Camping was fun. Camping was dirty. Camping was relaxing. I read an entire book there, which was one of my goals. I also had dirt under my fingernails, ground into my feet, grit in my hair, my eyes…and… I had a blast.
I sat in my chair and relaxed, though I never did get to the beach or pool, that was okay. I got to relax in the ways *I* enjoy. We did go to the ocean…here’s a pic…
This was a gorgeous Maine day, the day we went. It’s not really a swimming beach, but a place to walk the small strand of sand, collect the cobbled rocks, and relax. (see, there’s that word again!) The sun, the sea, the rocks I found on the shore, family…all combined for a perfect day.
But I got really tired. Packing up and hauling out is exhausting work. Coming back home and having to set it all back up again to clean it? It’s like camping in reverse. So I was truly exhausted.
You know what happens to nilla when she gets that wiped out? She gets a massive amount of stupid.
Now, remember what I said above…pack up from camping, drive 2+hours home, re-set up all the camping stuff to unpack….this took hours. And hours. And hours.
I had no time to text Master. When I finally headed to bed it was well after 11 p.m. I checked my phone -there was no new message from him since his reply to my “we’re home” text.
I’m not sure when the “idiot” side of my brain took over, but I typed a quick, terse message…
“hmmm…no text from You in 11.5 hours. I wonder what that means?”
Fast forward to Labor day Monday, today as I write this.
Master and I had time together for a light lunch while ‘mom’s taxi service’ waited for one of the kiddo’s. We kissed, and I slid into the chair across from Him…
He picked up His cell, his brows knit as he searched for something…and my heart sank. He finds what He’s looking for, hands me the phone.
My snarky text.
He clears His throat and his eyes grab mine. I can not look away for a full minute.
My eyes drop, then rise to His.
“I don’t expect to ever get another text like this from you, ever again. Have I made myself clear?”
My heart races, my tummy is up in my throat and I nod. I stutter, try to talk. His look silences me, as does his next words…
“I’m not done. You sit there and listen.”
“If you EVER send me a text like this again?” He leaves that hanging. He isn’t mad. He doesn’t get mad. He never raises His voice to me, He doesn’t have to. He can quell me with a single look. I know I will NEVER send Him a snarky text about His not talking to me…and it wasn’t because of the explanation He gave me…an explanation He reminded me I wasn’t really privy to, but he would share…this time. After all, I had been too busy to text Him…why would I expect him to be sitting there writing moony prose to me? okay, that’s my fantasy working overtime. I don’t really want my Dom to be all moony. A bit MORE communicative? Sure. What slut doesn’t want more, and more and more than what we usually get?
We are, after all, fucking greedy cunts.
A few minutes go by and He asks me to help him with something on his computer. I stand beside him in the little coffee-house we’re in, my body between him and the rest of the store. I kind of expect a tickle, but nothing. I return to showing Him…when I feel a pinch…I look down, and He’s bitten my arm. A second or less passes and He bites me AGAIN…right on my arm, right there in the coffee shop, no one there the wiser.
And it hurt.
And it put me solidly in my place.
It wasn’t a punishment, more a reclaiming.
More, a reminder.
I’m the slut.
He’s the boss.
Or more simply? He’s the biter, I’m the bitee…
My arm hurts tonight as I type.
And I’m smiling.
Happily tucked back into my place in the world, this little dark universe we cohabit with the vanilla’s…bruised, aching, and totally at peace.