T is for Time

Memories are the best time machine known to mankind. The happy ones you treasure and dissect, frame by frame, and time flows in slow motion. The horrible ones, you rush through them blazing fast. Time stands still for the most sacred. Both in my dreams and in real life, time stands still when I worship Nick’s cock.

No, I will not indulge you in the detail description of his cock, that’s nobody’s business but his and mine. I will note that it barely fits in my mouth. And I mean, I can’t do anything but hold it there. Not ideal, but we make it work. As Nick always says, it’s the effort that counts.

I like to start on his nipples and tug on them gently, much lighter than he bites into mine. Swirl my tongue around each one and give it another tug. If we are lying in bed, and I’m on top, I will feel him twitch against my stomach, but I keep teasing him. It’s a looong way down there, and I make every inch count, covering his chest with butterfly kisses, down to his navel that gets another wet swirl of the tongue. Nick would press on the top of my head, ordering me to move down south faster. I make a quick trip there to lick off the first drops and bring them back to him, to kiss off my lips, to get the first taste of himself. Then I would follow the trail of dark curly hair that leads me from his navel to the main course of my undivided attention.

Alright, alright, since no one will ever read this, here is a full confession: Nick has the prettiest cock. He’s big, but not too big. Slightly thicker than average. Not too veiny, like in those exaggerated AI pictures; I honestly don’t get this obsession with veins. I don’t get the obsession with gigantic cocks either. Seriously, cocks are meant to fit and bring pleasure. Not every woman enjoys a sore cervix. This woman isn’t. Duh!

When hard, and I mostly see him at twelve o’clock, it doesn’t curve to the side. Thanks to his mother, he’s circumcised. Hell, it’s even pretty when he’s soft and curls flat on his thigh. He doesn’t stay soft for long when I wake him up with my mouth. Truth be told, I rarely wake up earlier than him. Maybe when I interrupt his rare naps. Nick says that it’s the only legit reason to interrupt his naps haha!

My best toy, my magnet, just touching it brings me joy. Knowing that my worship pleases him fills me with the utmost joy. Nick adores my hands, maybe even more than my less-than-useful mouth, but he would never admit it to avoid discouraging me. I wrap one hand underneath his balls, so pretty and heavy at this moment. Nick is like a Ken doll, if Ken would have genitalia, perfect in all regards. And keep my other hand wrapped around the base. My lips hover around his tip, covering with my saliva. Once I spit on him and smeared it with my tongue; Nick shuddered and came on my tits that time. He was so embarrassed, but in his defense, he hasn’t seen me in five days, and as per our unspoken rule, all his come belongs to me. To make up for the disaster, he fucked me senseless an hour and a glass of orange juice later.

Time doesn’t move when he’s in my mouth, at least for me. I do not hurry; I do not rush. Every lick counts, every attempt to take him in deeper pushes me further into a revered timelessness. Until Nick would growl, “Kill it.” 

S is for Story

S might stand for a Story, but I have no story! The dungeon story that carried me over for most of the A-to-Z challenge, the story that spanned from E to R, came to its inevitable conclusion. That story ended with me slipping into a dreamless sleep. Which can be true, after a night of embarrassment and onslaught, a night of riding crops, kilt belts, and barber strop, with a trip to the fairyland as its grand finale, who wouldn’t slip into a dreamless sleep? Wait! Did I tell you about my trip to Fairyland last night? Or I was so tired and happy to end Nick’s attempt at Southern drawl I skipped the best part.

Soooo, Nick McDreamson: y’all know, it’s not his real name. I call him McDreamson to differentiate Nick from my dreams and fantasies from the real Nick. Neither of the two Nicks has not one drop of Scottish blood. Another confusion to clear: it’s a well-known fact that Nick’s aunt raised him in England, and like most Englishmen, he is a die-hard soccer fan. Of course, he calls it football. A less known fact is that Nick is not so well versed in American football, especially the Southern college teams, as he would like to admit. Emory, of course, doesn’t have a football team. And Atlanta Dawgs, whose formal name is Georgia Bulldogs, play their home games not in Atlanta but in Athens, GA. Gators are indeed their famed rivals and play for the University of Florida. Nick would rather pontificate about the rivalry between his beloved Man U and the twats that call themselves Man City.

