Asking for directions

Oh, lighten up a bit. Not everything has to be about D/s.

I heard a joke recently: I changed the GPS voice to male, and now he says, "Just keep driving. It's somewhere around here."

In our version it would be somewhere along the lines:

Me: May I punch in the address into GPS?
Him: No, I know where it is.

The jokes about men not willing to ask for directions, it's like beating a dead horse, but still, I wonder if someone out there wrote a thesis or two about the psychological roots of this fascinating phenomenon..

I have to admit that with years I became more tolerable as a backseat driver, now just occasionally inquiring if he is training for the next Formula 1 race, when he switches lanes not according to my definition of normal. Or asking gently not to cause me a heart attack on the road, as it would be a great inconvenience to him.

What kind of backseat driver are you?

What matters/Inspection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rein in

“I know that when you come home, you check it in at the door, but the power, the dominance, it's oozing out of your pores, Nick. Like in the movies, when an alien pretends to be a human. Some glitch happens, and, pouf, there is an extra arm or a head. The same with you.”

“I won't mind an extra arm or a head.”

“You're loving and caring and gentle, but when that glitch happens, at the same time I hate you and love you the most. Let it go, Nick. Sometimes you can just let it go with me, to be in control the way you always are in the outside world, to run the show called Izzie, for a very limited slice of time, to truly pull the strings and rein in.”

Bloody Green

Believe it or not, the picture is of a label on bedsheets. 

This story happens more or less at the same time as May I have another?  

For all the stories in chronological order click on the Almond Croissant (top right). Pun, isn't it? Top is always right. 

Aaaand, spoiler alert, this story mentions a Dom drop, you don't see it often. So read on and drop me a line in comments.

Nick stands in the bathroom doorway with a toothbrush in his mouth, staring at the back of Izzie’s head that sticks just above the couch. With her straight spine, long neck, her hair in two high pigtails rolled into two small buns, she does look like a meerkat, not as horny now as before but still always ready to go.

Izzie stares at her phone screen with their latest banter:

Me:

Bathroom before bedtime?

                        Nicky:

                         Sure.

I want more rough.

                        Rougher. I want more brattiness.

Screw you.

                        You. Gladly.

Nick takes the toothbrush out and clears his throat. No reaction from the meerkat beside a small jerk of her head, the one you bestow on an annoying fly. He wishes he could nuzzle into that soft spot on her neck, but, no, this has to wait, he has a job to do first. Nick whistles softly, and Izzie turns around with a frown.

"Did you just whistle?" she scoffs aghast.

"Uh-huh," he grins.

"Care to explain?"

"Feels better than to text you. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah. And?" Someone ordered more brattiness? Bring it on.

Nick disappears in the bathroom. She can hear the sounds of him rinsing his mouth. "You have ten minutes to turn in. As per our rules, remember?" He reappears with a towel, wiping his face.

"And if I won't, what will you do? Let it slip again?"

"Watch it, young lady!"

"You watch it. I'm reading."

"No electronics before bedtime. Eight minutes."

"Alright, alright, I'm up. I'm up!" She brushes against him on her way, nudging him out with the bathroom door.

Nick waits till he hears the toilet flushing and opens the door again. "Someone needs an attitude adjustment, don't you think?"

"I'm here, it's eight minutes. Duh!"

"I said, attitude. Maybe to give you a little taste of how it will feel like, when I won't let it slip, as you graciously worded my shortcomings." He grabs her chin and forces her to look at his reflection in the mirror. "Colour?"

"Green."

“Green who?” he quirks an eyebrow.

“Green, sir,” she corrects herself quickly. No hesitation here.

He folds her arms on the vanity top, the wide part of it in between two sinks, and pushes her shoulders down till they land on her arms, while his other hand peels off her shorty shorts and white lace panties. Smack!

He bends over to whisper in her ear. "I will tan your hide regardless, but will it be the good girl tanning or the bad girl's?"

"Good girl, please."

"As you wish."

