14th June 2021 – Un-Kinky

I woke up yesterday just after 8AM. Voices? Rhythm? Why am I hearing voices and rhythm?  Conscious enough to recognise music, I closed the window and basked in front of the fan – it’s too damn hot for covers.

Even with the window closed, I could still hear rhythm and voices. Fuck it, I decided, time to get up. 

I got up with focus and determination. I’d finish the painting, I told myself, I’d sort out the lounge, wash and hang out the bedding and get the mulch down in the front garden, too. All of that, I hoped, would make Sunday a productive day.

Getting out into the garden was a frustration in itself. On the communal footpath currently lie about eight long pieces of timber, nothing of which have anything to do with us. “four or five hours”, I was promised. That was more than two weeks ago.

I shimmied past the wood, cursing our neighbour out as I went. Between the foot-wide walkway, the concrete window ledge and the drain in the centre of what of the footpath that had been left, it was surely an accident waiting to happen. A bump, a scrape, a fall, I knew that it was only a matter of time before something happened, and I’ve been fighting tooth and nail to get the wood moved before it does.

Lost in thought, I thought about how un-kinky hanging out our laundry was. It seems so normal, and yet, it’s something that would make him happy, make his life happier and with it, our lives easier as well. On Mondays, I change the bedding, a task that I can now reasonably do, because we did the laundry.

“Hey, butt” Matt called, I looked up.

Damn, shirtless today? 

“Morning. Come out to help me, have you?” I teased.

“If you want me to?” Matt offered. Bless him, he’s a sweetheart.

Matt sat by the pond and we chatted for a while. We talked about the garden and the falling (and resuscitation) of Christian Eriksen. It had been a scary moment, and even I, a sort of footballer’s wife, had felt it.

“You’re never, ever, ever, ever allowed to play football again,” I muttered against his shoulder, “I forbideded it.”

“I’m fine” he said softly, trying to reassure me.

“No, because Christian got top medical care because he’s worth millions, and you? They’ll just put you in a rubbish bag and that’ll be that. You’re not even worth a thousand, you’re not.”

“Oh gee, thanks!” he laughed.

“To them!” I said hastily, “because to me, you are worth millions and billions and trillions”. Fuck. If in doubt, act cute. It’s foolproof. 

Laundry hung out, I returned back inside for some painting. The bathroom was looking remarkably improved, but before I was done for good, there was still just a smudge to do in the lounge. With the warm air circulating throughout the flat, I was going to make full use of the summer weather.

“Today, you’re my bitch. You will work for me” I uttered of our closest star.

In front of me, Hugo sat and watched. Mummy is normally just over five feet, and yet in just a few steps, Mummy had grown an extra three feet. What was this shiny silver thing?

Painting done and cleared up, I cleaned up my brushes and set the stepladder aside. At long last, I could move it back out, back down to the shed, out of sight and out of mind.

Back outside, I noted the pond pump spraying water over the side of the pond again. It was fine this morning, so why on earth was it acting up now? Thinking back, I remembered who touched it last: Frank. 

Frank, or Frank Spencer, was the name my Dad gave to Matt. Dad had derived it from the British comedy, Some Mothers Do Have ‘Em. Matt can be clumsy even at the best of times, so ‘Frank’ was an affectionate name that had been afforded to him. If Dad gave you a nickname that you knew about, he thought a lot of you. They’d be demeaning in a sense, but they were well-meant, a sort of acceptance of your flaws, the things that make you uniquely you. That’s just who he was, that’s just how my family is: Tough-skinned and tender-hearted.

“Frank’s done it again, Pops” I muttered under my breath. I twisted the valve slightly, reducing the flow and keeping the water from spraying two foot into the air and over the side of the pond. It’s only a small pond,  it doesn’t need an elegant water feature, the types of which even Buckingham Palace would be proud to possess.

Fountain fixed and ladder away, I returned back indoors for a rest. The sun was high in the sky, and I was taking the Meditteranean approach to this twenty-six degree heat: Time for a siesta.

