PSA: Looking for An Old Story

Asking for a friend. No, seriously. A mutual on Tumblr asked for help on finding this old story. I know that many of you have good deep archives or equally good memory. Any leads greatly appreciated. 

Here is his description:

I've been searching for this smut for a long time. If I understand it correctly, the original writer had it taken down everywhere online because he was trying to get it published. It was very well written. It was called "The Lottery Winner" but the only name I have for the writer was his handle from back in the BBS days, "Nightwind." The story was about a man by the name of Paul Renner or Renier or something like that who won the lottery. Used his winnings to create a harem of women from around the world. Of course there were smutty parts but the writing was so exceptional even in the vanilla parts I have no doubt they could have gotten published. I have no problem paying for the work, but I've not been able to to find it anywhere. There was a newsgroup post with maybe 20 chapters of it, from the middle. But, not the whole story.

My most heartfelt thanks

He bent me over the balcony railing, skin pressed against the rough concrete, heated up by the scorching tropical sun. I squirm uncomfortably, and he brings a towel to put under my shoulders, to protect me from scratching against the hot concrete. The balcony is facing the ocean, there is nothing but the mesmerizing turquoise blue with the white stripes of the waves. It's windy today, and the waves are loud, so is the music by the pool. No one can see us, but no doubt, the ocean and the music will not cover my screams. It's not polite to bother the neighbours, he says and offers me a washcloth to bite on.

I'm wearing nothing but a soaking wet bikini and fluffy hotel slippers, because the ceramic floor is too hot too. Comfortable is the name of the game, comfortable everywhere but. The wet bikini bottoms hit the floor with a splash. He folds my arms and tells me to keep them on the small of my back. 

I know what he's staring at, my new tan lines. Starved out for the sun in the midst of our dreadful winter with three-feet tall snowbanks, on the first day here we spent too much time on the beach, and I fell asleep on my stomach. Sleeping on my stomach is a second habit, you know. Besides, I was still sore from the whipping he gave me right before we left for the airport, a sound reminder to keep me on my best behavior while on vacation.

He traces my tan lines with his thumb, a white triangle surrounded by the pink of the burnt skin. In a few days my skin will get so dark that no one will notice the bruises. I bruise easily, but the red marks fade fast. There will be nothing to admire in the mirror tomorrow morning, unless he will add more. I wonder how much it will hurt on the sensitive burnt skin. He just lovingly rubbed my butt with the lotion. I heard the evil smirk, we both know the lotion only makes it hurt more.

We didn't bring any implements because, hello, airport security. We smuggled in a small plug. We decided to say that it's a ring holder, if the security asks. He joked, if I misbehave, I will fly back plugged. Have fun explaining that! Funny how all the hotels still have the landlines and phones in each room. He yanked the phone cord from the wall socket. The cord was long enough to fold in four and turn into a formidable but silent brat tamer. As much as he loves my witticisms, I could feel since morning that he was about to announce the inevitable. We were both itching to retreat to the room, so I can't say I didn't see it coming, if it was my own doing. 

Silent but vicious, only a few swift lashes, and my hands fly back to protect my poor bum from the onslaught. As always, he's quick enough to stop mid-air and not hit my fingers. But the bikini top comes off to securely tie my wrists. Another few, and I yelp, and the washcloth falls on the meticulously landscaped lawn underneath the balcony. Oops! We both burst into giggles, and instead of bringing another washcloth, he drags me inside the room. With my hands tied behind my back and those oversized hotel slippers, I stumble over the metal ledge, and he picks me up gleefully to carry over to bed. 

The balcony door shut, the ceiling fan turned on, hands untied, he commands me on all four and to take him in my mouth, the best silencer. I know he wants me to hold still, but with each stroke my muffled moans make him harder and harder. I arch my back and roll my hips back to meet the menacing cord, the same way as when he takes me from behind. 

Abruptly, he pulls out and lifts me up to lick my lips, to taste himself on me. He whispers the words of praise in my year, while pressing my head against his shoulder and rubbing my butt. We both shake, from the heat of the moment, from the need to give to each other what we crave the most, for him to give me this pain and for me to take it for him. He jumps off the bed, and I know that we're far from done. 