In her three-inch espadrilles and shoulder wide stance, her small bum sticks up high in the air. Nick kicks her feet back closer together, always thinking forward, not to hit accidentally between her legs, only to confirm how impossibly different he is. He sets into an unrelenting pattern of an open hand swat and squeeze, swat and squeeze.

"I don't think that will do, because you were not a good girl today.” Smack! “You were a complete brat, that is.” A harder smack! “A very disrespectful brat." He pauses to rummage through the vanity drawers and picks up a hairbrush.

"No, not the brush," she jerks away. The hairbrush reminds her of the self-spanking days, not a trigger but kind of off-limits. Ah, what the hell, it was worth a try and to add some spice to the otherwise orchestrated scene, thanks so very much.

Smack! "Are you telling me what to do?" He promptly drops the hairbrush back in the drawer and slams it shut. "Bad girls don't get to choose." Smack! "Bad girls get what they deserve. Hold it there."

Nick leaves and comes back with the belt. Izzie rises up while locking eyes with him in the mirror, gleefully in sync, and he pushes her shoulders down again.

"Colour?"

"Bloody green."

"Blood is actually red. Let's try it again. Colour?"

"Green, sir."

All said and done, they are in a so familiar embrace. Nick perks on the wide edge of the tub with Izzie curled up on his lap. He pulls a plush towel from the towel warmer on the wall and wraps her in it.

"Thank you, sir."

"Hope the thanks were for the warm towel."

"You know they weren't."

"Can you drop it already?"

"You like your buzzwords and rituals, I like mine."

Nick nods at the array of bottles and jars on Izzie’s side. “Which bottle can I use?”

“Anything but that expensive face cream.”

“I think that's exactly what I will use. Your sore bum is no less important.” Nick hums contentedly their own Bottom Song to the tune of some long-forgotten lullaby, while spreading some cream over her reddened cheeks. But the pause between the chorus lines is getting longer, his hand just hovers over her bum now. Nick, only surviving there, a wind-up toy with no juice left, the last splash of energy spent on moving them back in the bedroom to crash onto the bed.

"It's over, Nicky. It's all good. You did so well. I'm so proud of you." She coos as she strokes his hair, caresses his cheek, his soft stubble, traces his eyebrow.

"We are not normal, aren't we? Isn't it I'm who's supposed to praise you?" he sighs with a little glint, a sure indication that he’s coming back to life.

She reaches under the covers to check on him. More of a perfunctory check to switch his mind to what's coming next. "Mmm, you're ready for the fun part." She reaches over for the lube bottle and puts tons of it on the only place between her legs that's not wet yet.

A whiff of coconut with some flowery undertone hits his nose. "What's that smell?"

"Coconut lavender. You like coconut, I like lavender, so I made the lube myself."

"You made it??" This woman will never seize to surprise him.

"It's not a rocket science, you know, just added some oils for the scent. I should run a workshop, make your own lube."

"Please don't," his voice finally soft and calm. "By the way, oils are not safe for condoms."

"Thanks for the PSA, Mister Know-it-all. I made it for us. Ready?"

His eyes squint in a triumphant smirk. "I'm not done with you, you insolent brat. Hands and knees. Now!"

My submission

He says things like, don't tell me what to do, or don't argue with me, and I don't find it odd. He always scolds me, when I raise my voice. He doesn't let me swear, and yes, bullshit is considered a swear word. He gives me The Look, when I pick on unhealthy snack, freeze with a phone in my hand, or in general, do something that I shouldn't. I get The Look a lot, and it usually pulls me right back, like a tight leash.

He obviously opens and holds the door for me, walks between me and the road, I walk upstairs first, as he does downstairs. Ordering food is tricky as he doesn't like to do it, so he explicitly delegates it to me, to navigate through the menu while juggling all his idiosyncrasies of what he would and would not eat.

I got into a habit of showing him three outfits to choose from. He was puzzled at first, I said, when I choose myself, you ask me to change too often, better to show you the choices in advance.

I cook the food and serve it to him. We like to have the appetizers mezeh style, small plates with salads and dips to nibble on before the main course. I make sure his main is hot enough, as he likes it super hot, plate it for him, and bring it to the table. I won't start eating, until he takes the first
bite.

