It is blessed to give AND receive

At one point during my phone conversation today with A., the phone line became crackly.

“I’ll call you back and see if that makes it better.”

I hung up the phone and dialed the zillions of numbers that calling an international phone number entails.* Given my proclivity for transposing numbers thanks to my ME/CFS riddled brain, I have ended up calling the wrong number a couple of times this week -- particularly distressing given how late we talk (tonight it was after 1am UK time). So far, the two blokes to answer a call from me have been kindly night owls.

“Hello,” said A. in an even deeper voice than normal and a slightly posher accent.

“Oh dear, have I got the wrong number?” I played along with feigned concern.

“I believe you have.”

“I hope it’s not one of those strict English gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid it is, you naughty girl. Calling at such a late hour. I know what you American girls are like. In need of a good spanking.”

At which point, I giggled nervously but quickly began laughing. A. too began to laugh.

Eventually we returned to our spontaneous roleplay.

“I think what you need is a butt plug,” A. said, in a mixture of his normal voice and the one with which he answered the phone. “I know you American girls have them in your under-the-bed play place.”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed in the playacting tone of before.

“I’m serious. You need to get a butt plug.” He was now in quintessential A. toppy voice.

“Really?” I pouted.

“Don’t moan. It’s only going to make it worse.”

I dug around in my naughty drawer.

“Is it okay if it’s the vibrating one? I can’t find anything else.” Plus, I much prefer that one as it actually does something (something yummy, I might add) other than just sit there.

“I guess so if that’s all we have. But don’t you dare turn it on until I say so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

All of the sparse phone play of the last few months has been with me topping, as has most of the play planning for when he returns.

“You do know,” he began, “that the universe inside that apartment will have to be evened out. You will pay for all the topping you do. It will be very Buddhist. Very Yin and Yang.”

“Would it be a very smart-ass thing to point out that Yin and Yang isn’t really Buddhist but Confucian?” I said as respectfully as I could (and incorrectly; I meant to say “Taoist” but said Confucian as that was the first word in my head after “Chinese”).

He laughed, but in that completely shocked at such impudence sort of way.

“Yes, it would be a VERY smart-ass thing to say!”

Which, of course, made me laugh.

“You are so out of practice at subbing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

“Is your butt plug in?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Then with as cooly a dominant a voice as he could muster said, “Now, I want you to tell me the password to your eBay account.”

I gasped.

I bought part of his Christmas present on eBay last week but changed the password to my account so he wouldn’t see it before he got it. And indeed he was -- or at least acted -- a tad hurt. But he did acknowledge without an ounce of shame that the first thing he would do is look to see what I bought. So. You know. It was for his own good. Tough Christmas Love.

“That is a TOTAL violation of your dom privileges!” I exclaimed.

“Well...you’re in...total violation of...my eBay privileges!”

I divulged nothing.

“I hate surprises,” he muttered. The same way he has almost every day since he found out I’d suspended his access to my eBay account. I, however, love them and find the old adage that it is more blessed to give than to receive even more accurate in this situation.

The switch in roles had been rather precarious up to this point, but A. then shifted into full top gear, telling me when to turn the dial up on my anal vibe, how he was going to turn Sunday afternoons into Punishment Day, what he was going to do to me on said Punishment Day.

When A. first started sharing more about his subby fantasies a few years ago, I worried that I would have a hard time being able to think of him in a dominant sort of way again. But I quickly found out that would not be a problem. Once he’s in top mode and I’m in Natty mode, it’s hard to believe I could have ever doubted his ability to be the same dominant A. I fell in love with eight years ago.

To everything there is a time. A time to top. A time to bottom. A time to give. A time to receive. Tonight was my time to receive. And while I enjoy giving more and more as time goes by, it sure is a blessing to receive.

_________________________________________________
*Yes, I know. I need to familiarize myself with the speed dial function on my phone.

Who's on top?

By pinching my nipple A. could read my thoughts. I was laying against his chest last night, shirt up to give him access. He was fondling the creamy, abundant breasts bulging inside my black bra. Tenderly -- at first. Then he pinched my nipple, gradually crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. Instead of protesting or retaliating (his boys are much more sensitive than my girls), I simply whimpered.

"Somebody's in a subby mood," he announced.

I hadn't intended to show my cards so soon.

