In a game of brinkmanship, who blinks first can decide the outcome of the game.

Monday

I’m not sure why, but Sunday night and into Monday morning I was wracked with self-doubt. It was a silly thing, that much I told myself, but it was a real fear all the same: am I too bad for Mister Valkyries?

Valkyries is a wonderful man, a sweet man; he’s caring and gentle. The thing was I’d never known Valkyries to swear, and I… uhh… do.

Not extensively, let me be clear about that, but my vocabulary sometimes would be enough to make a trooper blush. I’m not an inherently aggressive person, but I am an expressive person, and sometimes I express myself with words that my distant aunts would be surprised at. 

Words that a good girl like me shouldn’t know, but does know, and sometimes uses to great effect. 

Valkyries I know has a view of me that — at least in my eyes — is incompatible with my “expressive” self. Valkyries — a clergyman — believes I too have a Christian heart, and I wondered how on Earth I could ever use such language, yet still be viewed a saint in the eyes of the Lord. 

We have a saying in this household: “I already know I’m going to hell, I’m just enjoying the journey.”

I know I’m going to hell — I have a filthy mouth, I’m non-monogamous and I have a dark sense of humour. Polishing my language up now is not going to be enough to redeem me. 

So I spoke to Shadow about it for a bit, but I knew ultimately there was only one person I really needed to be talking to: Mister Valkyries himself. 

Valkyries and I have this beautiful friendship developing whereby we can talk about anything, and we accept one another for who we are, because we both know how it feels to put ourselves last. It’s night and day up to what I had with W: W used to poke fun at the things I struggled to  get done, or my otherwise imperfections. Valkyries doesn’t. 

Instead we support and encourage one another, exactly as it should be. 

So I ended up pouring my heart out to Valkyries, about how I feared I’d be “too much” for him. Valkyries is unphased: he told me that it’s “not surprising” that a sassy submissive like me gives as good as she gets. 

Damnit Valkyries, I pour my heart out and you hit me with a reality check and show me just how stupid I’m being? 

I told him that’s not what I meant; that I was worried I’d offend him with my “colourful” vocabulary. Sir told me that I couldn’t. that he’s known others who swear. Somehow I relaxed. 

Monday I had an unexpected visit from Mr Kershaw, the Antisocial Behaviour Officer, about our old neighbour — the neighbour has been given a new property and so with that, they’re looking to close the case. The police injunction that bars him from the area will remain in place for another year, however, and so he’ll still be arrested upon sight if he returns.

“And so with the best respect, Elena, hopefully I won’t be seeing you again” Mr Kershaw smiles before he departs.

“And with the best of respects, Mark, I hope never to speak to you again either” I reply. 

It’s sad in a way, Mr Kershaw and I get along quite well: we’re similar ages, he’s a former police officer and I wanted to work for the police. Mr Shephard — our housing manager — and I get along quite well too, but he’s an older, quieter spoken man and so our working relationship has always been strictly professional. With Mr Kershaw, I discussed everything from gardens to relationships and gaming consoles, and our sense of humour (and filthy language) lined up perfectly 

Speaking of gardening, I planted the two roses that I had for my birthday on Monday too, now that my shoulder is finally up to the task. 

Valkyries and I are back to it, back to our usual flirting and banter, this time about pool. I asked Sir if he plays, and he affirms it, so I asked him if he “plays well” — naturally he gives nothing away. 

Valkyries asks me if I’m a “hustler of the blue cloth”, I smile. That would be telling, Sir. 

Perhaps he should be asking himself: would I really be playing to win if I wasn’t?

Or perhaps the bigger question I put to him prior: we both know what happens if he wins, but what happens if he loses? 

A man before him — who we both know — once claimed he only lost to me because he didn’t have his “winning shoes” on, and my father once said I was so good, I should play for the local women’s pool team. 

Yet, Valkyries still wants to play me. 

Now as of late I’m a little rusty, but like with all things, I can pick up my skills again. Only a fool goes into battle unprepared. 

Also Monday I caught up with V again, my brother in submission — I love talking about our submissive journeys with him. It’s interesting in a way because every submissive I know presents their submission differently, and it goes to show how there really is no right or wrong way for a submissive to be submissive. 

Tuesday 

Once again Valkyries and I fall back into the same push-pull that is our dynamic: Sir mentions my defences (that I mentioned  in my “planet” mini-story) and I say that he “jammed” them, that I’m “still not over that”. Sir is predictably unapologetic. 

Sir alludes to using a Trojan Horse; he says he “played the wounded soldier”, he’s highly amused with himself. My trigger finger itches once more — I’m but a heartbeat from executing this cocky little spaceman exactly where he stands. 

Our roleplay did ratchet up a notch, though still completely PG, at least for now. I’m surprised and not: again, I half anticipated that our space voyages would be something that we’d come back to, but now that I’ve made the pairing between ‘planets’ and spacemen? It’s even become something of our theme. 

I’m on dinner duty: beefburgers, fries and salad. While I cook, Valkyries and I talk… mugs, of all things. 

Valkyries commented on my bee mug and my love of everything bees, of me being a “queen bee” (I think I even have some “queen bee” paraphernalia around somewhere), but it goes beyond that: longstanding readers will know that my late father was a beekeeper, so anything bee-themed has long bee-n a way for me to still feel close to him, posthumously. In fact, I even made bee badges for guests at his funeral — everyone wore a bee somewhere on their person, and there weren’t any bee badges left. 