He doesn't like bones in anything, I make sure to debone all his meat and filet the fish. He hates garlic in any incarnation, I learned to cook without it. When I make him tea with lemon, I pick all the seeds from the lemon slice. But enough about food.

He likes to bite me and suck on the spot, like a horny teenager, leaving his marks of ownership, and I love it. I squirm and wiggle when he bites me too hard while holding me down, not letting go, until he moves to the next spot, and I love it. It doesn't have to be during sex, sometimes he bites me just because.

Needless to say, he's dominant in bed, gentle, caring, but yet still so dominant. Honestly, I never liked being on top anyway. I like how he pins my hands above my head, how he pushes my legs apart with his knee, how he's always on his elbows, never putting his full weight on me, till I specifically started to ask for it, till he realized I'm not as fragile as he thought.

Sometimes he places my hands above my head and just I hold them there, the same way as if he would've pinned them there. He burns my skin with his short stubble. He guides me with a firm hand on the back of my neck.

When I ask to switch positions, not when I'm uncomfortable, but just for fun, I never know if he would do it or not, he won't say a word, no explanation, the final 'say' is always his.

He is patient and generous, every time he brings me over the edge, I supress the urge to thank him. When for some reason we skip a few days and I get myself off, I feel guilty, because in my mind all my O's belong to him.

I feel guilty when I hide things from him, when I disappoint him, when we fight. Makeup sex is good, but I feel like something is missing, I know something is missing, something to clean the slate completely, to let us both move on.

No, he doesn't spank me, maybe an occasional possessive swat, like I swat because I can.

We never discussed our little quirks and habits, they do not have a label, that's just how we live our life.

Dominance and submission can take many forms, I think, and if this all is not it, then what is?

How can he be so blind not to see it?

 

Paint it red

"I'm ready. I think I'm ready," Nick announces half-way out of the door. 

    "Oh. What, today?" Izzie's eyes go wide, and he can't read, is it out of excitement or something else. Dropping the bomb and leaving suddenly doesn't look like a good idea. He closes the door and steps back in. 

    "I don't know, what, today no good?" 

    "If you say today, it's today. What time?" she asks, like setting up a time for a business meeting. 

    "When I come back? Iz, are you ok?" he probes with caution. 

    "I'm getting my ass whipped tonight, of course, I'm not ok," she bites her lip. 

    "That.. that's not exactly the reaction I expected." 

    "What did you expect? That I would jump for joy?" she lashes out again. 

    "Kind of. You've been grilling me to do it for so long." 

    "Not long enough." 

    "No? What do you want, Iz?" 

    "Beside world peace?" She turns away to hide the rollercoaster of emotions. "You didn't scream 'language'." 

    "I don't scream. When?" 

    "I said 'ass', you didn't say anything." 

    "Iz, what are we doing?" both hands are buried in his hair. 

    She saw a modern sculpture in a gallery once, a mighty lion, its taut body ripped in a powerless silent roar of grief or despair. That's what Nick was now, a wounded animal, and she couldn't help him, he had to step up himself, had to take the damn plunge, to call it. 

    "No! No wiggling out of it," she launches into a new brazen tirade. "If you said today, then so be it. After you come back tonight, so be it. If you say, every Friday before bedtime, so be it. If I'm yelling at you like this, that's an extra trip to the couch, right there and then." 

    "Which couch?" he asks just to break her monologue. 

    "That couch," an angry finger points in the direction of the couch. "Bare bottom, paint it red. No discussion."

    He nods absent-mindedly, no discussion, that's the key, that's what she wants. He sheds off his suit jacket without looking at her. He fumbles with the cuffs, then decides to leave them be and just pulls the sleeves up as far as they go. In the corner of his eye he sees her gulp and drop her head. 

    He gestures to the couch with his chin, and that's enough to send her in motion to get over and ready. For the first time, to lower her panties in front of him, not for sex. 

    She holds her breath through a few hard no-swing swats, knowing that this barrage won't go on for long, few seconds, and his near-zero pain tolerance will take over. 