Head down, ass up, and plugged, I don't need a silencer any more, the moans are those of pleasure. Besides, he wants me to count the final fifteen, thanking him after each five. He slows down, taking a pause after each strike, letting me absorb the pain and get back in the position. And these thanks are the deepest, most meaningful and my most heartfelt thanks I ever gave.

Two Hundred and Sixty-seven (Stuart - 2)

To read Stuart - part 1, please click here: The Day She Showed Up. There are still some plot holes that need to be fixed. Yes, I know what I deserve for leaving them out there. But I really wanted to post the second part. So, here we go...

It was nice to be here, in the back seat of the car, to be driven, instead of driving it. That's why Stanley is who he is. When Stuart barged in into Stanley's office, despite the screaming protests of his secretary, and asked for a car with a siren, he just took one look at his, Stuart's, face and said yes. Then being Stanley, he improved on his offer and sent a car with a siren, to get out of the city fast, and a driver. Granted, that was to guarantee that the aforementioned driver will drag his, Stuart's, arse out of his whorehouse on time and get him back, on time. Because he, Stuart, cannot be one minute late today or else. And, yes, Stanley had no doubts about what kind of "emergency" he had at home. Stanley dealt with Nick's emergencies of a similar nature on a daily basis. Is that clear, Chef? 

The car hits a bump, and the shallow carton box from this morning vegetables delivery, now overflowing with takeout containers, shifts off the leather seat. Stuart catches the corner just in time to prevent the food from spilling all over the floor. What a mess and a waste that would be! While he was talking to Stanley, Sarah packed some obscene amount of food, cold and hot, from today's staff dinner and from whatever they will be serving later on tonight, including two bloody branzinos. When did she have time to prepare all this, that minx? Did she fillet and sous vide it first? Sarah texted him to come by the kitchen and didn't say what for. Silly goose, she was afraid that he will refuse to take it. Bollocks! Firstly, it was the staff meal time, and Stuart was hungry already. He didn't even know, when will be the next time he will have a few minutes to grab some food, definitely not while at home with Sherry. 

Hold that thought! The smell of yucca fries, sprinkled with Sarah's own secret spice mix, coming from the top container, was driving him up the wall. And the small plastic cup with yuzu mayo got all warmed up from the fries, and now was adding its own tangy undertone in this divine cacophony of smells. Stuart dug into fries, as he kept looking what other finger food is there. Bingo! Mini arancinis stuffed with asiago and mushrooms. Any real protein, perhaps? Here we go, the famous bison meatballs. Now, all set, munching through all three, Stuart could get back to his train of thought. 

No, he's not wasting one fucking minute on food, out of two measly hours he is left with. Sherry can take a bath and eat later, after he will leave. Or, maybe, they will still have time to hop in the shower together. Stuart shifts uncomfortably, should have rubbed one off, but he didn't have a bloody minute to spare, since he got her message, the fateful message that set in motion all this kerfuffle. 

For some strange reason, at that point Stuart recalled a seemingly insignificant incident that happened a few days back, right after Nick  appointed him as a scapegoat, responsible specifically for  feeding and plumping up Izzie. Stuart just personally delivered a piping hot dinner upstairs and chatted Izzie up. She was getting all squirmy and jittery, when she finally blurted out that Nick will be back any minute. That was definitely Stuart's cue to skedaddle. To avoid bumping into Nick, Stuart took the back stairs. Lo and behold, panting and skipping three steps at once, here he was, Nick himself, tie undone, jacket in his hand, unbuttoning his shirt further down and pulling the hem out. With that particular look on his face, the same look that Stuart is sporting right now. Exhausted and frisky, depleted and horny, tired beyond any measure after a fourteen-hour day but still ready to devour her, the one so impatiently waiting for him upstairs. Two men just nodded to each other, acknowledging the unfortunate fact of getting in each other's way, and that was it. 

