Z is for Zero

“My pretty zebra likes her orange zest.” Nick comments on my eating habits, as I bite the zest off the last candied orange slice before finishing the rest. “Not too much sugar for a nightcap? Or tea, for that matter?” 

He picks an empty teacup from my hand and gestures for me to scoot over from his lap. No glass in bed is our strictest rule. He walks over to the door to deposit the empty plates on the credenza, turns around, and pauses, in all his jaw-dropping glory. 

“Eyes up here,” the bastard even smirks. Nope, nothing can stop me from staring at my favorite distraction.

Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. Or in Nick’s case, I saw, I conquered, but I didn’t come yet. And he is not in a hurry with the ‘yet’ part.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I called you a pretty zebra?” Nick yanks the orange blanket off me to pinch my butt.

“I’m always pretty.” I get a literal slap on the wrist for trying to touch my favorite toy.

“Ask first.” He is standing so close, dangling the carrot, I can smell it.

“Pretty please, can I take it in my mouth?” 

“It fits in your mouth, fortunately, so you surely can. Which does not necessarily mean that you may.” 

“You and your grammar lessons,” I pout. “May I?”

“You may not, it’s showtime.” Nick bites into my lower lip and pinches my nipple at the same time. “Get on all four.”

Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets. And now the song is stuck in my head. I climb on the bed and assume the position: head down, ass up in the air, knees wide apart. 

“Can you take some more?” Nick rubs my ass in no hurry. I’m sure I have more stripes today than any zebra.

I blush and nod. Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets.

Smack! “Say it.” So bossy, so stern now.

“Yes, sir.” I reach back to rub the assaulted spot, but Nick catches my hand. “May I have some more?”

“Keep your hands away, or I will restrain you.” Nick picks me up by the waist to squeeze a big pillow underneath. 

“Yes, sir.” I shiver in anticipation. A pillow underneath means belt, my favorite. I thought we were done, but if he wants more, I will gladly take more.

“This is for me, not for you. You need to earn your stripes.” Nick chuckles at his own dad joke, his voice coming from another side of the room. And then the sound of the belt buckle against the wooden floor. “I want you to count down to zero.”

I don’t ask, I wait for the number. But instead of a number comes the first strike, across both cheeks. Oww!

“Five,” he says.

“Five,” I exhale. Five, I can manage. Even as hard as this one.

Strike two comes down on my almost virginal upper thighs, that’s so not fair. “Four!”

The next one lands on the left cheek only. I wallow in my pain and yearn for his cock. “Three!”

And another one on the right one. “Two!”

Again, across both cheeks, not as hard. “One.”

“Open up,” he taps on my crack, and I pull the cheeks apart and hold them open for a vertical strike. Please, please, just one more, and he will finally fuck me. I can’t wait for him to claim my ass.

“Zero!”

Y is for Yin and Yang

 Should I rhapsodize about yellow a bit more? I’m getting yellow nails this week, Nick chose my shellac nail polish color. Yes, you heard me right: Nick chooses a color for me every five weeks, and with pleasure. Sometimes he asks me if I have any preference, and I try to veer him away from the once I dislike. But once he chose the color, no more arguing. This time, he orders a warm yellow. I bow my head and yield.

He also chooses my panties once a week for an entire week and lays them out in order. Odd for such a busy man, innit? They say busy people avoid making unnecessary choices, the most classic example being Steve Jobs and his famous gray turtlenecks. The keyword being ‘unnecessary’, because I’m anything but that to Nick. Above all else, he said to me once, I yearn for you above all else. And he lives by these words in the tiny slivers of time he carves out for us. 

When I lie across his knees, he yearns me all the same, if not more. I am on the same pedestal he put me on, when he uttered the words: above all else. Everything he does to me, feeds us both. His urge to inflict pain, and mine to feel it from his hand.