I relaxed topless on the bed with the fan on, and I had no qualms about doing so. I’m a huge advocate of the Free The Nipple movement and a naturist in my past. I believe that bodies are only sexual if you want them to be, if both parties want them to be.

Relaxing in my comfortable state, I heard a giggle and opened a half-arsed eye.

“Something amuse you?” I asked.

“I just came in here to see if you were okay, and here you were, boobs out with the fan on” Matt laughed.

“Mmhmm,” I said, stretching further down the bed, “boys walk around without their shirts on when it’s hot, so why can’t I strip off in my own home? It doesn’t mean anything”.  Silenced. 

“Unless you want it to mean something?” he said, kissing my stomach. I blocked him with the palm of my hand.

“The female body is not here solely for male entertainment, Mr S” I chastised, “and besides, it’s too hot. You won’t just start something. If you’re not careful, you’ll ignite something too” I warned, he laughed.

 

 

Hot air balloons over my area yesterday.

This morning was oddly different. I woke up later, much later than I perhaps should have, about 10AM. I don’t normally like getting up late, and yet, I admitted, maybe I had overdone it a little bit yesterday. I’d done some painting. I’d mulched out the front garden, hung out (and collected) some laundry. exercised the dog, none of those were small tasks, and maybe I should have done them one per day, instead of all at once. Nah, I smiled as I rubbed my sore arms, that wouldn’t be my style. 

Today, I planned to defrost the freezer, sort two kitchen cabinets, clean out the fridge, clean out the fish tanks, change the bedsheets and possibly, maybe lay down some edging ready for more ground cover and the final transformation of the front garden, which again, I’d made myself solely responsible for.  None of that has got done yet, all thanks to a substantial lack of energy and the hot weather. I’ve run the dishwasher once and I’d made some vegetarian Quorn tortilla wraps for dinner. Heck, it’s a start.

And yet, as I made a plan for the day, I realised too how un-kinky that was.

Defrost the freezer.

Defrost. The fucking. Freezer.

What’s so sexy about that?

This is why I’m so focused this month, this is why I’m going to be advocating more in what remains of Pride month for the acceptance of kink at Pride, where even some of our once-allies don’t want us. I’m also using this time to bring awareness for kink to be more widely accepted as a sexuality, because a lot of the time, for those of us in 24/7 D/s dynamics, it’s simply not kinky, it’s not sexy – It’s normal life, but with a little twist! In a ‘vanilla’ relationship (heterosexual or otherwise), your partner asks you to do them a non-sexual favour, and sometimes, you do it. In a D/s relationship, your Dominant partner asks you to do something non-sexual, and you, the submissive one, typically see it done. How are we so different? At its core, D/s is just a different way to love and strengthen trust. that’s all. All relationships can have sex in them, but sex isn’t all they are. Certainly not in a healthy relationship, anyway.

One of my most favourite, un-kinky things to do is to cut Matt’s hair for him. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he went to the barbers; not since we’ve lived here and we moved in five years ago. Now, he just has his submissive do it instead.

“You know that the only time we dress up for one another is when I cut your hair?” I joke.

“Short back and sides and sides, Sir?” I ask as I tie on my apron.

“No Hitler moustache!” he warns as I close in on his facial hair. A smile plays across my lips. Would I ever? Yeah, yes I would – and I have. 

“Okay! No Hitler moustache” I agree, holding up my hands.

“You little shit! What have you done?!” he laughs, my focus has given me away.

“Well, you said no Hitler moustache, so I didn’t” I conclude. “Racing stripes, however…”

“You’re such a little shit! I knew you were up to so something” he says, placing his hands around my neck and pretending to throttle me in jest. “Get rid of them!”, I do.

There’s something about that level of trust, that level of connection and unearthing the sexy beast beneath all of that extra hair. A graded cut and a close shave looks good on him. Not a clean shave, we’re agreed, he looks good when he’s a bit rugged. He loves rubbing it against the sensitive skin on my neck, and for my part, I love running my fingernails through his stubble.

Mine too, my eyes warn, and don’t you forget it. 

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