Or, I have another explanation for Nick’s confusion: the prospect of tanning my hide distracted him too much to keep his Georgian ducks in a row.

So strange, I don’t watch neither football nor soccer. Why this debate? Why don’t we go back to when I struggle on Nick’s lap? The gag prevents me from screaming, but not from letting out some muffled yelps. A subsided version of kicking and screaming, that’s me. 

“Beg for it.” Nick leans over to untie the gag.

“Aghhhhhh!”

“That’s not begging.” The strop resumes its dance over my poor ass.

“Please please please!” I chant.

Nick stops and nudges me to get up. 

I jump on my feet. No! I don’t want it to end, yet I can’t find the words. It’s like my brain is rewired only to beg and plead. I look up at him and repeat, “Please.”

Without breaking eye contact, Nick opens his knees wide. One tug on the waistband, and his cock bounces free. He’s been waiting for too long. Thank fuck, it’s not the end, but intermission. I drop to my knees and lick off the first drops before he urges himself into my mouth.  

“Suck, baby girl, suck me dry.” McDreamson doesn’t mince his words.

Steady, smooth, swift, he seeks his release in my hands and my mouth. And the second act can wait.

R is for Ringin’

Nick loves playing with accents, and not only with his usual mix. I heard him impersonate The Frog and, on another occasion, The Convicts and Kangaroos Commander. Both times I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself. Of course, the ridiculous standup act was for his brother’s and my eyes only. 

Today he is a Southern train conductor on a mission, and I lie across his knees, waiting for his next rant and the following reprimand with the barber strop, folded in half. But Nick is not ready to start. 

He slithers from underneath me to pull on the string of the Tiffany lamp on his nightstand. The dark blue and green lampshade covers the light bulbs from three sides, and the cone of light is not bright enough to illuminate the room, or even read under it, but to break the total darkness.

“Can’t conduct a train in the dark, can I?” Nick rummages through his top drawer. 

Nick has his own small collection of unassuming objects. This time he picks a small brass cowbell, a souvenir from Switzerland, and a pressed handkerchief. The handkerchief, of course, Nick rolls into a strip and makes me bite over it, as a gag, tying the ends at the back of my head. Way to fight my smart-alec comments and the necessity to address them! He wraps the ribbon attached to the cowbell around my wrist and presses the cowbell into the palm of my hand.

“Ring the bell when you need to get off the train, will you?” I smile and nod at the cleverness of how he tied his train metaphors with the cowbell, as a non-verbal safeword. Nick is so in control and enjoying it!

Back at the edge of the bed with his feet propped on the bench, he summons me over, and I scoot over his knees and bury my head in the sheets, clutching the cowbell in my right hand.

“First stop is at the Lecture Hall,” announces my conductor, while adjusting my legs in between his. “It’s up the hill, but as sure as sunrise, we shall get there. Watch out, as I’m gonna cream yo’ corn, while gettin’ there.”

I just lose it, laughing my ass off. No amount of his folksy scolding can bring back the mood. And Nick keeps adding wood to the fire, line by line.

“Watch out, girl, I’m gonna cut your bony tail.”

I can feel his knees shaking as he burst into laughter too. He unties my makeshift gag, and we plunge into uncontrollable snickering, like two schoolgirls in the back of the schoolyard gawking at some dirty magazines.

“Quit your piddlin’, I mean it.” Nick pleads through the hiccups.

Nope, not quitting the piddling. Are you kidding me? I have my own comedy club here.

“Alright, alright, I’ll wait.” Nick loses his fake Southern accent at once. “You have your cowbell. Give it a sound ringing when you’re ready.”

That’s right, the cowbell, my safeword, still firmly in my hand. What Nick is asking is an inverted safeword: let me know when to start. He rubs my butt and shifts my legs again. He puts the handkerchief-slash-gag back in its place, between my teeth, and re-ties the ends. Waiting.

Willing, I’m where I want to be. Only one sound can break the growing silence: the alpine cowbell.  