A pang of jealousy washed over Stuart. It was not the fact that Nick was in a hurry to see Izzie. Stuart's own fling with Izzie was ion years ago, way before these two lovebirds met, and, truly, after being friends with benefits, they became just friends, real friends for life. That shit does not happen often, whether Nick likes it or not. It was the fact that Nick and Izzie had this hunger for each other in their lives, and he, Stuart, did not. Well, he did, but the object of his affection lived thousands of miles away. That was about a week ago. 

Right now, in the back of this car, skillfully whisked away and out of the city, finally, on the country road, he could exhale and think of Sherry, who was not thousands of miles away anymore. 

Stuart replayed in his head the last conversation he had with her two days ago. 

"Are you still counting, the extra swats?" she asked. 

She was referring to the extra spanks that Stuart had assigned for mentioning Clayton, her spineless cunt of an ex that abandoned Sherry at her most vulnerable. Long story to be told some other time. By all means, the spanks were not meant to be a punishment of any sorts, as Stuart did not want to discourage her to vent out. But, dear God, at first, it was non stop, Clay this and Clay that. So, to curtail the nasty habit, Stuart jokingly offered five spanks per uttering of the C-name. Sherry didn't seem to worry and did not slow down one little bit. When the total number climbed up into the second hundred, he took a pity on her bum and unilaterally reduced the sentence to three per occasion, instead of five. 

Stuart kept his math silent, but Sherry occasionally asked about the total. Mind you, with her living on the West Coast, the chance of Stuart ever collecting his debt were slim but not none. They did talk about her visiting but never ventured into the logistics of it. After all, Stuart's days were ridiculously long. It could only work, if he will get a few days off, but then she wouldn't need to come over here, they could meet anywhere. 

"Naturally. We are at two hundred and sixty-seven." 

"Oh... Are you sure?" Her enthusiasm audibly deflated at the number. 

"Most definitely. Not to worry, mon cheri, I can split it, say, into three visits to the woodshed? Ninety-ish each?" Stuart tried to present his spanking math in the most  casual manner, maybe with a good dollop of sarcasm. While he was the bottom feeder in the sarcasm food chain when it came to Nick and Stanley, right now he got the upper hand, and Sherry was folding. 

"You mean, your woodshed?" she squeaked. 

"The proverbial woodshed, Sherry. My humble woodshed doesn't have any suitable furniture in it. But, if you wish so, I can always bring over a chair or even a--" 

"Ninety? Did you say, ninety? Clay would never--" 

"Too bad. That will be two-seventy, ma'am." Stuart dropped the new total. 

"Fuck off, Stuart!" screamed Sherry. 

"That's exactly the bloody problem, Sherry! If you would've been here, in this room, you would be right here, bare arse up in the air, begging for mercy in fifteen seconds flat, yes, hard and fast. And then whatever swearing is still left in you, along with that spineless cunt's name--" 

"Stuart!" Sherry was an American and didn't take the word lightly. 

"My apologies, darling, I meant, coward. That coward's name, I will fuck out of you for as long as it takes." Surprisingly, Stuart didn't raise his voice and kept his calm to the end. "These pouty lips of yours, unless wrapped around my cock, will be sputtering one name, Sherry, one name only, mine!" Crap, that last word came out a tad louder. Maybe, a lot louder. "Sherry? Hello?"

... and I will stand up

Saturday morning edition, a fresh batch of some pun and dad jokes, all by yours truly. See yesterday post for the previous batch. Yes, when life gives you lemons, make a key lime pie. 

I have an accounting joke, it might cost me too much.

I have a librarian joke, can't find it. 

I have a surfer joke, it whooshes over.

I have a carpenter joke, but can't nail it. 

I have a plumber joke, but it can leak.

I have an excavation joke, just digging it deeper. 

I have a trader joke, but it can fall short.

I have a makeup joke that can make you blush.

I have a fisherman joke, the one that got away.

I have a bartender joke, but it's a tall order to fill.

I have a race car joke, but it disappeared too fast.

I have a baking joke, but it might not rise to the occasion.

I have a whiskey joke, but it's too old. 

I have a gun joke, but it might backfire.

I have a relationship joke, but afraid to let it go.

I have a masochist joke, only it's hard to bear.

I have a sadist joke, it's smart as a whip. 