    "How will you shake hands? At least, use your left hand," she pleads. 

    "Don't tell me what to do,"  he grits through his teeth, and yet, he switches the sides to deliver a few with his left hand. 

    "You can't use your hands. Use your belt."

    "Shush!" He collapses with a yelp next to her, cradling both hands and almost crying out of frustration. Her bum is the slightest shade of pink, and he saw the pictures, when she said red, she meant red, crimson red. 

    "Nicky, you're killing yourself." In an attempt of a hug, she pulls his head to rest on her shoulder, but he brushes off her hand. 

    "You don't say." He reaches for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and gobbles up two of his painkiller pills. "That was a downpayment for tonight." He pats her bum and gets up on his feet. "I'll call you later." 

    "Nicky?"

    "What?!"

    "Thank you." 

    "Oh please, spare me." 

To be continued

Azotarme duro (It's time - part 2)

For 'It's time - part 1' click here.

"Izzie, my love, look at me," a very different worried voice calls to her through the daze of her nightmare. Eyes wide open, she jerks up, missing Nick's bespectacled face by an inch.

    "I can't tell you," her hands fly up to cover her face in shame. "I can't. I need some fresh air." She jumps out of bed, springs to the closet to emerge in a parka. "Some real fucking air."

    "Language!" He slaps her butt over the coat.

    "You think I could feel it?" Drops the coat on the floor, now only the thin nightgown hugging her curves. "Do it again."

    "No," he steps back.

    "I want you to spank me for real," she blurts out in one burst.

    "Say what?"

    "Hard and long," she blushes the same as in her dream.

    "As a kink or something?" Nick rubs his forehead.

    "Or something."

    "Oh, hello, darkness." Nick lets out a sigh of relief, like he was holding his breath for a deadly verdict, and now, it’s out, the cat is out. "Wait, I'll get dressed. I think my brain can also use some extra oxygen."

    His old hiding place, the balcony where he spent countless hours looking for her on live cameras. If someone would've told him that his life was simple back then, he would laugh in his face. And yet, she is here with him, sitting cross-legged on the same patio couch, and he tucks the blanket around her bare legs, trying to remember to breathe.

    "The Azotarme shorts, back in Ibiza," he nods.

    "You remembered?"

    "You flashed me with the Spank Me shorts, how could I not?"

    “Azotarme duro. Duro means hard. It said, spank me hard.”

    “I get it!” he yelps in frustration.

    "Did you think about it, since then?" so much hope in her voice, it hurts.

    "Not till this moment. You disappeared, remember? And after you came back, we had too many things to deal with. Is that what you saw in your nightmare?"

    "No, not telling you," she shakes her head. "It was much worse."

    "What can be worse?"                 

    "So many things. Will you?" Again, those tearful eyes stare at him, full of hope.

    "Right now?" Stupid, so stupid, but what do you say in a moment like that, when you say the first thing that comes to mind, the stupidest thing. He is not going to spank her now if it kills him. It is killing him, the thought alone.

    "No," she shakes her head. "When you say, it's time."

    Neither of them willing to admit, to go back to that single moment back then in Ibiza, when upon seeing those pink Azotarme shorts, he asked if it's a deal breaker, and she turned it into a joke. Deal-what-deal, she snorted. Right, who brings it up in the middle of a one-night stand. Wrong again, both of them knew from the very first moment, that it wasn't.

    She finally spit it all out, the wait is over. Whatever he was dreading, just had happened, yes, it will always be in the back of her mind, brewing, slipping into her dreams and her nightmares, in one form or another. Now it's all on him, to digest, to learn, to apprehend the impossible, and eventually, to give her what she wants, what she needs.

    Nick falls back on the pillows spread around the massive patio couch, dragging her down with him. Things will not be better tomorrow, but right now they both need to pause, till it's time.

It's time - part 1

For part 2 click here: Azotarme duro

It's one of those recurring dreams that you know beat-by-beat and every painstaking detail of it, but still, there is always something new, something that will throw you for a loop, make you pang at the end, and wake up, shaking and drenched in cold sweat.