It’s unexplainable to others, but deep within, we crave to be understood and accepted for what we are. As two parts of one circle, I am the dark feminine yin to his white masculine yang. I can be passive, introspective, and quiet. Soft and slow under his hand. He’s loud, rigid, expressive. Hot, hard, and fast. These are the actual words associated with yin and yang. Hard and fast were not invented yesterday; they’ve been there all along. Hard and fast against the pliable and willing, completing each other as only yin and yang can.

Small white and yellow flowers in my jasmine tea smell of faraway East and exotic sun. The hot liquid burns my fingers through the thin English China of yesteryear. I bite from a candied orange slice and sip more tea from the cup, wearing nothing but yellow fluffy socks and an orange blanket around my shoulders. Nick’s balancing me on his lap, being extra careful with the hot tea, waiting for me to come down. A kiss on my temple here, a graze on my earlobe there, he’s awfully patient. 

I know my life is good; I don’t need yellow sunglasses to tell me that.

X is for Xanthopia or Xylophone or X-ray

X is such a tricky letter. Probably the trickiest of the entire alphabet. You want to avoid being an arrogant show-off. Besides, who would believe that I didn’t just Google it, words starting with X, huh? And the word must connect with the story, unless I embark on a new one. Will it be a new adventure or a plausible diversion from the previous story?

X-ray is one of the obvious choices. How can anyone find an X-ray story that is even remotely titillating? And that’s where I will gladly prove you wrong with the help of the brilliant lyrics of The Girl with X-Ray Eyes, one of my most favorite songs written by Noel Gallagher, during his post-Oasis era. From one smut writer to another, an odd confession: it’s extremely hard to write a decent description of a blowjob, to make it tasteful, erotic, and poetic simultaneously. And Mr. Gallagher just nailed it, pardon my unintentional pun. Because it is the most poetic description of a BJ in the history of BJs, bar none.

As she swallowed space and time

We gathered pearls and swine

She shot me to the sun

Like a bullet from the gun

Indeed, words to live by: She swallowed space and time. Good girl!

Xylophone, on the other hand, would be another simple option, given Nick’s choice of the implement, a stingy ruler. He did play me like a xylophone, alternating between both cheeks and upper thighs, crisscrossing the marks for extra ouchiness. Low moans and high-pitched shrieks, prolonged owwws and shorter yikes, repetitive no-no-no’s and sharp ah’s—all the sounds of a very particular pain repertoire, spanned over three octaves or so—all skillfully extracted by his firm hand.

But it’s Xanthopia that has my heart. For Google-deprived and lazy ones, it’s an eye condition that makes you see the world with a yellow tint. Metaphorically, it would be a person who sees the world through yellow sunglasses: sunlit by a warm yellow light, feet drowning in a hot yellow sand, with a cold yellow umbrella drink in hand. When life gives you lemons, you put on a lemon-yellow lingerie set, grab the world by its balls, and squeeze them like lemons.

I had a lemon-yellow set ages ago; it’s still at the bottom of my lingerie drawer: a lace bralette and a thong, two sizes two small now. Who even cares, lingerie isn’t meant to stay on for long enough for anyone to notice if it’s too small. Hell, they won’t even remember the color, unless it’s red or black. And thongs cannot be too small, as they cover nothing, even if they are the right size. There!

I lie across Nick’s lap, laced by a whippy ruler, adjusting my yellow-tinted sunglasses. Life is the way you see it. I open my eyes to take in his face, so close. Oh, I missed him so much for so long, and now he’s here, next to me. Thank you, my wheel of fortune landed on yellow. I open them for long enough for Nick to drop the ruler and, with his magic fingers, to take me a bit further down the yellow brick road of redemption. As I close my eyes again, the whippy ruler flogs me along the same yellow road.

W is for Whuppin’ or Wooden or Warning

“I can’t close my eyes or what?” Bratting and squirming my way through the awkward silence. “I need to know. You know, for science.”