I have a comedian joke, and I will stand up. 

Bam! 

Friday Night Fun

My dear readers, I'm really sorry for disappearing. I had my reasons, one day I will tell you more. Short version: betrayal, death in the family, and a vicious threat. All in a span of a few days back in September. 

But today, I just want to cheer everyone up. I wrote a bunch of Dad jokes today and want to share them with you. They are truly all mine!

Yours, Sore

I have a shibari joke, but I forgot how to tie it all together.

I have a D/s joke, but don't know where to submit it.

I have a DD joke, but nowhere to Head with it. 

I have an S/M joke, but it's too painful.

I have a little joke, but Daddy won't listen. 

I have a spanking joke, but you will end up red. 

I have a primal joke, but it has a bite.

I have an M/s joke, but it was hard to Master. 

I have a cooking joke, but it might burn or get roasted. 

I have a fishing joke, but it might get off the hook. 

I have a history joke, but no Friday night dates.

I have a chemistry joke, but it's missing elements.

The Day She Showed Up (Stuart -1)

Part 1 - The Day She Showed Up 

Stuart will never forget the day she showed up. It was not the first time women would show up on his doorstep. After all, he was a minor celebrity for at least three years now, and the famous Australian accent lured the innocent maidens, like the Piped Piper in the old fairytale. Except no one could find him here, since he bought and moved to this small farm in Virginia, close enough to get to DC under one hour. The farm in Virginia was Izzie's idea, she yapped so much about it, that one day Stuart thought, why not, and just did it. If Izzie would ever buy a farm in Virginia, it will be the size of that mansion in Hudson Valley, complete with a sizable tobacco plantation for all Nick's cigar needs. Sorry, not within Stuart's budget. His own five acre farm with a small but relatively new house on the top of the hill was exactly what the doctor ordered.

He blinked again, as he stared at the same text, "What time are you coming home?" Of course, he panicked. How could he not? A woman he met online three months ago just casually asked, when he's coming bloody home! He stumbled into his small office and slammed the door. That didn't stop Sarah, his sous, to knock on the door and step inside without waiting for his permission.

"Are you alright, Chef?" The plastic container with ice water she brought with her meant one thing only, she noticed everything. Everything he tried to hide.

"I need five." Stuart takes a sip but the cold water doesn't help a bit. Stuart counted on his fingers, one hour there, one hour back. Ahem! "Actually, I need three hours, better four."

"The service is in four, you can't leave it on me. What the hell is going on?" Sara's hands planted firmly on the edge of his desk, her head cocked inquisitively. 

"Someone is at my house." Stuart tap-taps his phone, eyes downcast. 

"Like broke in? Do you see anything on camera?"

"Right, the camera. Thank you, Sarah." He flips through the apps on his phone, three times back and forth before he finds the bloody camera. The porch camera that is pointed towards the driveway. And there she is, sitting on the ground, back against the mulberry tree, hot pink sneakers propped on the blue carry-on. Hot pink, her favourite colour, same as the dress on that picture she sent him a week ago. Whisky Tango Foxtrot, as Nick always says!

"Do you know her?" Sarah picks over to get a better look.

"Sort of." Good question, what did he really know of her. Somehow he's not surprised to see her. The trail of crumbs he kept dropping, intentionally and unintentionally, the town news, the street name, three mulberry trees in the front. She joked once, that there was only a handful of homes on his short street, and probably, if she will zoom in, and look for a house with a swing on the front porch, not too far from the road to watch his jogging neighbour Jess, and the old white woodshed in the back. But that would be too creepy, right? Fuck, she's getting a major spanking, as soon as he gets his hands on her. Oh, the things he will do to her, when he will get his hands on her... 

Stuart clears his throat, "Sarah, I think I left the stove on. At home, that is."

"Yeah, right. Stuart? You're so fucked, you can't leave me alone, not today. When will you stop thinking with your dick?"

"Cock! Don't raise your voice or you will spend the rest of the day prepping vegetables!"

"I thought you need me on the pass, Chef," Sarah snorts. "So you can go home and fuck her." 

"How can I leave her there? May I remind you what time we finish??" Stuart roars loud enough to bring in another spectator.