The first dozen, tentative and mild, bares no kick, as to shake off the remnants of our silly interruption. Then Nick proceeds with the promised lecture, again Southern-themed but more refined.

“A proper lady can cuss in the presence of a gentleman for one reason only, and that is if Dawgs are losing to Gators.” Nick delivers the mighty whacks, with no slowing down. “Do you hear any woofs around here? I don’t think so. Do you see any fine Emory grads in the crowd?”

Nick mixes up two Georgian schools. He has an affinity to Emory, for a reason yet unknown to me, and likes to plug it in a sentence whenever he can. He also switches from twang to drawl and back, from folksy to Atlanta’s best. 

The new lashes reawaken the layers of pain from all the previous strappings of this unending night. I struggle against his grip, and Nick must catch my hand flying back more than once. I don’t want to struggle; I want to give in and settle into it. But his endless speech, interspersed with fixin’ and whuppin’, pulls me back into this mythical reality. I block out my darling Nick into a white noise behind the beats, my most welcoming beats. 

I come back to life, gagless, stretched under the blanket, with Nick’s long body pressed behind, repeating the shape of mine.

“Your butt looks like ten miles of bad road, and that just dills my pickle.” He whispers into my ear.

I yank the ribbon back and forth, the cowbell ringing echoes against the distant walls.

“Alright, alright,” Nick quips. “I say no more.” 

And I slip into a dreamless sleep.

Q is for Quality vs Quantity

I can’t believe I just gave Nick an abridged version of my quality versus quantity speech. Usually I prefer quality over quantity, a hand-picked few over an abundance. Fashion and food come to mind, especially food. My favorite treat used to be a mini macaron with zero-calories green tea, while dreaming about a bagel, slathered in cream cheese, with two thick slices of smoked salmon, washed down with cappuccino, three sugars please. Aldous joked I had a stomach the size of a walnut. Sigh, not anymore.

Spanking is a different beast. While quality, as a derivative of experience, undeniably matters, I will always choose a long and painful session with a hairbrush over a short and painful best of six with a cane. Why? Cane is meant to punish, not to deliver to the promised land. And it’s the promised land, the elusive cloud nine that I crave.

 The familiar sounds behind my back confirm why the unexpected pause. Nick’s shirt rustles as he pulls it free. Oxfords hit the wooden floor. The metal buckle of his belt catches the open zipper. He balances on one foot while taking the socks off, but falls on the edge of the bed.

“What if someone walks in?” I am still bent over two pillows.

“Who would dare to walk in on us in our bedroom? Come here,” he offers me his hand. 

“Our bedroom?” I gasp.

“Of course. We’re home, silly.”

It’s dark but I recognize the tall silhouette of a Tiffany lamp, the stack of books with a thick tome of unopened Iliad on top, the perpetually dripping bottle of lube, and the permanent stain from it, burned onto the lacquered surface. That’s Nick’s nightstand. The pillows smell of lavender oil he massaged me with last night. The hum of the oscillating fan by the window mixes with the thumping music from across the hall. The wave of cold air soothes my ever-burning skin.

I scoot closer. Nick has his bare feet propped on the blue velvet bench, the same bench I dreamed so many times he would bend me over. He folded the barber strop, reducing the length in half, into a short-range tool of the trade with more bark than bite. That’s all we need: more bark than bite. He taps his own thigh with this makeshift paddle a few times. At first gently, hesitantly, then with the force, the way he would slap me: through ouches and sighs. 

Pleased with the result, Nick pats his knee—the universal sign of invitation—with a playful smile and unleashes the twang. 

“I ain’t got no time, young lady. Quit itchin’ and bitchin’.” Nick rubs himself to relieve his own itch or for the sheer theatrics of the obscene gesture. “Hop on the Fairyland express, with the stops at Two doz’n, Four doz’n, and Six doz’n, if y’all will behave yourself all along.”

P is for Please please please

Nick proceeds with my other cheek in the same manner, the only difference being that he restrains my hands, crossed at the wrists. Which is a good thing: it prevents me from reaching back and interfering with the heavy strop. Another good thing, none of my silent reactions go unnoticed by Nick. 

