Loyal, brave, true… quick, tactical, dangerous.

Thursday

Thursday morning there’s a knock at the door again. I thought it was the postman, owing to the man-shaped being wearing a dayglo orange high visibility jacket, visible through the front door glass. 

I opened the door: it was Mr C. 

My enthusiasm drops. 

“Alright love? I wanted to pick your brain about summat a minute” he says. I shift my weight onto my hip impatiently as I listen to him — I don’t have time for any brain-picking today.

Mr C wants to talk benefit claims, but I get suspicious when he talks about his flat being “privately rented”. I don’t know whether it is or whether it isn’t, but if it is, how come he got his front door painted by local authority contractors just like we did several months ago, hmm?

Also, according to the UK Land Registry, our landlord is the proprietor of both properties, has been since before he/we moved in, and still is. So if he’s a private tenant, then I’m just saying, but the evidence doesn’t add up. 

So as soon as he starts his “private tenant, rich-uncle-in-the-United-States” nonsense, I just close down. I don’t have time for liars. 

“I can’t help you, sorry” I say flatly, “my best advice would be to go somewhere like the Citizen’s Advice Bureau, they can probably help you more than I can.”

So I think we’re done, but of course he needs to bring Annie and Freya, his supposed girlfriends, into the mix — apparently they’re all on a break at the moment but Freya got pregnant and now Mr C and Annie are livid. I sigh: I’ve never understood the desire to “take a break” in relationships. To me you’re either done or you’re not; you’re either hashing it out and fixing what’s broken (if indeed it can be fixed), or you’re not. I don’t keep people on the back burner, and I won’t let people keep me on the back burner, either. 

I nod sympathetically, but I don’t really care — I mention that I need to go because I’m in the midst of opening a store on my blog and there’s a lot I need to learn. So then Mr C wants to talk selling his woodwork passion projects — I haven’t the heart to tell him that nobody really wants to spend their money on things made from wood left out in the rain. 

So then I get to hear how he used to donate to the old Trade-It newspaper, and how he looked into what happened to it. Cool. That’s amazing. Mmhmm, that’s nice of you. 

Mr C apparently made Master jump in the morning as well, and he sees it like some triumph. I just smile.

Thursday lunchtime I had a conversation with Shadow, about ships and analogies, of all things. Mister Valkyries has a penchant for the HMS Ark Royal, and I for the HMS Somerset, a Type 23 Royal Navy frigate that I — unlike Valkyries and his little boat — have actually been on. 

The comparison that Shadow drew was highly amusing, or at least it was for me. 

Shadow said that the HMS Ark Royal would have been slow, difficult (to manoeuvre) and required supporting vessels, whereas the HMS Somerset is tactical, quickly manoeuvrable (making her a harder target) and is quite powerful against enemies on her own.

From my position of command on this side of the board, I felt that volley of insults hit each and every one of their targets. 

And that is why Shadow is my ally.

Thursday evening a newish Lovehoney Forum member asked what the freakiest or dirtiest thing any of us had done was. Now I knew what he really meant, but you know, I saw a chance for some winding up. 

So I said that the freakiest thing I’d done was going on a bat watch in a supposedly-haunted park — well that’s pretty freaky! 

Of course, Valkyries couldn’t just let me have my fun, could he? No, Valkyries had to join in on my fun, so then I turned my attention to tormenting him instead. It was very much apex predator energy: this is MY kill, how dare YOU come sniffing around MY prey?

Alright, maybe more playful than that, but still. 

So Sir asked if I was denying him of his fun, and I said that he would “thank me if I was”. Sir said to “change the ‘th’ to a ‘sp’ and it would be over the sofa… only he mistyped and said it would be “over the soda” instead. Well, I wasn’t missing that one!

So I asked Sir which kind of soda it would be? Cola? Lemonade? Cherryade? I said that I was “so cool, I’m over soda. Like an ice cube 😎”. Oh that poor, sweet man. 

At this point I’m beyond giggling; I’m in full-throttle, laugh-out-loud territory. I find myself hilarious, but it’s especially hilarious when a brat gets to torment her Dominant counterparts, who also find themselves highly amusing. 

What I hadn’t accounted for was that, when I told Master about my tormenting of Mister Valkyries, I was once again stood beside the sofa. Master grabs me, spins me over the back of it and spanks me, firmly, quickly and repeatedly. 

“Spank her over the sofa, that sounds like a great idea!” he says. 

“No! That’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works” I protest. 

“No? Why not?”

“Because I’m tormenting Valkyries, not you! You don’t get to punish me on Valkyries’ behalf!”

