It’s true wherever you find love.
Well it’s officially over: the turkey’s been eaten, the presents unwrapped, and Christ has been celebrated for another year.
But let’s go back a few days before that, because things definitely happened on Tuesday.
It all started during Master’s return home from work; we were laughing and joking, but joking soon became teasing. Teasing soon became a game of “Don’t Think”, not officially a game until it kind of was.
Don’t think about my tongue on your clit, he said.
Fine, but don’t think about my soft gasps and moans, my sweet taste or the way my body squirms under your ministrations, I replied.
Master had started a sext battle with a wordsmith that he was all but destined to lose.
Don’t think about my hard cock filling you up, he continued.
Mmhmm, and don’t think about my breath on your neck or my words in your ear as I beg you to fill my womb with your warm cum.
You want a war too, boy? Let’s go.
As it was, Master did devour me and fill me up, and almost no sooner than he got home. He made me suffer his warm breath against my most intimate flesh for what felt like an eternity first though, and because no way was he letting me “win” that easily.
So I was subdued, but I wasn’t down and out quite yet. A temporary truce, per se, rather than a lasting ceasefire.
My “battle” with Valkyries, too, quietly rages on:
First, I neglected to mention Valkyries’ suggestion of my “harem of Daddy Doms” a few days ago. I laughed at first of course, but there’s a kind of revolt at the idea as well: an ex of mine once joked about having me in a harem, and it sat uncomfortably with me because I dislike the way harems so often treat people — as property, not as people.
So now it’s a kind of delicious irony that I am the one “collecting” people, albeit unintentionally. Maybe I was never supposed to join a harem; I was supposed to form my own 😉
It did have me remembering this beloved song though, and because mine are “Kings”, most definitely.
Wednesday I joked to Valkyries that he’ll be lost now, now that our Kinkmas Countdown has concluded. Valkyries said it accounts for 44.7% of the reason he is in contact with me, so I enquired about the remaining 55.3%.
Valkyries said it was our conversations and such, and that when I blog less, we talk more. I threatened to get busier, he said that was a plan for 2026.
I said he’d miss me, Valkyries said “simpatico” – said I’d miss him too.
Oof, this one doesn’t miss a beat.
Of course I could escalate this further, I could take this as far as I wanted to go. But Valkyries is a man who also takes risks, and he knows I’m not completely reckless. If I walked away — even only temporarily to “teach him a lesson” — I could wind up losing our friendship entirely. Yet if I buckle down, he’ll buckle down just as hard. So there’s just no winning here: we both win, or we both lose.
This is the art of war, and Valkyries and I both understand it well.
So instead, we end up continuing this little standoff of ours.
Valkyries talked of lassoing me like stock. Breeding stock, probably, specifically.
He talks about branding too, and I’m about to bail on that idea when I reminded myself that there are many ways for a Dom to brand a sub. Not all involve hot irons, Elena.
Negotiable.
Valkyries makes the mistake of referring to a sub as “it”, so I called him up on “it”.
He says “IT” stands for “Insanely Tenacious (sub)”, which I told him “sounds like a you problem”. Valkyries disputes that, said it “sounds like a me delight.”
But it was Sir’s talk of “training” that caused something unpleasant in me: I’ve been (sort of) “trained” before, and I got burned in it. I was “trained”… and then I was abandoned in favour of a temporary toy.
If being “trained” meant sitting by and smiling sweetly while my Dom went after whatever flight of fancy took them on that day while I was supposed to stay faithful and true, then I wanted no part in that dynamic.
So I decided never again — I don’t want to be “trained” again. I already am “trained” — to my own standards and rules -— but this self-sovereigned submissive will respect the rules of the Dominants she chooses to be involved with, if indeed she does. She won’t be “owned” though: she owns herself.
Yet, even if I didn’t want to be trained or owned, I hadn’t moved. I don’t want to be trained or owned, so why am I still here, curious to hear what Valkyries has in mind? What kind of sorcery is this?
Christmas Eve, I saw Mr C and his daughter, Rose. Mr C made Rose come back and speak to me properly after I’d given her their Christmas presents, and because “Christmas isn’t all about presents.”
So he and I ended up on the doorstep for a good half an hour, chatting about — of all things — the similarities between humans, chimpanzees and Bonobo apes.
At a time of festivities, here we are, talking primates and human evolution. I laughed afterwards.
He’s so Sheldon, and I’m so Amy, and… Oh no!
Christmas Day was fairly simple and full of surprises: my ex backlinked me on one of his blog posts and referred to me as his “friend”, despite choosing not to communicate with me in several months. The last I read, B said publicly that there was going to be no more communication between us — given the outstanding issues between us and despite my best efforts to heal our friendship — so I don’t consider us to have a friendship now.
Fortunately, my second surprise was much better.
Master spoiled me to Mike & Ike’s gummy candies in every flavour, a whole kilogram bag of Lindor chocolate truffles, a new pair of silver earrings and two new knitted jumpers, in lilac and powder blue.
“There’s one more gift you haven’t had yet” he says. I look at him, confused.
Master pulls a ring box from his lounge pants pocket and gets down on bended knee in front of me.
“Mrs S, will you do me the honour of continuing to be my wife?” he asks, lifting the lid of the box. I roll my eyes and shake my head at him.
“You’re a bloody idiot” I say, placing my hands over his shoulders, “but you know, us idiots do go well together.”
“So you’ll keep me?” He smiles.
“Yes” I grin, and kiss him.
“Good” he says, “and thank you for a more cohesive answer this time” he winks. I glare at him.
I quasi-accepted Master’s original marriage proposal by squeaking at him. It’s a moment he’s vowed never to let me forget.
So my new ring more or less matches Master’s, with bands of polished and brushed silver and set with a single diamond (Master’s doesn’t have any stones). In the new year, we’re taking it to get it engraved with our wedding date in Roman numerals. So they’ll match then — good and proper — and just like we idiots do.
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Until next time!
Stau safe & have fun,
The Thoughts & Musings Of Mrs Wolfie 
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