I am silent at first, only count to ten for his so-called practice. Cannot call it practice; Nick’s strokes are quick, stingy, biting, like he’s in a hurry to finish. Mistress Kat was in it for a long evening of torture. Nick’s hurried style throws me off the loop, that’s not what I need. With Nick’s mind-reading skills being flaky, I hesitate to speak up. Nick’s taking a tiny break before the lecture on cursing and part two, and it could be my last chance to intervene before things go wrong. At this speed, things are bound to go wrong. I will not get to meet the pretty fairies, Nick will get upset for doing it wrong. He will blame me for not using my safeword and telling him the truth, I will blame him for not reading my mood.

Even within the dream, I’m anxious and psychoanalyze every step. But then again, how can you dissect what’s going on in real life, during a real spanking, when a heavy piece of leather swings and lands on your bare and swollen skin, resetting your brain every few seconds, flushing out the thoughts, reducing all the emotions to one: how to absorb and survive the pain, how to conquer it. 

This evening needs a peaceful ending; I gather all my courage and tug on my wrist to draw Nick’s attention before it’s too late. And add one word. “Nicky?”

“Yes, my love,” he exhales, startled by the use of his name instead of the usual honorifics. “Guide me, it’s an order.”

“Imagine a wooden spoon or even a hairbrush.” I start from afar. “They sting and hurt, but you need a myriad of small or not so small strikes to get there, dozens upon dozens, uncountable.”

“This strop can do the same, if I lighten up,” Nick picks up on the metaphor.

“Yes,” I nod into the sheets without looking up. “It all adds up. I will wriggle and fight and beg you to stop and forgive me all the same.”

“I love when you wriggle and beg.” Without letting go of my wrists, Nick climbs onto the bed and presses against my sore ass, for me to feel how hard and ready he is for the next part, but I need to sweet torture him and myself just a bit longer.

“But I must earn your forgiveness and beg for it. Because I cursed so many times today,” now I’m just milking my make-believe wrongdoings to get Nick back in the game. “And cannot be forgiven too quickly, right?”

“Uh-huh,” murmurs Nick, not too eager to separate his body from mine. “You need to beg for me to stop, in your sweet little voice, pretty please please please.”

“But you will not stop.”

O is for Onslaught

“Is this too much?” Nick twists and twirls a long strip of leather like a light saber; maybe half the length of a regular belt. I have a gut feeling, what it can be, but not till he brings it back to the stage.

“It’s a razor strop,” I bend the broken-in leather strip, attached to a wooden handle. “Either a real one that barbers use to sharpen razors.” I picture Aldous picking one at an antique shop. “Or a decent replica.” Ordered by the same Aldous online. 

“Is it bad?” 

“Not if you can control it.” I blurt out, looking sideways. Pointing out Nick’s lack of experience doesn’t feel good, but I can’t control my mouth, even in a dream. Especially in a dream. “I would prefer something shorter,” I huff at my own wrongdoing.

“And I would prefer, if you have more faith in me!” Nick points at the pillow, directing me to pile two of them in the middle of the bed, a standard position for belting. “You should be thankful,” he adds with more sternness. “I could’ve picked up that heavy kilt belt. I bet I control it just right.” He enunciates ‘control’ to confirm that my slip of the tongue didn’t go unnoticed.

“Thank you, sir!” I muffle into the sheets, with my ass already over the piled-up pillows. Don’t tease the man with the belt, I repeat to myself, or a strop, for that matter. Even if he only agreed to this scene to please you. He remains the man with the belt, and should be treated as such, with respect.

“The first ten will be for me to practice my control,” Nick announces. Fuck, he wouldn’t let it go. “After that, we will work on your cursing.”

He yanks another pillow and proceeds to smack it with the strop. I blink in disbelief: I was sure the practice would be on my ass. I cannot unsee that he hits the same spot with a perfect aim. 

“Now let’s practice on a live target, shall we? Count to ten.”

I cuss and pull the pillow over my head.

“What was that, more cursing?” Nick tugs the pillow away. My cheeks are the same red as my ass.