“I’m pretty sure you are capable and, therefore, can close your eyes,” Nick embarks onto a sidetrack lecture on English grammar. “Even more sure that you will close your eyes in due course, but—”

“But I may not?” I interrupt him with more questions. “And then what?” I’m giving Nick an easy way out: to announce the sentence, what he would do to me if I were to close my eyes, and then go back to our little roleplay.

“Uhmm…” Nick didn’t think it through so far. “You will get a whuppin’!” He goes back to his Southern folksy tone. 

“For how long?” I whisper.

“Till the cows come home, of course. Give me some sugah.” He pinches my butt and reaches for a kiss. Even in a dream, his lips smell and taste of strawberries. My summer boy loves strawberries and all things summer. My lavender and sundresses with no panties fit nicely in his realm. Second pinch brings me back to my asked and answered inquiry.

I’m totally whiplashed by all the contradictions. The giver of sugar must know, even in her befuddled state, what were the consequences of closing her eyes whilst being finger-fucked—errr receiving a massage of her nether regions.

“What if the cows are very far from home?” I ask, not sure myself what I mean by that. Am I the proverbial cow, interrupted by this entire conversation, and very far from hitting the home run? Oh God, I’m mixing all my sports metaphors today. Or am I concerned about the length of the aforementioned whuppin’ that so regrettably depends on the whereabouts of the lazy animals and the time they take to march towards their overnight abode? Phew! Wait, am I a cow, because I hold the alpine cowbell? Ugh!

Fortunately for me, Nick’s mind-reading abilities are back on, because he dismisses my concerns with a precise verdict. “Six with the wooden ruler and back to business.”

The evil wooden ruler, another unassuming object, disguised by the company of other office supplies, lives in the drawer of Nick’s nightstand. Light but stingy, will it get evil or not, it all depends on Nick or rather the flick of his wrist. 

“Yep, let’s start with six to get you focused and back in the mood.” Nick taps my butt with the ruler. I was so busy with my cow counting exercise that I didn’t notice when Nick got the ruler out. “No counting.”

Six quick whacks with the whippy ruler sting good and surely grab my attention. With a helper like that, I won’t have any problem with keeping my eyes open. Nick leaves the ruler on the bed, next to my cheek, as a formidable reminder. In the dim light of the Tiffany lamp, the darkness of wood pops against the white sheets. 

Two fingers slip inside me to collect the wetness, and like a light switch, I shut my eyes. 

“Watch out, girl!” Nick clears his throat with a fake sternness to cover the smirk. “Next time, no warning.”

V is for View

My view changes a few times. I first bent over Nick’s knees with my hands on the floor and my head hanging low. I didn’t get to study all the intricate details of the antique Tabriz rug underneath the blue velvet bench, as I didn’t enjoy seeing it so up close. You see, while it’s considered as one of the most popular spanking positions, I must disagree. I get woozy; I start seeing stars, not from the spanking, but from the blood rushing to my head. Not sure if it’s physical or psychological, but I panic in this position, almost right away. 

The cowbell to the rescue; after a brief mumble and a change of position, Nick profusely apologized for my discomfort, then propped my torso on the bed while my bottom remained at his disposal. At first, I twisted my head to the right and saw the edge of the same blue velvet bench, together with Nick’s clothes and my see-through blouse scattered on the floor. But Nick was unhappy with not seeing my face. Why would anyone wish to see the spankee’s face expression? A tough dilemma for most spankers, but not for unpredictable McDreamson. I see his point: it’s not a punishment but a grand finale, with a possible visit to Fairyland. He worked so hard to get me there; he wants to share it with me. Nick didn’t say any of it. He turned my head to the left, so I would face him, and gave me a forehead kiss. 

