfect height. Izzie is perched on the gazebo’s railing, Nick stands between her legs, hot and bothered, again. And so is she.

"A condom?" he nods to her beach bag on the floor.

"In my beach bag? Who do you think I am?" Izzie jerks away like from a blow. Annoyed, frustrated, vulnerable, and, most of all, exhausted. The fuckfest that started last night is taking a toll on her.

He does not hesitate, but the brutal honesty and the raw desire are not what she needs right now. "The most amazing woman in the world. Now, chop-chop," he plops the bag on the railing next to her hip.

"You are so mean," her eyes swell with tears.

"I streamlined the events in the direction we both want them to go. Do we?" he tries to meet her eyes, seeking confirmation. Her hand disappears in the bag and fishes out a foil package.

"Good girl," he murmurs and extends his hand palm up.

"No!" she hides it behind her back, looking up, burning him up with her stare. "Do you always take what you want?"

"Only what's willfully given, yes. Didn't you do most of the taking yesterday?"

"I don't do checks and balances in sex."

"Me neither, and we are both lying." Her face looks so small cradled in his hands. His dark brown eyes, as endearing and relentless as ever.

"Please don't cry. Izzie, why are you crying?"

"I don't know. I feel so empty and full at the same time."

"Me too. Like a house on fire but I’m the house and the fire."

"You're still riding the high, and I'm crashing." Her usually restless hands hover slowly over his, dropping the foil on the ground. Nick's eyes trace it, not daring to move his head, and return to Izzie's.

"Good boy," she is quick to return the insult. Good boy knows when to back out and when to give more. No checks and balances here.

"Do you want me to bring you back up?" he whispers in her ear.

"Yes. Yes, I do. Will you eat me?" she asks like someone would ask for a glass of water. If that's what it takes to get back into her good graces, he will stay on his knees forever.

"With greatest pleasure but not now. You still smell of me, from that time in the ocean. I will gag like a high school girl on her first blowie."

She lets out a chuckle, and it melts his heart. She's back, smiling at him again.

"Are you a half-dog?" she asks.

"Hell, no. When you sat on my shoulders, the smell was right there. I can offer you some digital magic," he wiggles his fingers in front of her face.

"No," she pouts.

He puts together his index and middle finger and bends the rest in a fist. "Doesn't it look like an average size dick?" he continues, unbearably smug.

"You're so full of it."

"I know, but isn't it fun?"

"Who knew you could be so much fun?"

"I knew it." That cocky bastard.

"Not stroking your ego."

"You can stroke something else." His suggestion falls on deaf ears.

"No, to stroking. Yes, to magic," she delivers the verdict.

She turns half-way and shuffles, so her back rests against the post, one foot now propped up on the railing, the other foot dangling uncomfortably in the air. Not wide open, but an invitation nonetheless. Nick places his foot on a beam a foot off the ground and moves her dangling leg over to rest on his bent knee. 

"Comfy?"

"Kiss me," she nods.

He kisses her sloppily in the delicious valley between her small breasts. She pulls him up by his hair. "You didn't specify where," he protests as he covers her mouth with his.

God bless women who wear dresses and skirts and the sounds one can draw from them.

"Aww!"

"That's a new sound! Here?"

"Awww! Nicky! Un bâtard formidable*..."

*You wonderful bastard (inspired by Stromae'song Formidable)

To read all my fiction in order click here 

What matters/Inspection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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