Last Saturday, I was invited to one of Miss Pearl‘s glamourous and sexy parties. I had every intention of attending it, but the universe thought otherwise and completely nixed my plans.
My body just hates me.
I have been ill with lightheadedness and dizzy spells for nigh on a week now, and there has been no improvement. I do not know if it is due to tiredness, or something else – but as I am also losing my voice at the moment, I certainly think I am cooking up something. In any case, I feel betrayed by my body that has decided that sending my brain on a vertigo-inducing merry-go-round is a good idea. [Fun fact: after getting diagnosed on Monday, it turns out I have Labyrintitis.]
My husband, on the other hand, is full of life, fit and able. He was also invited to the party. And there was no way I was going to let my body’s issues poop on his parade too. I encouraged him to go without me.
And then the envy kicked in.
Now, I have mentioned previously that subby-hubby and myself have been working on a semi-poly/open relationship type of arrangement (I realize that sounds convoluted, but I honestly don’t know what else to call it). By that, I meant that we play with different people, but always with permission and open communication between the two of us in case the situation changes. We also believe that, as long as we want to come home to each other, we are still in a healthy relationship.
In that case, why was the green-eyed monster writhing in my gut? Well, I suppose it had more to do with the fact that I was left out. I usually am at least an attendee at Miss Pearl’s parties, so hearing everything second hand just doesn’t compare. It’s like eating a frozen microwaveable-meal: full of expectation, but ultimately drab and disappointing.
But it is not the party that is the let down – oh no! It is my stupid fucking health. I wish I had the stamina to go through a normal work week without feeling as though I had been put through the wringer. Seriously – I couldn’t feel more dead if I’d been hung on the gallows this weekend.
So I sat on the couch at home, drifting in and out of consciousness, binge watching crime-dramas on Netflix (I ran out of the other stuff). My husband called, at my request, to relay some of the goings-on at the party, but that didn’t help me feel much better. He was clearly having a blast and I was missing out.
I sat at home, horny and eager to punish some naughty folks, but only wishfully thinking it. The worst thing is that Miss Pearl only lives four blocks or so from us. I could have sauntered over there in a heartbeat if my health had allowed me to. But I didn’t want to be the kind of party guest that sits sullenly in a corner and complains about feeling unwell.
Around 1:30 A.M. subby-hubby came home.
I sat him down and paused whatever Netflix was flashing at my retinas. I sat up like a lovesick puppy who just got his owner’s attention – not very Femdom-y, I know; but I am cutesy like that. I was happy he was home and I was no longer alone with my aches and fictional crime.
After we exchanged a kiss, I asked him how the party was. His response was typical: “Good.” Well, no shit Sherlock! He didn’t even want to leave the party until I texted him that I wanted to see him before I left for work at 2:00 A.M.
“Mais encore?” I asked him with a raised eyebrow.
“I got the spankies I wanted.”
“Okaaaaay…” I know I said that we communicate a lot and that this keeps our relationship amazing, but his communication with me takes a little encouragement. This was going to be a hard nut to crack.
I asked him to tell me more. He didn’t know what to say. “Who spanked you? Who else was there? Did the hosts do any fun scenes?”
“Yeah, they did. Mr. Wildcard played with Cheeky Pants in the kitchen. They did some wax play. Cheeky Pants giggled the whole time.” Okay, we were starting to get somewhere.
“And Miss Pearl? Was she the one that spanked you?”
“No. She volunteered to rope bunny for Pirate King who needed some practice with his knots.”
“And who spanked you?”
I can unfortunately not give a nickname to the spanker of my spankee husband, as I’ve not met the person and can therefore not label them with an appropriate moniker yet. But I intend to meet them before long.
The point of me writing down our conversation is that I had to literally pry the information on the party out of him. I wish I could tell you more about Miss Pearl’s party, dear readers, but as I was not there (and as my husband wasn’t exactly volunteering the information) I can hardly describe the setting, or the people. All I know is that it was starlight themed and that my husband returned covered in glitter – so clearly, there were fairy herpes floating in the air around Miss Pearl’s party.
His private after-party