I have a bee-themed mug, water bottle, make-up bag, earrings, necklace, keyrings… there’s probably more. I even talk to the bees when I’m gardening, because I’m convinced they’re him checking out what I’m up to and making sure I’m bee-hiving (sorry, not sorry). 

Mum saw my mug too. She didn’t know about it, but she commented on it. 

“He wouldn’t want you torturing yourself” she says. I shug.

“If he’s got a problem, he can come back down here and we’ll gladly hash it out” I say. “He may be my father but this time I’m not listening, because I tell you what, I bloody miss the bugger, and I’m damn mad he didn’t tell me he had to go.” 

It’s emotional for the both of us; Dad was a very special man. 

Wednesday

I started Wednesday with a shower, a new approach I’m trying to manage work, housework and self care: shower first thing in the morning, not last thing at night. It requires more self-discipline, but I think I managed it just fine. 

Post shower I decided on an orgasm — I’d been wanting one since the night before. 

At around 10AM Master Levi texted to say that he hoped I was having a good day, so I replied with a photo of my licking rose clitoral stimulator resting on the bed, along with just enough thigh flesh in frame to suggest that I was still naked in bed. I captioned it with “I would say so 😏 x”

Master replied with “oh noes Kitten x”, a habit I’m trying to get him out of, owing to how passion-dampening it is — “oh noes” implies a certain shame towards sex, and sex is nothing to be ashamed of.

So I said that I “would share”, but that “Daddy is playing grown-ups” and “maybe we can play grown-ups later” instead. Sometimes wording is everything with a Dominant man. 

Master replied with “haha maybe 😉 x”. I said that I was “looking forward to it”. 

Out of nowhere, who should appear in my inbox on Wednesday afternoon but a wild Mr C? Actually, it’s not that wild. If you understand guychology — yes, I coined it — it even follows a predictable line of events.

I first saw Mr C on Monday — I smiled, asked him if he was alright, normal friendly neighbour behaviour. He didn’t engage me, he even looked a little bit lost.

Tuesday evening Mr C knocked on our front door. Now, I have no doubt he hoped I’d answer, but Master and I are already two steps ahead, so instead I duck into the bathroom (I was headed that way anyway) and Master answers the door. Their interaction is short and pleasant; Mr C isn’t hanging around.

Wednesday, Mr C sent me a random video via WhatsApp. It’s what I dubbed a “low-risk engagement” and again, it follows a predictable line of events. It’s an escalation after the door-knock didn’t get him his desired chat with me, but it’s still low-risk in that he’s not giving too much of himself away: he can still cut and run and maintain full control of the narrative if I seem too interested in talking to him.

Basically, he’s just checking that I’m still available to him. Still an option to him.

I told ya, I know the game, I’ve spent more than enough time studying it. Know thy enemy, et cetera.

So instead of engaging him in a conversation about the video — instead of giving him his “in” — I simply “liked” the video and carried on with my day. Cool, composed, removed.

I thought he had Annie and Freya anyway? I thought he lived an exotic life with them?

The random video from Mr C led to a conversation with Mr Valkyries, and as usual, Sir just has to tease. It’s almost like he enjoys provoking me.

Which is fine, because if you knew my relationship with my father, you’d know I’ve spent my life being provoked. You might even say I was born for this.

Sir alludes to sparring, to which I warned him that he “won’t be lucky forever” — he won’t always be able to duck my jabs.

So Sir responds with Pat Benatar’s Hit Me With Your Best Shot, to which I reply with what I was presently listening to: Kenny Loggins’ Danger Zone.

Let me just say this: if wars de-escalated as fast as Valkyries did, peace treaties would be signed long before the first shot was fired.

Wednesday evening, Master decided he also wanted a slice of this pie. Huxley tired out and into bed, I’d turned my attention to some housework. 

I’m leaning over the back of the sofa to rearrange it, but I’m aware of Master in the bedroom behind me.  I hear him come back into the lounge.

“Don’t spank me. I’m not here for spanking, I’m doing some cleaning” I say.

“What’s that? Spank me please, Daddy? Well as you wish!” Master says, and swats my rump hard. It smarts, but it’s a provocation: he wants a war? He’s gonna get one. 

“You said you were asking for a spanking” he laughs as he heads for the kitchen. I’m in hot pursuit of him.

“Yeah? Well now you’re about to be the ass king for a spanking” I say. I’m kinda proud of myself for that one. 

“Try me” he warns, turning to confront me, “or, to use the expression you so like to use, fuck around and find out.”

I pause, my sense of bravado gone. I may be a risk-taker, but I’m not completely reckless. 

Wednesday evening, Mr Valkyries mentions playing “fun games”. Not fun games of any real definition or description, at least not for the moment, just “fun games” for now. 

And that was all that was really needed to send my brain tumbling into a world of possibility. 

Sometimes I think Dominants do this on purpose — knock over the first Domino, then sit back amused and wait to see what the final pattern looks like. 

So there I was, sat on our bed and pairing up odd socks, trying to shake the “fun games” idea that Valkyries had put inside my mind. If he’d been 400 centimetres — rather than 400 miles — from me, it would have had the same effect. 

He knew what he was doing, the ass. 

Well fine, if he too wants a battle, then it’s a battle he’s going to get. 

So I played coy, and I suggested some completely innocent (but equally fun) games. 

If you want to play, Valkyries, come show me what you have in mind, but know this: you won’t be the only one who wins.

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Stay safe & have fun,

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