Even in a dream, Nick smells good, a mixture of his morning aftershave and his own smell. My view is graciously PG-rated, with Nick’s nakedness safely hidden underneath me, but the distinctive smell hits my nostrils every time Nick shifts. And I can still taste him on my tongue. I lick my lips and grin, and Nick returns a knowing smile. One interruption leads to another. My fingers graze the short curly hair on his belly, forgetting why I am seeing them at this peculiar angle, with my head pressed against soft white sheets. I bet Nick’s view is even better, seeing all the pretty marks from our never-ending night’s adventures. He circles my bottom and my thighs with his warm hand, the strop nowhere to be seen or felt. Nick leans over to press his lips against my neck, while his fingers unceremoniously plunge inside me to the tilt. He brings his fingers back to my lips to lick him clean, adding my own smell and taste to the delicious mix. 

“Ladies first?” are Nick’s first words since forever.

Startled, I muffle a single uh-huh into the sheets. Did Nick forget that I already came once, in the dungeon on stage, under the taps of the riding crops, guided only by his voice? He narrated every squirm of my swollen pink lips, every roll of my hips, every drop, every squirt. It seems now like eon years and thousands of miles away, but pussy never lies: I can still feel it. Which doesn’t mean I will turn down another!

I quickly add, “Yes, please.” In case he didn’t hear my uh-huh.

“New rules,” Nick announces, while he falls on the side and settles, propped on his elbow. He boops the tip of my nose with a wet finger that smells like me. “You are not allowed to close your eyes. You will see this mug,” he points at his handsome face, “as you come.”

“What a view to come to!” I quip terrified, because I cannot keep my eyes open when I come, and I am about to find out what the consequences of disobeying his orders might be.

U is for Us

Instantly, Nick changes his mind about killing it and pulls out. Because ‘killing it’ means that the fun would be over for him for a while. One and done for a day, unless a certain pharmaceutical help is involved. We use them occasionally, when we get a chance to sneak away for the weekend for a special us time. What’s happening now is nothing but a dream, remember? It’s most definitely us and more than special. I would give anything, give up on everything, for it to become us.

His cock bounces in front of my face, hard, demanding, glistening from my drool. The botched blowie was an intermission only, a pleasant one, but Nick has a job to finish, and only then he can relax and allow himself to finish too. I sit on the floor in between his legs. That stupid see-through blouse doesn’t conceal much of my heaving braless bosom, crowned with erect nipples. Nick makes a show of unbuttoning and tossing away the last garment off my body. He slides off his own boxer briefs too. Now we are on the even ground, equally naked and quiet. 

I press my hands to my face and feel the heat emanating from my burning cheeks. I don’t know what I want anymore: to jump Nick’s bones and ride him into the sunset, for him to fold me in half and do the same to me, or to continue what we started. The throbbing pain is everywhere; I will tip over in no time. But I don’t want to decide. I want Nick to truly take over and hold the reins, deciding for both of us.

Nick McDreamson reaches for the forgotten barber strop and pats his bare thigh with his free hand. Oh, that perfect invitational patting! The lust widens his pupils so much, his eyes seem black and not the usual honey brown. When I lie across his lap, I will feel every twitch of his persistent cock underneath me. But no, he will not take me until I’m there, delivered to the land of fairies and unicorns and then safely brought back. I stand on my knees, not hesitating, but mesmerized. Nick picks up the cowbell and presses it into my palm.

“Make your exit now or else. The train ain’t gonna stop no more till its final destination,” my train conductor lost his Southern drawl, but not the essence. “Speak up, young lady.” The strop lands on my thigh with an encouraging smack.

“Yes, sir, I’m staying.” My words hurry, and so am I, like a frantic passenger, scared to be left behind at the end of the platform of a godforsaken train station, which most trains disregard the stop and swoosh by. 

“Climb aboard then.” Without taking his eyes off mine, Nick strikes my thigh again, this time with more force, leaving a wide red mark.

Skin on skin, I stretch across his lap. The cowbell clangs inadvertently, hushed by my capped hand. It’s not just him or me anymore, only us.

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.”