Dateline: Monday night
Master and I often talk on Monday evenings as He drives home from a late meeting. And tonight, can you guess what He wanted to talk about?
If you said “the nipple incident” that I wrote about yesterday, you would be correctamundo (to use His vernacular!)
Yes, He opened the conversation with “You…grabbed my nipple. I still cannot believe the audacity…”
And there ensued a long, long period of time of me, giggling my ass off. I heard Him laugh once, quickly muffled, as He extolled the “violation of His Personage”…
And He asked how my bruises were. Yes, I said, they hurt. And they are very black and blue. And I thanked Him, because we both know I love the pain…
And then He started talking about our upcoming meet. But in a second, He interrupted Himself…
hang on now, *mumble mumble*, turning left here, okay..Okay nilla…
And I break into His muttering with an incredulous “Where *are* You, Master?”
On my way home from work, of course.
“Don’t you drive home every day from there?”
There was a pause. Just a moment, but He’s quick, my Master. Verrah quick.
Wait. Wait a second…are you…being a wiseass?
I’m giggling wildly now.
Aren’t you in enough trouble already? What are you thinking slut? Are you drinking?
I’m laughing so hard now I can barely breath. OMG, I’m holding my belly and laughing at the tone in His voice. He knows I rarely drink, so that made the giggles worse.
I just don’t understand why you do this to yourself. You know there will be payment, don’t you? *He pauses as I gasp out a giggle-filled ‘yes Sir’…* Hmmmmm,
He mutters. Then starts to talk about my most *hated* toy (and His eternal favorite)…the dreaded pink hairbrush. OMG how I hate and revile this “toy”. He loves it for two reasons: one, the totally (stupid) innocent way that I showed it to Him a year ago, being so happy to have found a tool that will detangle my hair efficiently after a play date…and His instant “stealing” of it as “His”. I must keep it in my care. I must use it daily. I can’t help but think of Him nailing me with the fucking thing.
That thing packs one *hell* of a whap. And that’s the second thing He likes about it. He can both hear and feel the sound of it breaking flesh. Yes, that’s what it feels like. Breaking flesh. Oh. Gross. And it takes my breath away when He uses it. One hard swat will make all the air go out of my lungs and not seem all that important to go back in…and He LOVES the sound of the thud as it hits my ass.
He spent several lovely minutes explaining that the brush will be a key player on our play-day.
Suddenly…I’m not quite so giggly anymore.
I’m pondering as to whether the fucking brush is “flushable”…you know…like a tampon?
Then again if He gets here and there is no hairbrush? That would be even worse. And that’s pretty hard to imagine.
And I can imagine pretty danged good.
Fucking hairbrush can stay. But I’m gonna be watching it out of the corner of my eye all week, and if it decides to run away from home?
I’m not gonna stop it.
yes, i know what today is. it seemed better to me to spend this day making you all smile a wee bit. it is a day of remembering, and a day of deeply mixed blessings for me. it is a day of sadness, mourning, and remembering that we must move forward and live our lives…in doing so we give validity to those who died, and those who continue to die in this war with no apparent end. Love, nilla