Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving sexual activity and consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
“How much is the paint?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” I replied, “I just need to go down the bank and put some-”
“You know I’ll just transfer some money again?”
“Twenty quid!” I said, exasperated. I hated this game.
Over dinner, soft jazz music filled the air, soothing out the tension between us. I wanted to throttle that smug smile off of his face, but basic human decency stopped me.
“Do you want some ice cream after?” I asked, trying to divert the topic. “We have caramel or… caramel, because of my husband’s sheer genius and lack of ability to pay attention to what I’d said”. I stifled a giggle, that wiped the smile off of his face. I told him that the caramel had come with the home groceries delivery, but his beloved mint chocolate chip had not.
“Caramel, please” he said dryly.
“It’s fitting, isn’t it?” I said sweetly, now I was the one smiling.
“Because they’re both vanilla?”
“I’m just saying” I said with a shrug. I kept my gaze back on my plate as I tried to regain my composure. Do not look at him now. Do NOT look at him now.
I dared a peek, his blue eyes bore into mine.
Aww shit, he’s mad.
Fortunately, the dishwasher was there to save the day and so I escaped unscathed.
But Friday, I wasn’t so lucky.
“I just thought I’d come into the bedroom and wait for you to finish, unless you want me to leave?”. I ran a finger along the top of the drawer units as I held his gaze. Play with me.
“What are you getting at?” he asked, he needed to be sure.
“What am I getting at?” I whispered. You know exactly what I’m after.
“It’s too fucking hot for those kinds of antics” I breathed, “it’ll be handjobs only ’til November if this heat keeps up.”
“That’s fine by me, I don’t mind handjobs”, I slapped his bare thigh.
“That’s not what I was getting at!”
We basked for a while in the June heat and the cool summer breeze. The curtain lifted occasionally but we didn’t care, the net curtain stayed the same. It felt risky for there to be nothing but a sheer piece of fabric between our naked bodies and the gaze of the wider world but then, I concluded, risky felt kind of good.
“Butt, it’s 6:30PM,” I said softly, “you’re cooking tonight.” He groaned.
“Up we get or I get to fetch the paddle and paddle Daddy’s butt” I threatened. I knew I wouldn’t dare, but I wanted to see how awake he really was.
“Nah” he said, half-awake.
“‘Kay, cane it is then…”
“Kitten, Daddy’s tired” he tried, “we did a thing and it’s hot”. I giggled softly, the voice of regret if ever I’d heard it.
“Fuck it, I don’t need a paddle” I said, pulling down his boxer shorts and swatting him square on the rump. “Up we get. Up we get. Up we get!”. I emphasised each statement with a firm pat on each ass cheek before returning his boxes and scrambling for the end of the bed. Time to run.
I felt his leg in the small of my back, crushing me back into the bed. Fuck.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he muttered when he finally spoke.
“Not today, you’re not”
The first swat caught me off-guard. He hit me? That motherfucker just hit me!
But then I started to relax into it, each swat of my rump met with gasps, groans and an uncontrollable smile. I didn’t move, do I move? Should I move? Do I want to move, or do I want to stay and see how or if this progresses, maybe?
In the end, I opted for not moving.
The thing with me and pain is that I need to be allowed time to process it. I need to be allowed to explore it, to feel it, to make that connection between sensation and satisfaction. Pain feels good, there’s an undeniable truth that pain feels good, it just doesn’t feel immediately good, that takes a little while. I also need to be allowed to be angry, I need to be allowed to lose control, and to feel that loss of control. Once I’ve gone through growling, snarling beast mode, peace and tranquillity set in.
I definitely prefer spanking through clothes than I do on bare flesh, I like that it can feel harder, deeper, thuddier. I’m definitely more of a deep pain masochist than I am a surface pain masochist. Scratching and sensation play are fun, but when it comes to impact play, this girl knows what she likes. I can’t do stingy impact play, it makes me angry, usually safeword and usually be pretty upset about it after, too. I think it possibly has to do with my hypersensitivity, but I can’t be sure. People be weird like that.
By nightfall, I decided to finally crack on with the bit of digging out and filling of cracks that I still had to sort out in the bathroom.
“I filled your crack earlier” Matt quipped, I glared at him. Filth!
We opted for a pizza for dinner, a kind of post-sex treat that was a little more common than perhaps we should admit. Not every time, but certainly often enough for it to be a thing.
“Hi!” I waved to the delivery driver from three steps up the ladder as Matt opened the front door. I don’t think he knew what to think, and in that situation, the best thing to do is to try and normalise it.
“It’s not every day you see this, huh?” I asked.
“It’s definitely a first” he replied.
“I was thinking,” Matt began as we tucked into our curly fries, “I feel like I’m asking my mother for permission to go out and play now, but would you mind if James comes over next Friday?”
James, I like James, I’d even go so far as to say that I love James, but in a sort of slightly brotherly way. We have a special bond and both have a dirty, filthy sense of humour. No conversation would be complete without one of us spotting a double entendre or twenty.
“Don’t start!” James will say, pointing a finger at me.
“Me? Would I ever?” I reply, feigning innocence.
“All the bloody time” he shoots back, I laugh.
There was something about James, something that made me want to ‘come out’ to James, something about him that I sort of didn’t mind him knowing what we do. I’d often thought of him as more like a brother, and yet, he’s more like a brother to Matt,
And that’s sort of the appeal.
By respecting Matt, by serving Matt, I’ve come to sort of be conditioned to and accept James, too. I serve James, subconsciously even if rather than consciously. I’ve been conditioned to make sure that the flat is tidy, beer is chilled and pizza is cooked. I’ve come to accept being ignored, but being on hand at the same time. It’s almost my designated place, and in an odd kind of way, when James is around, I kind of don’t mind it at all.
James is an odd one, because I think we might have an unknown and unspoken connection. I think all three of us might be kinky, but we’ve never had ‘that’ discussion, because discussion is usually only about football.
“Did you see that Arsenal goal last weekend? By the way, are you into BDSM?”
It doesn’t really work.
Make no bones, I don’t think anything would actually happen between James and myself and certainly, I don’t think that there is a sexual connection there. I like James, and I respect James, but I don’t want to sleep with James. By the same token, I don’t think James wants to sleep with me, either. I’m not his type, and he’s not mine.
Back in the moment though, I couldn’t resist tormenting Matt some more.
“Only if you eat all of your veggies.” I began in a playful, condescending tone, “and do all of your chores and homework!”
“Yeah, right” he replied. I giggled, I was too much of a mother to not be a mother sometimes, and sometimes, my own biology clock kicked me a little.
“Let’s fuck everyone up. Let’s do it the other way around. Everyone says you should have a kid and adopt a dog. Let’s adopt a kid and get a dog instead” I’d joked. Come to think, it didn’t seem like an entirely bad idea, and it would cut out the crummy genetics issue.
“Shit, I just thought. Next Friday is ‘that’ Friday” he said.
That Friday. Kinky Fuckery Friday.
“To be honest,” I began, “I was thinking about asking you if we could just cancel them, anyway”, I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. “There’s always so much pressure and anxiety…”
“True, I know you like to have this place perfect” he said.
“It’s not that so much, I just get anxious that I’m a bad submissive, that I won’t get in the moment et cetera, and I know that you worry about not being in the right frame of mind, either.”
There was an undeniable tinge of sadness behind that remark. If not Fridays, what now? Will we ever have a session again? How will we know if we want a session, a proper session, a good session? Sex and spanking was one thing, but what about bondage, blindfolds, sensation play, wax play… the good stuff?
Oh no, I thought as I stared blankly at the fireplace, what have I just done?