Views worth sharing, memories worth preserving.
Despite my hopes, I wasn’t immune from Master’s bugs: Wednesday afternoon my face felt a bit tender, and by Thursday evening, I was knowingly under the weather. Yet and despite that, I wasn’t properly ill; I was merely sneezy and wheezy and best avoided for a while.
I felt like I was going to get worse Thursday evening though – the sore chest, sore throat and achy joints told me I would. Even Master said I would, so I put myself to bed and got ready to weather the storm.
I joked to Sir JGood that I had put myself into “sick bay” – a totally tongue-in-cheek, Star Trek-related nerd-joke – and he mentioned medical tricorders. I mewled at that softy: he didn’t need to be that dramatic about it, though I knew what he was getting at and I was too ill to argue. Or at least I might be, you know, depending on how this thing goes.
Nonetheless, I did sleep well, as per Sir’s instruction.
My “securing property” joke had a… positive reception too, to say the very least.There were jokes, too, around spreading (flower) buds – a nod to the intimate part spreader recently received and reviewed. Oh Mr Valkyries, where do you get off?
I had an idea on the “securing property” theme too, but to write that post, I first had to ask Sir his eye colour. Sir didn’t give me a simple “blue” or “brown”; he gave me a more detailed description, owing to it, he said, that a photograph simply wouldn’t do them justice compared to my imagination. I rolled my own ice blue peepers at that – typical Mr Valkyries..
I warned him, however, that said ice blue peepers can be equally captivating to men, and Sir said that he believes that ten Mississippi’s are enough for most people’s eyes. Be that as it may be, a man needs to remember who first used the term, “fuck the Mississippi’s”.
This past week we have been operating a little more at “DEFCON2”, with me sarcastically asking Sir Snookiebear whether I should “kneel and obey”, then saying I shouldn’t, with him being “retired” from our lifestyle. Sir said that I was welcome to “out of respect” and I quipped that he would love that, which he didn’t deny. It ended with me being “tricked” into saying yes, which Sir praised me for, and for which I accused him of subterfuge. Sir said that of course he would use it; that a Dom (retired or otherwise) would use anything with “sub” in its name.
So, spiralling into subspace I went.
I did ask Sir, though, who holds who in captivity, and whether it’s really “captivity” if you don’t mind being kept there? Of course I know the answer. We know the answer.
Friday night I took Master by surprise: I pulled on a navy blue stretchy nightdress with a white lace trim, and nothing underneath. I wasn’t totally sure what I was doing, but I was trying out a new way of being – more sexual; more sensually pleasing.
I felt my dignity hit the floor around the same time as my underwear. I let down my hair and took a deep breath in front of the mirror. Well, no going back now.
To say Master was appreciative would be an understatement – you know a man is distracted when he pauses both his video games and the TV to pay attention to the new thing that’s stolen his interest. He returned to neither by the time I was done riding him on the sofa.
“So I guess nightdresses are the new order of the day, then?” I purr.
“Hell yes” comes the reply.
He had me again Saturday morning, with an order for me to buy some more.
Mum wants help sorting out her spare bedroom and back garden, but she’s asked me to ask someone I’d much rather keep at arm’s length – Mr C. Especially right now, while I try and get my head in order, I do not need my family chiming in with their verdicts on our friendship.
Mr C is enthusiastic to help, but there’s a catch or two for me: first, nineteen years ago another “friend” of mine helped my family in the garden, and that “friend” of mine is now my husband of almost twelve years, that I swore up and down was just a friend to me. Secondly, the spare bedroom isn’t just any room; it’s my old bedroom, and the old, lilac-painted wallpaper that still mostly covers the walls belongs to me.
Also, the view over the docks and southern Wales? It’s special to me, but special in a way that I only want to share it with the people that matter most to me, not, you know, my neighbour. Even though he matters to me too, he’s not meant to see it – we’re just friends.
It’s intimately special, and letting him into that view (and more, into that room) is like letting him into an intimate part of me.
And some part of me thinks he’d really, really fucking love that.
Saturday afternoon he called me into the back garden to talk about visiting Mum (likely Tuesday), and to get an idea of the work she wants done and the materials required. He hands me a sketch pad and a mechanical pencil, and I sketch out a rough diagram of the garden. Mr C loves my sketches; he says they “aren’t chicken-scratch”.
As I sketch, I mutter to myself, visualising the back garden from memory. Mr C, who had wondered off for some other things, overhears me and smiles to himself.
“Hearing you do that, you think like a builder” he says. I look up to him and smile.
“You mean I sound like the legacy of a handyman? Crazy concept. I thought you knew I inherited half of my tools?”
It occurs to me in that moment, while we talk: the brown hair, the beard, the blue eyes, the trade? Fuck me, I’m practically toe-to-toe with Mr Valkyries right here! I handle them both the same, too.
So the bigger question was then, if I do, what is different about them?
Confidence, experience, and age.
Mr Valkyries doesn’t make claims, he just is, and I have no doubt that I would come off worse in such a showdown – Sir Snookiebear knows exactly where to press. Mr C, though? Story after story, fabrication after fabrication, and so damn obvious, too. That’s how I can tell them apart.
I did admit my unintentional double intendre – my “securing property” joke – to Mr C, he said he was tempted to “say something (at the time)”, but decided it “too cheeky”. So again, that’s another difference – I’ve never known Mr Valkyries to resist a cheeky joke!
I told Mr C about the spare room too, and I told him why I won’t let him near it.
“It’s weird” I argued, “it’s like an old part of me” I said.
He offered to do it with me, I still refused – being in my old bedroom with him would be even worse!
We talked some about airsoft too, and once Mr C was done trying to woo me with his claims of battery–operated MP4s and gas-powered Glocks, I let loose that I would love to try my hand at archery again, moving up to hunting (friends, not foxes). Forget guns, if we’re gonna hunt, let’s hunt like real hunters do.
Mr C looks at me wide-eyed.
“I’d really like to try that too” he finally says. Oh.
The Thoughts & Musings Of Mrs Wolfie 
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