“He isn’t here to do it, so I’ll have to take care of you instead” Master says, and resumes his swatting of me. The giggles subside; this is a full-throttle spanking now, and I am not having fun. 

“That’s not how this works!” I argue again.

“Except you don’t make the rules, and this is totally how it works.”

Master releases me eventually. I stand, brush myself down and pout at him. The ass grins, folds his arms mockingly and pouts back at me. 

“Aww, look at you all mad” he teases. 

“You wait. This is war, for the pair of you” I warn. “Gloves off, all-out war”. He laughs.

Valkyries did call me a “silly goose” over my worrying about upsetting him with my swearing, which is totally fine, I can deal — I’ve been called much worse than a silly goose in my time. 

Maybe it’s kind of true, anyway. 

We did hit a bump though — just a really slight bump — when Valkyries suggested that I “give Master a hand” (job) in the kitchen. He mentioned again the fun times he’s had before, catering at swinging parties.

I’m not sure why, but I feel a part of me pull away whenever Sir mentions his past. It’s not jealousy — I have a past too — it’s… anxiety?

It makes me feel, for a heartbeat, almost like I’m supposed to compete with memories I never signed up to audition against. And I don’t want to “measure up” to anyone’s past — not his, not anyone’s. I’m here now, as myself, not as a contender in the highlight reel of someone’s younger years. Besides, I’ve already been clear about how an us-then interaction likely would have played out, and it didn’t go well for him. 

So when he slips into those tales, my instinct isn’t jealousy. It’s a hesitation, almost a “why are we going there?”. Because whatever we’re building in this little dance of ours? It’s between us, now, not in our pasts.

Friday

I woke at 5:30AM again, an hour before our 6:30AM alarm. It’s frustrating because it’s an hour that I should be sleeping, yet I also know it’s an hour I’ll spend trying to sleep if I, well, try. 

So instead I surrendered and read my emails instead. I’ll nap later. Deal. 

I picked up another email from V, talking about work stress and, as usual, submission. It always makes me smile when V says that I made him think. I don’t always mean to make people think, but if I’ve managed it anyway? Bonus! 

Valkyries joins me, he mentioned more about the book he’d mentioned to me Thursday evening, Faust. I’ve never read it, but Sir gives me a brief summary of it; about how it teaches that we will be accepted in heaven if we learn to love ourselves. 

It’s hard-hitting in a loving kind of way: I, too, had given up on myself for too long — Valkyries has seen right through me. 

I admitted to Sir that I was only running on about 4 hours sleep, to which he enquired the cause and I sarcastically told him to “put the white coat away” (you’re not diagnosing my problem, Sir). Cue more goofiness between us, with Sir referring to himself as a “house doctor” and us talking about space movies again. 

While we’re on theme, we got talking about one of my guilty pleasures: Starship Troopers. 

I half expected a pushback. I know so many people who find it corny, and it is corny, but I love it anyway. 

Sir mentions reenacting the iconic shower scene and it raises a smirk. 

You wouldn’t survive it, Valkyries. 

Let me remind you all of the woman who used to flirt with a man at a naturist swim, including in the showers. No, I didn’t do anything — we weren’t allowed to do anything — but did that stop us flirting while we were alone? Of course not! 

Am I also the woman who used to moan and groan because the water was just so warm and the pressure so good? Of course I am! 

What? It’s not my fault if a man can’t control himself in my presence 😉 

I admit to Sir that it “wasn’t the scene I had in mind”, so Sir enquired, to which I linked him to a video of the whipping of Johnny Rico. 

I bite my lip. There’s something about that… administrative punishment. 

It is the scene in that movie that still elicits a soft, submissive shudder from me. 

Master didn’t go to football in the end, so what was supposed to be my first Friday home alone with a delicious takeaway dinner and some relaxing ‘me’ time instead ended up with Master thinking I’m a genius for planning to order in — instead of shopping for and cooking dinner for the two of us — and my evening being instead dominated by his choice of TV, not mine. Maybe next week. 

Also Friday evening, I got curious about something: in a forum post, Valkyries had said that he’d pleasured two women at the same time at a swinging event, but he said “no penis”. Even if his bragging about his past had left me feeling somewhat uneasy at times, I was undeniably curious about that. I thought that was the natural progression sometimes at those events? 

So I asked him — if not, why not?

Sir said that he “wouldn’t mean anything” to the people he had sex with; he’d wanted to find someone who understood him before he had sex with anyone. 

Oh my heart. 