"Chefs?" Ricardo nudges the door open. "Where do you want the branzinos?"

"Up your bloody ass! Yours and anyone else's who will dare to open this door!"

"Put them in the walk-in, Ricardo. I will be right out." Sarah closes the door shut before Stuart jumps Ricardo's throat. "Doesn't your neighbour Jen have an extra key?"

"Jess. Brilliant. What would I do without you?" Stuarts leans for a quick peck on the cheek, but Sarah swirls away from him. He dials Jess. No answer. "Fucking voicemail!"

"I ask myself the same question every fucking day, Stuart. Show some appreciation."

"Jessica dearest," Stuart holds his hand up as he coos into the phone. "There is a lady in front of my house. Would you be so kind to let her in and show her around? I will owe you a four-course dinner, and if you will feed her, I will... Hiiii, Jess, I was leaving you a message. Yes, the dick next door, that's me. Nope, you're not in charge of the brothel I'm running. Yes, absolutely. I swear, it's the last time ever."

The last time ever. His own words hit him like a brick wall. He looks up at Sarah and smiles like an idiot. "Ask anything."

"Croissants from Bouchon every morning." Sarah snaps back without missing a bit.

"No can do. Besides, Antoine's croissants are better. Anything else?" Stuart wiggles one eyebrow, the way only Stuart can. 

"Just go, and fuck her faster, or whatever you straight people do." Right, talking to his disappearing back again.

"Yes, ma'am." Stuart hollers from the hallway.

My lovely readers, sorry we didn't get to the actual spanking part yet. 

I'm trying something new. Though, Chef Stuart and his sous Sarah were already part of Nick and Izzie verse, Stuart deserved his own love interest. That deserves a looong spanking. So, sit tight for the next instalment.

Happily Submit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accept me for who I am. 

Then, I will HAPPILY SUBMIT. 

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

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

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?? 

Not a Monster (Irrelevant p. 2)

"Before you disappear into the bathroom, order some food, will you? And leave your phone here when you're done." 

"Can I order sushi?" Izzie asks a loaded question, without looking up. And in response, Nick clears his throat. "Sorry. May I order sushi?" 

"Darling, I didn't mean the grammar but the raw fish."

"Pretty please? It's completely safe! They know that it's for us. They triple check every piece that goes into our order. The last thing they need is to poison me." 

"Alright, order sushi."

"Thank you! And chicken teriyaki for you?"

"Salmon teriyaki, time to live dangerously."

"Your salmon is cooked."

"I'm not a monster, Iz."

"You are not, Nicky."

"I didn't mean sushi."

"I know. Still, not a monster. Just a Big Bad Wolf."

"With his Little Red?"

"Yep! And they lived happily ever after. Eventually. For what time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"For what time to order sushi?"

"In an hour? Will we be done in an hour?"

"Are you asking me? It's your show, Nick."

Sorry, it's super short and dialogue-only but with a lot of feelings, doubts, and hesitation, and also, moving the story forward. Isn't it just the best thing, after the spankings, of course?

Submitting last minute to Saturday Spanking Blog. Picture from Tumblr.

Irrelevant, a spanking story

Izzie nudges the door open and tiptoes into the bedroom. But alas, a familiar voice, now unbearably curt and stern, calls her from the couch at the bottom of their bed. 

"Go pee first and come over here. Chop-chop." Working, always working, Nick quips without looking up from the laptop. He pats on what he called 'here', and the distinctive sound of his bare hand hitting the leather surface sends shivers down Izzie's spine. 

It's the New Toy, that's how they christened it. A huge massage block for pregnant women with three hollows for belly and tits, a lovely idea by itself, that allows her to lay down on her tummy, a forgotten pleasure, and to Nick to lay down on top of her, full weight and all, and fuck her brains out. But now, wedged against the armrest, it meant one thing only. And if that wasn't enough, the double-folded belt, laid right next to it, completed the picture.

"Don't you want to ask me how was my day?" Izzie chirps. 

