Dogs, Dominance — and a decade’s worth of words.

Not too soon after my post on Friday, Sir told me that he had “trodden on a rake” (on the forum) again. I was confused by that – there’d been no treading on any rakes that I’d seen.

So I popped over to the forum thread that my work husband had told me about, and I investigated. I didn’t see it that he’d trodden on any rakes, but I did see it that he’d been needlessly and viciously attacked. 

An anecdote: Shadow now calls me “Little Flame”, because of my fiery nature. Shadow knows that my flame isn’t to be extinguished, but carefully managed, it can be quite warm and delightful for everyone involved.

Also in the way that I deliver my “strikes”: Shadow has likened me to an archer, confidently delivering my “arrows” with carefully-aimed precision. I smiled at that – the last time I tried my hand at archery it did not go very well for me.

A sidenote to the anecdote, a cute and funny story for you all: there was a time that I actually was quite deft with a bow and arrow. I was about five years old, vacationing in Somerset, southern England. I’d decided to shoot my suction cup arrows at the master bedroom window of the holiday chalet that we were staying in, because some part of me thought my parents might appreciate being awoken to the repetitive “GADUNK” of my arrows sticking to the window at 7AM. So I was a little brat, even back then.

I should add that I had no malicious intent, like usual, just purely good-natured mischief. 

Also to note, I’m not against honing my archery skills. Sure, I wouldn’t target a Dominant with proper arrows – it gets a bit icky and the courts don’t like it so much – but foam-tipped safety arrows? If it moves, it can be hunted 😉

So back to the anecdote: Shadow now calls me “Little Flame”, and it suggested my calling card might be an arrow in the wall with a burning flame as the tail. I liked that – the people who saw it would whisper my name in terror or reverence. Flame. 

Alright, back to digging my work husband out of trouble. 

I’d seen this commenter needlessly lay into him, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let them get away with it. You’re not supposed to gang up on people on the forum, but since I wasn’t really ganging up with anyone (just telling them that Sir might be right, and they might be wrong), I felt it safe. 

So I took an “arrow” from my quiver, sighted my target, and took my shot – I laid out a piece, telling them that they could be wrong, then I asked the OP for more information…  so that we can all better help them. 

Our little “friend” hasn’t been back since. It also turns out, Sir’s thoughts were right!

Also Friday, Sir tasked me with finding a naturist resort that has a putting green or a nine-hole course, a task he said his work wife could manage. Not to be outdone, I copied Sir’s message, pasted it into ChatGPT, tweaked it into a question and hit “send”. I had two possible near-match resorts for Sir in less than a minute. 

If you want me kept out of trouble, Sir, you’ll have to try much harder than that. 

He also didn’t say that Shadow couldn’t help 😉

Friday evening, Master came home from football in a mood — his manager is leaving and is being replaced, by a female manager. It’s not that she’s a woman that bothers Master: group change has always been a team-bonding experience for him, and with his new manager being a woman, that obviously won’t be happening anymore — he feels (or fears he’ll be) emotionally disconnected from his new manager. He fears that may affect his performance on the pitch. A valid fear I feel for a man who takes his football so seriously. 

“So you’ll have three bossy women in your life, then” I tease, trying to lighten the mood a little. 

“I’ll have to find me a third husband, try and restore the balance a bit” I say. Master scoffs. 

“Do you need a third husband?” he asks. I grin. 

“There’s nothing like a challenge.”

Unfortunately, the first and only person I could think of for the “husband number three” role is Mr C who, I noted, has bought hanging trough planters for his front garden. So that’s another thing: I already have hanging trough planters in our back garden, and I know Mr C is envious of how our back garden looks.

Oscar Wilde once said that “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness”, so maybe that says all that really needs to be said. 

Mr C and I also already have quite a similar relationship to the one that I have with my two husbands, and on the whole, we can indeed work quite well together. Too bad about his unpredictable temper, his prolific dishonesty and his putting me on a pedestal — we’d probably be quite happy together otherwise. 

Saturday morning, I got up to mischief. It was a planned ambush in the days before, between SIr JGood and myself: I was acting under instruction, not under my own determination.

Sir suggested I applied one of the tattoos that came with the ROMP stimulator to Master’s ass cheek while he slept, but I knew that I could go one better – I could acquire some temporary tattoos that are a little more…  me. 