Truthfully, maybe that was why these events have never really appealed to me, and also why I’d been so nervous about getting too close to Valkyries. Maybe I wasn’t going to let myself be just another mark on his scorecard, when really, perhaps Valkyries had been looking for a woman like me all along. 

Sir also said he used to play games where he’d wager his virginity to the woman who could “beat” him (make him orgasm before he could make her orgasm). I had to smile. 

You wagered your virginity? That’s cute. I sometimes wager my submission. 

Saturday

Saturday is its usual busy chaos of domestic duties, namely pulling forward the tumble dryer so that we could grab out all of the junk that had fallen off the shelves and down the back of the machine. Not ten minutes after moving the tumble dryer back I managed to knock my aquarium net down the back of it. I told Master that I’d consider it lost, and I’ll just order a new one. 

I’m pleased to say that my father-in-law was much better behaved this week, and didn’t feel the need to make snotty comments about the “kind of woman” I am. I put that down to me having finished my work for the weekend, and my being ready to receive and entertain him. 

Also Saturday I had a twenty-minute phone call from Mr C. You’ll remember what I said about a “progression of escalation” and “guychology”? Well, Mr C is following a textbook example: he’s on my radar — and he’s making sure he is — but he’s operating what Shadow and I know as “perimeter patter”: he clearly wants to invade (into my life/womb), but he’s not sure how to, and I’m not giving him any instructions. 

Late Saturday evening I required some information from Valkyries. I can’t say too much about that project, but I needed to ask him about the size of… little Valkyries. 

I managed it, but then I want to go curl up and die of shame — Valkyries himself, though, is caring but highly amused; he torments me about the “progressive sex blogger” who is “cautious” about personal stuff. I’d have looked daggers at him if he wasn’t 400 miles away. 

Truthfully, maybe yes, I am, but it’s probably a good thing: I’m an empath; a sensitive person who is rather sensitive to the feelings of others. It’s not a bad way to be. 

Still, I decided I’d probably have preferred a thousand lashes than… This. 

Master, too, knows what I’m like, and it’s something he so loves to do: make me stare at his cock. No, he doesn’t want me to suck it or stroke it or even do or say anything about it — just look at it, because he knows I find doing so shameful and invasive of his… personal business. 

It’s his kind of humiliation of me, in a way. 

But if it’s a war they want then it’s a war they’re going to get, and I was more than ready and willing to engage. 

So I told Sir that he’d “heard the voice”, but he hasn’t heard the “gasps, the moans and the please Sirs”. 

You have an imagination, Valkyries, but can you just imagine THAT?

Valkyries has been warned about my “Mutually Assured Destruction”, plenty of times in fact, yet he still comes marching in here, full of pomp and swagger, thinking he’ll escape unscathed. Alas, he forgets who else does tantra, who else loves breeding, and who else has self-control 😉 

Suffice to say that Friday night, we were very much operating at DEFCON2. I told Sir — who loves to create games for sex parties — about a “wicked little game” I had in mind: simultaneous handjobs, whoever doesn’t cum first gets to breed me.

Alas, damn my bed for being so cosy.

Sunday

Master comes to bed at closer to 6AM again. I’m not sure how — maybe he sensed my previously aroused state — but a kiss lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it should have and he rolls me over without a word. 

What’s so beautiful is there’s no jealousy between Master and Valkyries — Sir won’t let me use Master’s breeding of me to make him jealous (not that I would). Sir doesn’t see my little game as “winning” and “losing”; he sees it as deciding who goes first or second. I protest — that wasn’t in the rules!

I was dutifully reminded once again that I, in fact, don’t make the rules. 

Sunday afternoon there’s a knock at the door, it’s Mr C again. Master and I pretty much knew who it was, we just didn’t know what he wanted. 

Mr C claims he saw a rat; he also acts like his lumber-and-junk-filled yard wouldn’t be a perfect home for them. I’m frustrated but generally unfazed — I’m more frustrated at being taken from my projects than I am by Mr C himself. 

“Anything for my time and attention” I mutter to Master, “anything for an in to our relationship.”

“Heck no. There are some people I can tolerate in our relationship, but he’s not one of them” Master replies. I cock my head. 

“You can tolerate? Like who?”

“Well, Valkyries” Master says. I laugh out loud. 

“I’ll let him know he’s ‘tolerated’” I say, “he’ll love that.”

“Or there again, perhaps you both are” I add with a wink. 

“Have fun” Master says, clapping me sarcastically on the shoulder as I turn to leave.