    The first difference was that Nick was in it, sitting next to her, in a black tux, a crisp white shirt with a blue velvet bowtie, surprisingly still tied around his neck, more handsome than ever, if that was even humanly possible. One hand on the back of her neck, toying with the clasp of her pearl choker necklace and loose strands of hair. In his other hand he holds up another strawberry for her to bite on, the red juice dripping into his palm, high enough for her to comfortably lean to, far enough not to stain her white wedding dress. The venue of five hundred faceless guests buzzes in a blur. Nick looks at her and her only, like feeding her with these overripe strawberries that smell of summer is what he was put on this earth for.

    The faceless best man quiets the crowd and delivers his speech, punctuated by prompt eruptions of laughter. When he mentions for the third time that today Izzie got all her dreams come true, she clears her throat, straightens her already straight back, and gestures for a microphone.

    She gulps down her fear and speaks up, enunciating every syllable, "I dream of... I want to be whipped with a belt senseless," the crowd grows silent,  "through sobs and pleas, and then some." The strawberry rolls out of Nick's fingers and onto the white dress, leaving a bloody path behind. His eyes round into a silent 'no' full of terror that quickly changes into the one of a quiet fury. "And after that, rogered six ways to Sunday."

    The back of her brain registers a collective gasp and soaks up the utter humiliation. Blushing bride indeed, she feels the rush of blood to her cheeks, creeping up with red.

    The faceless best man picks up the mic that dropped on the table with a thud. The band picks up where it left with some ridiculously cheerful tune. The silence fills back with murmur.

    Nick's fingers, sticky from the strawberry juice, intertwine with hers. "Not sure which part you should dread more." He lifts her hand to kiss the knuckles. "Such a lovely blush, red suits you," his thumb brushes against her burning cheek. "So, you want your other cheeks in a matching colour?"

    "Look at me," his other hand, still grazing her nape, now firmly guides her to look up. This doesn't sound like Nick, this conversation that never happened has Aldous all over it. Like Aldous's words coming out of Nick's mouth.

    Nick rises on his feet, pulling her up with him. "It's time." It's time, echoes in her head, the time-honored code phrase that means only one thing, for those who know. It's time.

For part 2 click here: Azotarme duro

May I have another?

Not surprisingly, Nick feels more comfortable within the roleplay scenario, especially our own tried-and-true. He knows now that he is not hurting me but being able to experience it as a different persona, allows him to relax and truly enjoy it, and who am I to complain.

    My mermaid costume got more mileage with a new twist, in order to get her wish granted, new legs and all, the Mermaid has to be spanked by the Fisherman. And if Princess Summer bumps into the Peasant Boy while prancing around her lavender fields, needless to say, the next morning her royal bum requires an extra pillow to sit on. The only one he refuses to repeat is Milord and Milady’s wedding night, a hint, Milord has a swordbelt. Well, virginity is one of my kinks he’s not happy to oblige. Funny enough that was the first time when he deliberately differentiated Milord from Nick and mercilessly pecked at Nick.

    In Nick's version of all-time fans’ favourite, Little Red Riding Hood and Big Bad Wolf got married and lived happily ever after. Unless, of course, Red happens to cook up a storm, packs some freshly baked empanadas and home-made pickles, and goes to visit her grandmother, or, ahem, some girlfriend in New York, alone, ditching the security, again. Then all bets are off, as Wolfie takes the security rule too close to his heart, and no lingerie set, even red, will distract him from the task at hand or in hand. Red is a very sorry good girl after everything is said and done, mostly done. This one had too much resemblance to real life, for my liking. 

    But roleplaying as Dom and sub? That’s Dominant and submissive for you, vanilla people, although I doubt that anyone needs a translation since The Fifty came out. How is it different from actually being D/s in the bedroom, beats me, no pun intended. Are we gradually slipping into the bedroom D/s? I don’t know, don’t fix what’s not broken. Nick-what-Nick, it’s Sir for you, young lady.

    “Are you going to count this one, or shall I start again?” Nick raises an eyebrow.