"How my day was." Nick has to correct, a stickler to the proper grammar. A stickler to proper everything, and this conversation is only another proof. "I'm pretty much aware of how your day was, especially where you spent it." Nick unlatches his wary eyes from the screen and switches to her, taking her in, from the soles of her flats to the messy bun on the top of her head. "We spoke at lunch, but it didn't cross your mind to mention that you were a few hundred miles away."

"Two." One syllable to start a useless fight. The more Nick talks, the less words she uses, but the desire to fight her way out of inevitable prevails. Isn't it what she wanted, to be seen, to be taken care of and held accountable? 

"I beg your pardon, two, what?"

"Just two hundred miles, and you already knew it when we spoke." She actually stomps a little, with a huff, no less. 

Nick's eyebrows jump up an inch, but the voice remains measured and low. "Indeed, I wanted to hear it from you. Where is the dress, Izzie?" 

"What dress?" Feigning innocence is the wrongest route to take when Nick is that close to explode. And explode he does. 

He jumps on his feet, but keeps a distance from her to not tower over. "Your fucking wedding dress, in a huge fucking white garment bag." The jazz hands make big circles in the air, like a cloud around the mythical dress. "The first thing I stare at, when I walk into the closet each and every day."

"Oh, is that why you called me at lunch?" Izzie steps into his space, chin up high to hold the glare. 

"Answer the fucking question!"

"I took it to the salon for a fitting. You know, I'm getting fatter every week." 

"You're pregnant. You're getting bigger not fatter, young lady." Nick visibly calms down as he utters the words 'young lady' as if the buzzword magically ties him into the calm, cool, and collected version of himself. "Don't talk about it like it's a nuisance." 

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child!" 

"You behave like one, so I'll treat you like one." Nick's hand accidentally bumps into the belt, and he jerks away from it. "That's not what I meant, I would never touch a... You know exactly what I meant! I'm still waiting for that bum of yours to get over here!" Nick turns around to pat on the New Toy. "You ran away again, Iz, to New York." He plops back on the couch, elbows planted on his knees, fingers intertwined.

"What am I, a prisoner?"

"God forbid, by all means, the door is always open." He waves in the direction of the door that's fortunately closed. At least this room is soundproof, and nobody can hear the yelling and, well, what about to happen. "I hope, you will have a decency to throw it in my face, if you decide to leave." 

"I promise, if I will ever decide to leave, you will be the first to know. 

"Do you know that every time you disappear, hell, even for a walk with Bear, some part of me spirals into the same hole I spent months in when you skedaddled to Thailand?"

"Skedaddled? You couldn't find a better verb?"

"Alright! Fled, happy?" 

"If I will ever run away, I wouldn't tell Stanley and Owen. I just took a dress for a fitting."

"Behind my back!" Nick slaps his knee and winces with an ouch. "Aren't there any fine seamstresses here, in our nation's capital?  Or they are not good for Your Highness?"

"It's the salon's job to fit the dress. Maybe if you wouldn't buy it behind my back and bring it here, I wouldn't need to sneak it out." 

"Maybe I like seeing it here, as some sign of commitment?" 

"Why am I getting a spanking? I didn't break any rules. I didn't go alone, I took security. And I had a big lunch with Nechami." 

"I knew it! That her name will come out soon. What did the righteous one said this time?" Nick cocks his head with a mock interest.

"Don't mock her. She didn't say a thing. I had to ask her something." 

"Dare I ask, what was it? So urgent and important that you had to fly out there to talk to her in person?"

"It's irrelevant now." Izzie stares at her feet. 

"Strike two, it will become very relevant after I'm done with you." 

"What do you mean, by strike two?" 

"It's not enough that you went to New York on a day trip without telling me, you refuse to say why. How does that falls under the rules umbrella? Or is it the four D's, I forgot?" 

"I need to pee." She looks away.

"Of course, you do." Nick nods and gestures to the en-suite. "On the second thought, I need to finish something." He opens his laptop again. "Take a shower while you're at it. Might take some fizz out of you and make my job easier."

"Your job?" 

"What do you think, I enjoy it?"

Sorry for disappearing!!! Will come back to edit further and to write part two, less angsty. I thought it's better to post something than nothing. Posting to Saturday Spankings.