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.”

M is for More

Dear diary,

The shit hit the fan in the most absurdly destructive manner. I always knew that my time on this island will eventually run out, but never expected it to happen so abruptly. To pack up the bags and leave. I'm done packing and almost ready to leave. This will be the last entry in my diary, which I intend to lock in Mister Pereira's personal safe box, just to be sure. By the way, he insisted on driving me to the airport today, what a nice man and a gentleman, through and through!

Isn't it ridiculous? The letter M is the 13th in the alphabet, concluding the first half. I could have dedicated it to the Miracle baby or the three Magic nights. Yes, you heard it right, Nick came back, I forgave him, and we had another magic night together. Or the Morning after, right before shit hit the fan. 

M could be for Magnolias. Few years back, when I was still living in New York, it snowed in April. The pink magnolias were in full bloom, each flower had a dollop of snow on top, like whipped cream on strawberry sorbet.

And yet, I chose More. In my few years here I learned to be more grateful for what I already have and stop wishing for more. It's another More that is on my mind. Not constantly, but having an ubiquitous way of reminding me of who I am. The barely audible More I whisper at one or two tentative smacks on my butt, the hesitation to ask or to prompt. The desire of finding the one whom I won't need to prompt, who will magically know the perfect Goldilocks equilibrium, between too little and too much, and deliver just that. 

I had a dream last night. I know, it sounds like a song. Since I met Nick, in my perverted dreams I substitute the faceless spanker with him. Works like magic, especially knowing what kind of magic he does deliver with the holy trifecta, his mouth, fingers, and cock.

I'm quite particular about my dreams, whether scripted, or not. In one of them, I was shot, yes, murdered, at the end of it. And while my already motionless body was laying on the floor, eyes wide open, I noticed dust bunnies and dog hair on the shaggy carpet. Appalled, I woke up. So, don't mind me when in the middle of being bent over the ping pong table, I will note that the area under the net was not properly dusted. The life of a mildly OCD person. Ping pong, that was the theme and the setting, featuring a ping pong paddle, nasty thing with the right swing. Oh, the swing Nick had.

We were just rallying, warming up. Nick was in a particularly cheerful mood that kept improving with each sip of whisky he took from the crystal tumbler on the side table. The classic nineteenth century surroundings, the curved furniture upholstered in softest hues of blue, silk Persian rugs, numerous paintings in heavy gilded frames, adorning the wallpapered walls, reminded me of the house in Hudson Valley and Nick's current abode, but it was neither, rather an unidentifiable location. The ping pong table in the middle of the room looked out of place, which didn't bother either of us.

I'm not sure at which point we made a bet. It was pretty clear why I would make such a bet, without knowing how good of a player he was. Best of five. The number of spanks will be determined by a point difference that Nick will win the match. He was courteous enough to give me an example. 

“Say, if the final score is 21 - 7, you get fourteen swats of a ping pong paddle, on the bare, of course.”

I cockily asked, “What if I win?” 

His lips stretched into a mischievous smile. “I will take a full celebratory shot of whisky.” And he cheered me with the tumbler in his hand in that Gatsby-esque gesture. 

The chutzpah! I thought, worse case scenario, the more, the better, right? I was not planning to let him crush me. 21 - 7 my ass. Pfft, who said I will lose so badly?

And then he suggested. “Want to practice serves?”

“Sure,” I nodded. “Why not?”

Remember, it's a dream, it plays at any speed I want it to play. In slow motion, he kicked the ball up, and I saw the label moving in circles. Bam! Back to the real speed. The ball hit my side of the table, changed the direction, and whooshed past me at an astounding speed. I didn't even have time to blink.

“Losers fetch the balls.” Nick motioned with the paddle towards the green velvet couch. I heard the ball still bouncing fast somewhere under it from the wicked spin.

“Where the fuck is it?” I mumbled, fussing on all four in front of the couch.

“Oh oh, you don't want to yearn extras for cursing. But, please get acquainted with the couch and let me indulge in the view.” He referred to my extra revealing shorts. “Do bend more.”

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… 

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.” 

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.