He had just been telling me that he was in a mood more amenable to subbing if I still wanted to top. We were going to play the night before, but he had been feeling under the weather with the cold that won't go away. And I had been far too groggy from an epic four and half hour nap (despite my normal twelve-hour slumber that night), even though I had fallen asleep while planning a night of sadistic delight.

Suddenly he was suggesting all sorts of nasty things to do to my ass: ginger, the cane, a hard punitive ass fucking (it's what dirty sluts get for being, well, dirty sluts, right?). All of which was making my cunt gush.

As is so often the case however, my cunt and the rest of my body were at total odds with each other. The sciatica in my left buttock kept throbbing, despite much icing. The muscle spasm in my right foot would not stop pulsating. My bummy hole has been rather tender of late with, um, ::cough:: hemorrhoids ::cough:: (I hate the stuff my doctor gave me to treat them). And the lower right abdominal pain that I've finally agreed to let a surgeon take a look at was as distressing as ever. Indeed for the last few months I haven't even been able to come without a sharp, violent pain there at the moment of orgasm -- hence the reason I've finally agreed to the laparoscopy after dragging my feet for three years with multiple bouts of physical therapy and every other kind of therapy you can think of.

Even as I dreamed of punishment during my rest period, of being vulnerable and violated, I knew it was not to be. Perhaps A. began the evening with the right idea in the first place. My legs could use a good massage -- and maybe even my foot and glutes.

"I'll have a bowl ice cream, please," I ordered A. after handing him the creams and oil I wanted him to use for my massage.

When he returned with my ice cream, he shook his head.

"How did we end up here tonight? What happened to me fucking you up the ass?"

You know, the question I was asking in my last post. The funny thing about switching is, you never know who's going to end up on top.

From top to bottom

So, I was going to top last night.

But then A. found out his favorite sweater had been shrunk in the dryer -- the second favorite sweater to suffer such a fate -- and he was in no mood to be ordered about. So he came in, sat down on the bed next to me and suggested a nice Daddy/little girl incest scene. All while stroking my hair and calling me his little girl.

Bastard.

I tried to resist, dear reader. But...but...I really like being his little girl. Especially if there's a bath and ice cream involved -- the ice cream my reward for being such a good girl in the bath. Though, truth be told, I was too wiped out to splash him even if I really really wanted to (which I did).

There wasn't meant to be any spanking necessarily. Just lots of heavy petting sweet, innocent cuddling. Except at one point when he had me lay over his lap to rub my bottom (and my soaked clit), he started asking me questions about how I was doing with my schedule.

Don't ask me about how long I've been on the computer. Don't ask me how long I've been on the computer... I mouthed to the bedspread.

"And how long were you on the computer today?"

D'oh!

See, this was the deal. I woke up too early and couldn't get back to sleep. I decided to try and fix the ending of a (non-kink) story but when I became tired enough to sleep again, the next door neighbor started hammering away on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was too tired to actually do something productive, but couldn't sleep because of the hammering. So I started websurfing and reading more about the Israeli raid on the Free Gaza flotilla and before I knew it four hours had passed (in my pre-illness life I was a specialist in the Israel/Palestine conflict). This is supposed to be a light computer week for me meaning that I'm not supposed to spend more than three hours in total on my Mac.

When A. isn't here, it's been very easy in that sort of situation to simply not count those hours. And I initially intended to do that even with him here. But as the day wore on, a moral tug-of-war between me and my conscience ensued. And when he actually asked me point blank, it became a lot harder to lie than it is if I simply write a number on a piece of paper or Numbers spread sheet and, with the cushion of several days, quote that back to him.

So, I told him the truth: 4 hours before I got up, 2 1/2 intermittently afterward.

"But you told me a minute ago that you were doing fine with your schedule?"

And then I confessed how initially I wasn't going to tell him.

"Now I have to spank you," he said almost dejectedly. "And that's a stroke per minute."

Which, of course, I had completely forgotten about while I was ignoring my time limit.

Gulp.

"Well there were extenuating circumstances..." he said contemplating.

Yes! Very extenuating!

"And I wasn't actually intending to spank you tonight..."

In the end I got far short of 210 strokes -- 12 with the despised ruler and many more with his hand. A very stern warning followed: next time he would most certainly enforce the stroke-per-minute penalty, even if it was 210 strokes.

Such a merciful Daddy.

I did wake up today a bit disappointed that I'd let him bamboozle me out of my Princess Natalie night and determined that I would reassert my dominance again soon.

Of course, I also determined to be a good girl on the computer. At least for the rest of the week.