“No, sir. Admiring your perfect aim.”

Swish! Nick doesn’t buy my bullshit, not one little bit.

“Sweet Mary, Joseph, and donkey!” I yelp.

“Just the same old me.” He taps my thigh with the tip of the offending strop. “Count.” 

Whack! The second stroke lands on the same cheek, before I can respond. “Two!” I grab the sheets, just to grab into something, or I will reach back, trying to block. 

“Nope. That was one.” He’s calm as a millpond, but I can hear the smirk.

“Yes, sir, one.” I’m kind of glad he’s enjoying it. “Two!” After tonight’s ordeal. “Three!” He’s not hitting full swing. “Four!” But he hits the same spot. “Five!” What kind of onslaught did I sign up for?

Nicks pauses for a quick rub and switches the sides. “Do you want me to hold your hands?” 

Of course, he sees through me! I fold my hands on my lower back, ready for him to pin with his free hand.

“Oy! Ready?”

N is for No

There is nowhere else I would rather be but to sit next to Nick, on the edge of this bed, on an island of our own. The blinding spotlights are gone, so is Mistress Kat. We are alone on the dim-lit stage, basking in the warm sunflower-yellow light. Even the music is right, it’s my playlist called ‘those hips’. I like to sway my hips for Nick, thus a special playlist. Wrapped in the blanket, like you see in the movies, when the police hand out blankets to victims, freshly rescued from some large body of water. Only my blanket is not the standard issue, but my own fluffy orange blanket, in which I cocoon myself on the couch and fall asleep every day while waiting for Nick.

“You should say ‘no’ more often, you know.” Nick wraps the blanket tighter around my shoulders. That’s not how I wish the rest of the night to unfold, still antsy, still wanton, but I don’t want to interrupt him either. “And not some ‘no no no, it hurts’, which in fact means that you want more. But one firm ‘no’.”

“I have my safeword,” I murmur into his shoulder.

“As per recent series of events, you’re not too eager to use it. A firm no would suffice, for me, for us,” he corrects himself.

“What about ‘fuck no’?” I giggle.

“That would earn you an extra spanking.” Nick swats my more than sore bottom, but the blanket absorbs the blow. 

I prick up my ears at the prospect of how to get Nick out of his funk and back to business. “Fuck no?” I repeat with another giggle, this time as a rhetorical question.

“Young lady,” Nick grabs my chin, and all I can see is his own laughing eyes. I wiggle my eyebrows, he wiggles his. “Shan’t cuss in the presence of a gentleman, unless she wishes—” 

I leap from under the blanket and over his knees. 

“—to end up over his lap. There we go!” He rubs my ass in circles, gauging my reaction. I try not to squirm; I worked so hard to get Nick’s hand there. “Or she can just ask.” 

I shake my head in disagreement.

“You perfectly know that such an infraction requires more than my hand, do you?” Nick sits me up, back in my spot. 

“Isn’t any infraction requires more than your hand?” I tug at his belt, forgoing the essential rule: don’t tease the man with the belt. I know too well that empty-handed Nick is harmless. If you followed me for long enough, you know about Nick’s complicated relationship with pain.

“That’s right,” he hops from the stage to rummage through the content of that awful cart. “Beware of what you wish for. Is that still a ‘fuck no’?” 

His tall frame blocks the view, but I can hear Nick striking various implements on his open palm, followed by ouches of various degrees.

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” I swoon in sweet anticipation.

M is for Measured

We cannot see them from behind the tall headboard, and they cannot see us. And by us, I mean Mistress Kat and me. She knows that her skillful hand can produce loud strikes from the kilt belt without going full swing. Every strike is stingy but meticulously mild. It’s this, or I’m still riding endorphins, and my pain tolerance is up, at par with the damn kilt belt.

“One, two three, four, five.” I count without a fault after each lick, but stop before the second part, as prescribed by Aldous. 

“Go on, thank him,” whispers Mistress Kat.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Elizabeth?” Aldous calls me by my given name. “You are forgetting something. Something that good girls never forget.” He pauses for a quick moment, but I stubbornly keep silent. “It was not a warning, go back to one.”