So I did what a kitten does. I acquired some cute little paw print tattoos 😈

Saturday morning, while Master slept, I applied one on his left hip bone, just above the pubic region. Master flinched when I applied it and I thought he was going to stir, but he soon settled and went back to sleep. When he woke, there was a cute little pawprint on his side — and Master was none the wiser. 

I told Sir JGood: Operation Paw was a success. 

There was fun and antics had Saturday morning after all — Master made it very clear to me that staying in bed was my most foolish move, but the paw print – though funny – would not go unpunished either. So I spent Saturday daytime rather tired, but nonetheless thoroughly satisfied. 

Sunday, Sir and I are back at it again. I shot Sir a simple “good morning” message, and Sir soon had me analysed. 

He pointed out that my “good morning, work husband” was one of my first thoughts. He finds that sweet. I roll my eyes. 

I thought I was being polite since I’d just started work for the day, but okay. 

I told Sir that he was “bordering on obsession” — I did not admit that I’d been listening to the the Netflix “Obsession” soundtrack myself. 

Suppose that this is a thing, and forgive me, I’ve had this conversation with so many people in my time that I can’t even remember who made this analogy:

I remember someone once saying that ethical non-monogamy is like being in a toy store when you were a kid. If you’re told “no”, you can’t have a new toy, then all of the toys become invaluable to you. If you’re told that you can have anything you like, you’ll struggle to find the “perfect” toy to take home. 

Ethical non-monogamy is much the same: when we’re told we can’t have someone, we want them even more. When we’re told we can have them if we want them, they become more of an option to us — still interesting maybe, but not nearly so desirable. 

I am allowed other partners, but Sir JGood is not, so our special friendship becomes shrouded in mystery. I think sometimes we both want to take a peek behind the curtain.

But also given that we are “simpatico” in many ways. Well, it could be rather fun. 

Master and Sir do seem to have sorted themselves out now, which is delightful to see. There’s a mutual respect for one another too, which is wonderful. The fact that they can “talk work” together is just an added bonus. 

There was some good news for Mum on Monday: her consultant thinks her surgery can be done with minimally invasive surgery, rather than traditional “open” surgery, and her recovery time will be in weeks, rather than months. I still have yet to talk to her about what chores she wants me to take on after surgery – frustratingly, Mum doesn’t seem to like plans and schedules like I do. 

There was another surprise for me Monday evening too: Mr C turned up with the bottle of Bailey’s he’d promised for my lube recommendations. I wasn’t totally sure what to do with myself: when it’s gifted in hand, rather than from my Amazon wishlist, it makes everything more… personal. 

Tuesday, Mum and I took the dogs for a walk through the woods. It was lovely – we haven’t been there in a long time. 

Annoyingly, Lottie (Mum’s dog) found a large fallen branch to carry, which became a hazard to both Mum and myself. It seemed that anytime we got close to it, Lottie would pick it up and spin around with it, narrowly taking out our ankles in the process. Especially for Mum, who walks more slowly at the moment and is slightly unstable, a big dog with a big stick is a real danger.

Lottie ran down into the stream, so I took that moment to grab the stick and throw it – javelin-style – into the bushes; it was retrieved no sooner than Lottie heard it land. Mum picked it up and wove it like a decoration into a nearby tree, and for a moment, it seemed our luck was in. 

Silence. We were sure the stick had been forgotten about. We moved on. 

“Oh no!” I heard Mum laugh. I spun around, and like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, Lottie appeared from the left bank, her knee-breaking branch still in her mouth. 

We did lose the stick eventually – we distracted Lottie with a throw of a tennis ball and threw the stick – jointly – into some nearby brambles. If it was worth all that to get it back, then Lottie probably deserved to take it home!

I did meet a nice lady on the way out of the park too, though she made me slightly uncomfortable with her fifty-questions about my dog. I wasn’t completely sure if she was a bit overbearing, posh, or simply a rather friendly American. We Brits can be a bit wary about strangers sometimes. 

She became a fan, though, after I let slip that I’m a writer who tackles the topic of sex for disabled people. She said that there “aren’t enough people like you out there”, but also that my growing successes demonstrated that I “must be the right woman for the job”.

