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
Subby-hubby ended up telling me more, but I really had to dig for it. For instance, he told me that Cheeky Pants wants to play with me sometime (apparently, my husband’s retelling of my use of clothespins got them all intrigued). He also revealed that the spanking that had been performed on him with the aid of a heavy wooden paddle (courtesy of Mr. Wildcard) had left a bruise. He even pulled down his trousers to show me.
Then he turned around with a cheeky grin and that mischievous glint in his eye. Raising a finger to his lips, he said: “I would really like more spankings though, Miss.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “I have to work in half-an-hour. Besides, you’ve already gotten your share of spanks.”
He puts on his bratty pout. “I know. (His voice is all cutesy.) But I really kind of want more right now.”
I sighed. Well, he was in for a treat. If I got off that couch to get my implements, he was going to hurt.
He didn’t stop giving me the bambi eyes, so I decided to comply with his request. After all, he had been a good boy all day.
So I fetched my trusty black riding crop. You know the one – it’s been with me since my horseback riding days. It has hit harder hides than my husband’s white unmarred skin. I also got the first belt I could lay my hands on.
Vicious and vindictive spankings
When I returned, he was sitting on the couch, playing on his smartphone. “How come you’re not ready for me?” I asked.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drop his phone so quickly. “I’m sorry, Miss!” He got on all fours and lowered his head and chest to the ground, wiggling his bare ass tantalizingly in front of me. Looking at the pink marks from his previous spanking, I judged that he wasn’t in need of any further warm-up.
The first strike to his right buttock made him positively writhe. I cocked my head to the side. “Pain scale?”
“Ooh, how exciting! Shall we aim for a niner?”
The crop whistled through the air again, this time hitting his left cheek, right under the bruise left by the paddle. He moaned and kicked as I smiled at his plight.
“On the pain scale?”
He gave no answer. I grasped his balls in my hand and put on some pressure. “Pain scale…?” I asked again, in a sing-song voice.
“Eight point five,” he groaned into the upholstery.
So I upped the ante a touch further. He nearly squealed at the next thwack. A muffled “nine” was music to my ears.
“I’ve beaten my own record. Neat!” I sad, all evil grin.
I traded the crop out for the belt.
It was my favourite belt that I had found first. It was a little golden leather number with little brass rivets at half-inch intervals – a relic of the disco era, handed down to me by my mother. One thing I know is that those rivets sting!
I took a few lashes to his glowing hot skin. The good Mennonite boy was swearing up a blue streak. “Too much?” I asked innocently, though genuinely concerned.
He nodded, so I set the belt aside. I reached for something unusual: a USB cable.
During one of my switchy moments (at a previous party), Mr. Wildcard administered a beating to me using a USB cable. So believe me when I say I know how much that shit stings. It also leaves instant and epic welts on the skin that look great but won’t leave a mark the next day if you need to hide it from prying eyes. Mr. Wildcard, in fact, is loaded with brilliant ideas on how to turn every day household accessories (beyond the usual wooden spoons and belts) into kinky toys.
I don’t recall how many lashes I gave subby-hubby with the cable, but he was swearing, punching the couch and curling his toes. Funny how that’s not a hard limit for him though. He has this love-hate relationship with the stingy stuff. He likes the pain, and feels as though the biting sensation is a real punishment; but he also has a distinct preference for paddles when he wants an easy beating. But no one said I was going to go easy on him, did they?
I left some pretty intense welts on him.
Red and raised, the welts all but glowed against his pale, Scottish-English skin. I traced them with my fingers and he winced somewhat. I also noticed that one of the strokes with my riding crop left a distinct mark on his arse (you could clearly see the crop’s edge). “Aww, poor sweetheart,” I cooed sarcastically before hitting that spot hard with an open palm.
I concluded with a bare hand spanking.
I essentially cooled him down with it. I gave him about 50 hits, striking lighter each time. Eventually, I just teased him by playing a version of patty-cake on his ass. He started giggling uncontrollably.
Patty-cake done, I simply walked away. “Well, I’m off!” He turned around, surprised and disappointed. I knew that look. There isn’t more? He was begging me with his lovely hazel bedroom eyes.
Quickly wriggling into my work uniform (something that comes with experience, I usually get dressed half asleep and in the dark now), I shrugged at him. “It’s not like I am at liberty to call in sick. But at least I did some exercise before work.”
I grabbed my keys and set out into the night for my job at the airport, smiling to myself as I went. It was going to be a good day.