“How kind of you to help!” I reply with a saccharine sweet smile. Master is aghast — he thought he was going to get to sit down and carry on watching football. 

Truthfully there’s a reason I want Master with me on this operation, and he knows it too. If it’s just me I’ll get stuck listening to Mr C’s fantastical life stories for hours at a time, but with Master around, we can work as a team, If we do get stuck listening to him, one of us will invent a reason why we need to break away. It’s not just practicality, it’s also time efficiency. 

Master places me in command of the operation, and it’s a position I handle with grace. I command him to the shelves halfway down the garden and to the spare bait box there. I fill it with a chocolate-spread-rat-bait mix and hand it over carefully to Mr C. 

“Don’t tip it” I say. 

“What?!” Mr C says, and tips the bait box on its side. 

“No don’t tip it! It contains rat poison. If a fox or a cat eats it, it could kill them too.”

“Oh, I thought it contained a rat” Mr C says. It beats me why the man thinks I would hand him a box with live vermin inside. I may be “cruel” sometimes, but I’m not that cruel. 

While we’re in the garden I suggest to Master that we bring the Christmas tree in from the shed, owing to it that “I did win” our little game.

So it goes, Master and I had a deal that whichever comes first — whether I hear the Coca Cola “The Holidays Are Coming” Christmas advert (on a TV channel, no cheating via YouTube) first, or the 1st December arrives first? That’s when Christmas in this household begins. 

Well, 13th November I saw the advert. Officially, no cheating involved. 

And Master hates that I did, because for him, it’s “too early” for Christmas

So of course, I’m having great fun in tormenting him, and as much fun in calling him — playfully — a “bad sport” for not abiding by the terms of our deal. 

There was a peace-bearing alternative, of course: he surrenders and we get out the tree 😉 

Mr C — who saw my post tormenting Master on Facebook — joins in on the conversation. He’s on Master’s side, not mine, so then he too finds himself caught in my crosshairs. 

“What is there possibly to hate about Christmas?” I ask, “it is the season of peace on earth and goodwill to all men! Are you not a fan of peace? Do I not torment you enough? I can up it next year, if you like?” 

“No” he says, grinning. 

“Well then! Find your Christmas cheer!”

Unfortunately my good mood is short-lived. When Master unlocks the shed door, there, on the floor, is another rat hole. 

The little sods haven’t only extended their damage along the back, they’ve made their way in through the floor as well. 

I sigh deep: for how much longer do we keep fighting before we give up and condemn the damn thing? 

In a weird way and in that moment, I hear my father with me. It happens sometimes, though it’s not spooky for me at all. He affects my decision-making — he guides me; my father is my guardian angel. 

His voice comes to me almost as a thought, though it’s not my inner voice; it’s his outer one. 

“Let it go, Elena. The rats have had at it, the rain’s got into it. It’s more than done its time.”

It’s hard because it was my father’s shed, but Dad, I know, wouldn’t want me to keep fighting to save it. If “saving” it meant more stress for me and an extension on its life by a year or two tops? He wouldn’t want me to keep holding on.

Kind of, darkly, a bit like when we had to make the decision about turning off his life support. We loved him dearly and all wanted him back with us, but we were told that he was in a deep coma and may have only a few months to live, with no quality of life (and may possibly never even regain consciousness again). In the end, we didn’t do what we wanted; we honoured what he would want, what was most peaceful and comfortable for him.

Though I love him and miss him every day, in a way, Dad is always beside me, encouraging me and guiding me. In our hearts we know he is at peace now, and he is with us wherever we go.

So with me thinking that letting the shed go will be much easier than repairing it — and ultimately, likely to be far more rat-proof (and low maintenance) too — the next question becomes, what do we replace it with?

I weigh up the options: plastic or metal?

I had another surprise, a better one: I told Valkyries about the problem, and he jumps in, looking for new sheds for me. It’s a new experience for me; it’s beautiful, it’s heartwarming and… kind of emotional? 

It’s more than just “liking” one another or getting along with one another now — this man speaks my whole damn love language, and even without me having to tell him what my love language is! 

He’s not someone I’d need to ask to do anything. He sees a problem? He fixes it. He wants to fix it.

Men like that are my kryptonite. Men who do housework, because they should do housework? My ultimate aphrodisiac. 

It’s not even about him doing everything so I don’t have to; Valkyries (and Master, for that) know I’m not like that — we’re a team. It’s not about a man doing everything so I don’t have to; it’s about a man taking care of some responsibilities so that I’m not doing it all.

It’s about shared labour, exactly as a healthy relationship should be.

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Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,

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