So in spite of my new friend’s slightly-overbearing nature, she at least left me feeling good about myself. Thankyou, kind dog-walking lady. 

When I got back home, Mr C was in the garden. Huxley ignored him, and so I tried to, too. Mr C spoke to Huxley, about him ignoring him. I knew though that this wasn’t really about Huxley ignoring Mr C – this was about me ignoring him. 

And in speaking to Huxley, he’d opened a door to a conversation with me. So that was fun. 

I have started making my excuses with Mr C a lot more often, ever since his “invisible girlfriend” stunt a couple of weeks ago. He still insists Annie (and now Freya too) are upstairs together, but I don’t buy it anymore: if they were in his bed together – and they were having as much fun as he claims they are – how come we don’t hear them romping at all hours of the day and night?

I did experience a bit of friction with Sir JGood on Wednesday, though it was nothing major by some standards. Sir shared a family joke with me, and I joined in on the banter, only to be pushed back. That stung a little bit: why let me in if you’re going to push me away?

But, I realised, this wasn’t just about that; this wasn’t just about that joke. There was more to it than that: this wasn’t just about a new joke – this was also about my old wounds. 

So I dug into it some more: where does it hurt right now? What’s the part of me that’s bleeding?

I realised that it was the young girl who used to be told to shut up, usually by her younger brother; the girl who was told she was “stupid” or “too much”. The young girl whose spotlight was dimmed by her mother, so that her brother could shine. The girl who craved to be seen, and was seen eventually. The girl who refuses to be dimmed ever again. 

Well, be that as it may, it was time to restore my power. It was time to remind them – and myself – exactly who I am. 

So I envisioned pulling myself onto the sea wall at Newquay harbour, the wind all up in my hair and the fresh salt air filling my lungs. Fierce and untamable, unchangeable, unapologetic. THAT was her. But THIS is me. 

I was ready to walk away: if Sir didn’t want to let me in, then I had little choice but to let him go. I was hurting myself by trying to hold on. 

So I drew up a message to Sir about my feelings, and I said that for as much as it would hurt us both to let go, I wasn’t sure that continuing with our friendship would be wise. This wasn’t about what I didn’t want, this was about what we couldn’t have.

Sir asked me to first clarify where he’d hurt me. Admittedly I rolled my eyes at that. Ah, Sir. Ever so formulaic. 

Maybe this is the draw to both of my husbands; they’re both “take charge” guys. They don’t need to demand – they command. Pardon me, but in my eyes, that’s pretty fucking sexy. 

It turns out that Sir meant his warning as a joke, rather than as a harsh rebuttal. I reminded Sir that these things don’t always carry well by text, and hence, feelings sometimes get (unintentionally) hurt. I apologised for “spiralling”; Sir told me not to apologise, but next time to speak to him. 

I also told Sir that I was aware there were boundaries in play, but that – at least from my view – those goalposts were constantly shifting — flirting is okay, but being too direct is not. Non-sexual role-playing is fine, but sexual role-playing is not, even after we’d come dangerously close only a few weeks ago and under his guidance.

So where, EXACTLY, are those “red lines” at?

I told Sir that in the past, I’d been free to enjoy everything from flirting and innuendos to sexting, phone sex and sexy photos. I haven’t had a physical polyamorous relationship before but that’s a nice-to-have for me, not a necessity. What matters most to me is that everyone is comfortable and happy, then we can take things from there, if we want to. 

Sir told me that I hadn’t ruffled any feathers yet and to “try harder”. I told Sir that I’ve been exercising “maximum restraint”, and that the last man to go to “DEFCON 1” with me, it resulted in “Mutually Assured Destruction”. I also warned him that I could leave his “missile” on “high alert” if I wanted to — just because I haven’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. 

Sexting became a possible happy medium, but phone sex was definitely off. That’s okay! I think that would be a happy medium for us, too. One that’s not too invasive of our small space. 

Sir told me that he would speak with Mrs Good to clarify the boundaries and get back to me. I accepted that.

But there was something else I wanted to discuss with Sir. You see, I’d been dancing about earlier in the day, tormenting Sir JGood about not being my Dom. I knew though that, mutually, some part of both of us kinda wished he was. 

So I was willing to put some sort of potential deal on the table. 