Mistress Kat doesn’t wait to deliver the next strike.

“One.” My foggy brain, bound to the first five numerals, refuses to yield to Aldous. Not to him, not ever.

“You have been weighed,” louder than before, Aldous recites the first part of the famous quote.

“Two.” One syllable at a time. I can do it.

“Measured.”

“Three.”

“And found wanting.”

“Four.” I count, and Mistress Kat holds a pause, but no further remarks from Aldous. “Five.”

“Just say the damn words, thank you sir,” she hisses to me.

“You will never be a good girl, back to one,” Aldous slaps his hand on the armchair rest..

“One,” I say, the same second I hear the swing of the belt.

“Wait!” Nick stops the massacre with one word. “Turn the bed around.” And they oblige, and I can even see him through the blinding spotlight. “Do you remember your safeword, Iz?”

“Yes, Sir.” I note how Aldous gasps, hearing the words flow with no hesitation when referring to Nick.

“What is it and why?” Nick yanks me from the mindless stupor.

“Don Quixote. That day I lost my freedom.”

“She cannot safeword during the punishment!” Aldous loses it.

“In my world, she very much can.” That’s Nick I know too well: this mesmerizing, unwavering modulation. “In my world, it’s lovely when she asks, but she doesn’t need permission to come. In my world, I do not punish but discipline, with love. Say the word, Iz. Say the word to stop this mockery.”

“Don Quixote.” The botched fantasy is coming to an end. 

And Nick is on stage, as before, untying, setting me free, wrapping me in the blanket. “Look at him,” he points at Aldous. “He is not real.”

“Poof!” I blow at him, and my dark magic turns Aldous into a tiny mouse. Still wearing his suit, the mouse scurries into the darkness.

“Did you have enough of this nonsense? Can we go home now?” Nick nudges me.

“Maybe.” When he puts it that way, I’m only reminded of the unfinished business. I blush and squirm and hide my face in his shoulder. “After you make me a good girl.”

L is for Leather

Aldous, despite being only one eighth Scottish, had a strong affinity for the Scottish tawse and the kilt belt. Rated eleven on the one to ten scale of severity, the Scottish tawse is more brutal than the cane, though the sensation is entirely different: a bone-deep thud versus razor-thin sting. Its younger cousin kilt belt is from the same leather family, wide and heavy by nature, but kinder on the bum. Then again, its effect depends on who yields it and for what purpose. The other factor being my post-orgasmic floaty state, and the third but not least, I loved leather. 

That was the pep talk running in circles in my head, and you cannot survive a heavy spanking without some pep talk, better delivered by your disciplinarian, or if not, by yourself. Aldous was not into pep talks or any kind of positive reinforcements; his lectures, usually accompanied by severe spankings, sent me straight down the rabbit hole. Nick’s experience, so far, was limited to my dreams. Whatever I liked, he liked. Whatever stance on spanking I wanted him to take, he surely did: gentle, hard, leisurely slow, or breathtakingly fast; mind reader Nick got it all.

But some dreams are unscripted, and this one is running amok.

“Holy fuck, it’s twice wider than my belt!” Nick yelps.

“And twice heavier too,” replies Aldous. “Don’t fret, she took tawse like a good girl, she’ll be fine.”

 “But she just came,” protests Nick.

“Exactly! The best time to punish her for coming without permission. On her back and legs up,” Aldous concludes with a verdict.

That’s an evil twist! The diaper position (on the back with legs up) is one of the most hated positions for the utmost exposure and the skin pulled tight, with the primary targets being the sit spots and the upper thighs, the most painful areas to spank.

Out of nowhere, a metal canopy bed with a bare mattress rolls out, with the cuffs dangling on a long chain over the footboard. Free of any restraints and on my wobbly feet, I have a moment to stretch my limbs. After the hard surface of the spanking bench, the bed looks like a luxury upgrade, if it wouldn’t be the premise of the next assault on my ass.

“Assume the position!” Mistress Kat barks the order.