    “No, Sir. One. Thank you, Sir.”

    We are on the same couch that Nick promised to burn after the Disaster, in the same position, my knees on the seat, bent at the waist, head on the folded hands on the back of the couch, hair in a high ponytail. I wear my favourite short dress with long sleeves, it’s comfortable and loose enough for an easy access. Nick says that access should be my middle name, you know, Izzie Access, yeah, Nick and his dad jokes.

    I glance at him over my shoulder and catch a tiny devilish twinkle in his eyes. What a sight! When he came in after work, he already took his suit jacket off and held it in his hand, while tugging at the tie with the other. He always looks strikingly handsome, like a teenager in a forty-four-year-old body, but now in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the undone tie hanging loose around the open collar, just wow. I looked perfect fifteen years ago, he is perfect now. Nick clears his throat and combs hair to the side with his hand, his version of ‘eyes up here’. The long and bumpy road that brought us to this moment was all worth it. I smile at the thought, and Nick beams back with pride.

    “Good girl. You're welcome." Nick is oozing with buzzwords, and so am I. The edge of the belt taps my bare cheek. “Back in the position.” Swat.

    “Two. Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

    “You may,” he smirks at a classic phrase, “but no need for such formality. Are you trying to slow me down?" Three more strokes come in a quick succession.

    “Three, four, five, Sir,” I quip.

    “No, darling, that was extra for stalling.” Sir is in a playful mood but does not hesitate to add extra swats for any infraction, bogus or real. Shocking how much his aim had improved. I don’t want to know where he gets the tips on his belting technique, but now he holds the business end with the other hand and lets it go the last moment, so there is no more twisting, but ouch, he can aim for the same spot and get it, if he wants to.

    My hand flies back to cover my butt, and he catches it just in time, the belt landing on my thighs, quelle surprise, as a reprimand for trying to block. It hurts like hell. “Nick, you bloody bastard!”

    “Ah!" Nick gasps for air with a thoroughly faked offence. "I don't even know what number to assign to such obscenity.”

    “Then don't!” I slap my hand on the back of the couch and straighten my back.

    “Colour?”

    “Bloody green, get on with it.” The hand on the small of my back nudges me down.

    “Who is that Nick fella?" Swat. "I asked you a question."

    “No one, sir.”

    “Then why do I keep hearing his name from you, hmm?”

    “Won't happen again, sir.”

    “Was he a lousy lay?” he lays the trap. Ouch!

    "Yes, sir. No." Smack! I bit my tongue. "No one is like you, sir."

    "Too late," he withdraws. The belt buckle hits the floor with a loud clang. "Corner!"

    “There are no corners in this room,” I protest. It’s so unfair! That question doesn’t have a right answer, whatever I say, he can turn it against me.

    “Have no doubts, I’ll make one for you.” He promptly drags the heavy armchair out of the corner and taps the wall. I pull up my panties and head over. “I do not recall giving you a permission to put your panties back on.”

    “Sorry, sir.” He is still there, standing by the corner. He wouldn’t move, and I have to squeeze in to get into my not so solitary destination.

    “I'm not done with you, young lady,” he scowls as he pulls the panties down himself.

    “Thank you, sir,” I whisper.

    “For what?”

    I can feel him pressing against my back. What does it mean? He wanted me badly, I screwed up, he put me in the corner, and now he can’t find a way out. Sir needs help, my Baby Dom needs help. Helping is not topping, helping is guiding.

    “For not being done with me." I turn around to see his reaction.

    “Nose to the wall.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Did you have to say it?” he lilts in his signature English accent.  

    “Nnn--,” I stutter, “Sir said it first, I just confirmed, I’m sorry.”

    “Well, you shouldn't have.”

    “It’s not fair. It’s hard to think when my ass is on fire.”

    “Your bum,” his hand promptly smacks my bum. “Or bottom, rear, behind, backside. So many excellent choices.” The art of punctuating, another one he mastered recently. He so rarely spanks me with his hand, I don’t know what to make of it. With his super low pain tolerance, just a few smacks send him howling, so he either decided to suck it in or maxed out on his daily painkillers just to indulge me.