Not a sex deal – this isn’t about that – but a service deal: as a service submissive, I can offer some Dominants the kind of submission that a sex slave might not be able (or willing) to offer them, As a service submissive, I could offer Sir JGood a taste of his former glory days, without (hopefully) stepping on Mrs Good’s toes.

Sir told me that he would discuss my proposal with Mrs Good, too.

So we wait now with bated breath. Not totally surrendered, but at least now I’ve asked for ground clearance before I proceed any further. 

Thursday, I did help Sir with a man who’s partner wants him to be more Dominant in the bedroom. So this is the other, beautiful side of our connection: despite routinely provoking one another, we do work beautifully well together to help people and make a difference to people’s lives. Even if we’re constantly threatening to go to “war” with one another, we don’t actually want to harm one another – who would work with us if we fell apart?

Granted, that was a thought that went through my mind shortly after sending Thursday’s message: I couldn’t remember the last time I really needed someone around me like I’d needed him. Someone whose value I simply couldn’t do without. 

Sir also told our new friend that the gift of submission is like being given a golden goose. I found that cute, in a way; it’s always a good sign when a Dominant knows (and respects) the value of his submissive.

So in spite of me being ready to walk away, we were now kind of proceeding from a new baseline and perhaps a better understanding and appreciation of one another. 

There was playtime scheduled for Master and I last night too, but alas, again, we ate our curry, sat down on the sofa together, and fell asleep. We live in hope that we shall one day be able to stay awake past 11PM again, but for now… 

This morning, I had some garden work to do. I’m in two minds about doing it: on the one hand, I knew that Mr C would be down pretty quickly if I did. On the other, I really do want to cut the invading brambles back before they take over the garden. 

I dressed – not for the kill exactly, but as a woman with a statement to make. I pulled my hair up in a smooth bun, allowing a few loose tendrils to frame my face. I picked out a black t-shirt with a cute graphic design, but also a is-she-isn’t-she ring detail (Master likes me to wear such tops, because she is). I picked out a floral perfume; not too overpowering but provocative nonetheless. If I was going to have to go and deal with “husband number three”, then I was going to go into battle fully prepared. 

Sure enough, not five minutes and Mr C had joined me in the garden. Of course I smiled. How predictable? 

“They put you down for five minutes, then?” I tease. Mr C seems flustered. He actually seems like he doesn’t know what to say.

After a few minutes of fluffing about and struggling to maintain the conversation, he starts a new one, this time on a topic on his terms. I make a mental note. Fascinating. 

I did get a bit stuck with the gardening at one point, no thanks to using collected rainwater to top up the garden pond not going quite how I had intended it to go. I attached one end of my newly acquired hose to my water butt, dumped the other end into the pond and turned on the tap. Nothing. 

I gave it a wiggle. Took the hose off, water came out fine. When I reconnected it, there was still nothing. 

So I told Mr Valkyries (he did call me “Borgy lady” again first) to put his brain to “good use” and help me find a solution that won’t break the bank. Sir taught me a simple how-to – by using my thumb to create an air seal on the hose and quickly dump it into the pond before the hose could fill with air.

It worked, finances spared.

I called him a genius, and Sir was very quick to react positively to that. Said that I couldn’t take it back. 

I rolled my eyes again, but I decided I’ll let him keep it — I had to let Mr Valkyries celebrate his small wins while he still can 😉 

This post probably seems much longer than usual? Well dear Reader, I was tormenting Sir JGood earlier about his beloved Vanguard (submarines) being “ancient”, and he reminded me that there is only a decade between he and me. So I reminded him that that’s still 3646 days – I could write as many words to remind him if he liked, just as a case in point. 

Sir said that I “haven’t got it in me”. 

Ooh. Dems be fighting words.

So just to demonstrate that I have, indeed, “got it in me” (though not that, though Sir wishes it were that 😉 ) , I made sure that I hit that 3646 words mark. I knew that I could, and I knew that I would, because, and as I said to Sir, finding an extra 900 words (I was already at 2000+) wouldn’t be that much of an ask. 

So, dear Reader, and to wrap this post up, 

Borgy Lady, 1. Mr Valkyries, 0.

That’s it from me! How has your week been? What exciting things have you been up to? Give this post a like, share, or leave a comment below. Alternatively, click here for more My Week In Review posts!

Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,