I climb on the bed, taking my sweet time, but mindful of a reprimand. I flip on my back and lift my legs, waiting for her to secure my ankles with the cuffs. Maybe if I will be a good girl, she will show mercy. She yanks my hips forward, over the edge of the bed, readying for full access. No mercy yet, I sigh.

“Sorry, mate, no choosing the view for this one,” I hear Aldous. The bed has a tall headboard and moving it around would obstruct the view for my two spectators.

“Quite an opposite,” rebuffs Nick. “Turn her around.”

Ouch, I jerk. Don’t wake up the beast, or Aldous will gnaw his paw to get the upper hand.

“Alrighty then,” says Aldous, and at his command the bed rolls around one-eighty degrees. “Since I can’t see her, I can only rely on her screams.” He agrees matter-of-factly. “She will count, and after each five I want to hear: thank you, sir, I love your kilt belt. Any mistake, we go back to one.”

“Until when?” asks Nick.

“Oh, you will know. It’s a punishment, not some play with your leather trinkets.”

K is for Kilt Belt

“Jackpot!” repeats my marvelous mind reader, Nick McDreamson, and claps his hands twice, both from the excitement and to get Mistress Kat’s attention. 

“You,” Nick points at her. “Your job here is almost done, just light taps on these beautiful lips and mound, and keep it quiet. I will do the talking.”

“Darling, can you hear me?” Nick’s voice changes into volcanic molasses when he refers to me. Rambling, burning, steadfast.

How can I not hear him? “Yes, Sir,” I breathe out.

“Just listen to my voice, will you? And I will get you there,” Nick purrs.

“What the fuck are doing, mate?” Aldous explodes. “You can’t talk to her! Get a room, when we’re done. What is it, some perverted phone sex?”

When we’re done, the words register in my foggy brain. When we’re done, I want Nick to do all the things you can’t do on stage, the private things. Then why am I showcased, tied up, whipped, and forced to come? The continued argument between the two men rudely interrupts my moment of curiosity.

“Read the fine print, you nonce!” Nick rebuffs with an audible annoyance. “Neither of us can touch her but via this Mistress Kat. But it is nowhere in the contract that speech is off-limits. Now, do not interrupt me when I talk to my wife.” He enunciates the last word, and I jerk at his white lie. 

And so does provoked Aldous, screeching at the top of his lungs. “Ha-ha! Wife? Did I miss on a wedding invitation, dear? Oh wait, I do not recall divorcing you!” 

Aldous’s falsetto bounces off the walls, a jarring contrast to Nick’s newfound bass. I’m inside one of Mozart’s operas, getting lulled into oblivion by Mistress Kat’s relentless metronome. Tap, tap, tap. Come back, Nick, I need your voice.

“Semantics, Aldous, you lost. Now, skedaddle.”

“Oh no, Nicholas. She will fail, she will make a mistake, and it will be my turn again, to teach her a lesson!” shrieks Aldous.

“Don’t mind him, darling, you know the drill,” Nick’s voice oozes with the morning nectar from the forest wildflowers and the sunset song of the ocean waves, crushing and slithering away on the sandy shore. “It’s you and me and the riding crop. You don’t need my hands or tongue, my good girl, only my voice.”

I close my eyes and squeeze my core in between the riding crop taps. I’m on the beach, in a crumpled white wedding dress, on all four. The veil tied around my head, covering my eyes like a blindfold. My breasts hang free, released from the unlaced corset, the wet lace skirt hiked at the waist. Nick’s fingers buried inside me to the last knuckle, I bear against his hand, ready to let it go.

 “All pink and puffed from the crop,” Nick goes on, “from the tiny bites into your tenderest, blood pulsing in your lips, in your mound. Squeeze it, I want to see you drip. There we go, sticking out your ass, coming on all four. Oh, you love it so much, my good girl.”

“Can I please come?” I yowl for permission, the last coherent words, and the long-awaited release crushes and twists my core like an unstoppable painful cramp, leaking the precious drops on the towel under me.

“Aha!” yelps Aldous. “She didn’t get the permission.”

“But…but she just asked for it,” stutters Nick.

“But-but-but you didn’t give it to her!” Aldous mocks him. “Guess what? It’s kilt belt time!”