    “I'm truly sorry.” I turn around again to face him, and this time he doesn’t stop me.

    “You will be sorrier.” Hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, that’s more like it.

    “May I please come back?”

    “You surely may,” he gestures back to the couch. I trudge back with the panties around the ankles. I make it look more difficult than it is, anything to distract Nick from his funk.

    “Nick looks very much like Sir, same eyes, same hair.”

    “Same dick?” he wonders matter-of-factly, as he helps me to climb back on the couch.

    “I would never compare Sir's cock with another--"

    “Pray tell,” he nods, pleased that I switched to the allowed nomenclature of body parts.

    “Only Sir knows what I truly need and gives it to me. Will you please forgive me?”

    “In due time.”

    “Will you please help me earn your forgiveness?” Why is it that one of us always have to screw up and crawl back, only this time it’s also my butt on the line.

    He finally picks up the belt from the floor and folds it in half. Here goes the scolding and the lecture rolled in one, punctuated with the loud blows for the extra clarity, but his anguish and disappointment hurt more than the sting of the belt.

    “Whom do you belong to?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Whom do you obey?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Who takes care of you?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “Makes you happy?”

    “You, Sir.”

    “What about Nick?” he pauses.

    “I need both you and Nick in my life. No," I raise my hand to stop him and turn around. "I need Nick more than I need you, Sir. With all due respect, without Nick, none of this matter." His face is mere inches away from mine, hurt melting away from his eyes. It takes all my willpower not to close the distance. I do not touch Sir without permission, Sir touches me, Sir uses me as he deems fit, Sir most definitely does not kiss.

    Nick’s lips, as always, taste like strawberries, duh, he’s addicted to the strawberry gum and probably had a strawberry mousse cake in strawberry reduction for dessert. He picks me up to carry to bed. Sir is gone, it’s all Nick now, his strawberry lips all over me, bringing me to the oh-mon-dieu-Nicky moment in a record time. He follows me with a sing-a-song ‘oh darling’ instead of the usual ‘oh fuck’ and collapses beside me, both of us sinking quickly into a deep dreamless sleep, and I cannot be happier.

Dear Bonnie

Dear Bonnie,

what a sad day to de-lurk... what they all said and much more. My journey is quite different. I wish I would discover your blog 15 years ago and not this summer.

Full disclosure, I'm vanilla, although as I learned now, so many little quirks count as kinks. For that matter, what really constitutes a spanking? A smack or two do not count, right? What about three or five? Where to draw the line, or better not to? So, I was writing a novel, quite steamy but vanilla, and one summer day, I wrote a scene that involved a spanking that went horribly wrong (they didn't know about Bonnie's writings), wrote it without any research, purely on emotions. And then, to justify what happened and why, plunged into research. BTW, I was right, I described bratting and topping from the bottom without knowing what it is.

MBS was the second spanko blog I found, right after an extreme CDD one. Thankfully, MBS is linked on virtually every blog throughout the blogosphere, and boy, did I stay in this impossible vast, skillfully crafted, generously shared Body of Knowledge. The tutorials alone, I read at least twice each and most, many times over: the elusive why (my favourite), how to talk to your partner, first spanking, fantasy vs reality, bratting, anticipation, letting go (a gem), implements, rituals, more rituals. When in doubt, read Bonnie's tutorial.

I'm still vanilla, leaving vicariously through my characters, following their ebbs and flows, letting them make mistakes, but knowing one thing for sure, I want them to become more like Bonnie and Randy, be themselves, find the way that works for them, because every couple is different, and forget the labels.

There is no sadder day for a lurker and purveyor of fine blogs to find a blog (or forum) written by a brilliant author, smart, intelligent, bold, and sincere, only to discover that the blog is discontinued (not to say dead). A word of advice for those who like me just read, do comment, drop a few words, ask for an advice before it's too late.

Bonnie, I have a parting gift for you, a song/poem called A Bottom Song Since I didn't know how to send it to you, I registered a blog today and posted it there, for Bonnie who redefined the word Bottom.

Becca