How can two little words hold so much power?

I was undecided whether to post this today or tomorrow, so I asked my Google speaker to toss a coin — “heads”, it goes live tonight, “tails”, it goes live tomorrow. It came up heads, you lucky, lucky people. 

I was worried for how Valkyries would take my “naughty boy” remark in my last post, so I was pleased to see that he took it well. Far from being offended, Valkyries sent me a link to Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman”. So instead of being offended he’s kind of mocking me, which is probably the most, least offended reaction I could have asked for. 

For my part, I’ve had “Personal Jesus” stuck in my head for much of today. Depeche Mode’s original version is arguably much nicer, though my head has gone full-throttle sin with the Marilyn Manson cover. 

And for a man like Valkyries, who very much desires to be worshipped, I highly doubt that he will protest it. 

Something happened in the early hours of Sunday morning, which has probably been on the cards for a while now:  Valkyries and I “went on a mission” together — we masturbated at the same time, and it was very, very hot. 

Not because we were, but because of the connection that we have between us. Because I knew someone I cared about was enjoying himself and talking to me, just as I was enjoying myself and talking with him. 

We didn’t say our quiet thoughts out loud so much, I suppose because in some way, we didn’t really need to. We didn’t need to share fantasies — just knowing that the other was, was enough.

“Forgive me Daddie, for I have sinned” I giggled as my fingers found my clit. I was unapologetic really; I knew what I was doing wasn’t “wrong”. 

The thought of Valkyries filling me with his “sins” — hard and deep and over the arm of the sofa, just like I knew he wanted to  — was my undoing. 

I woke at 1:30PM on Sunday — late for the day that I had planned, though very much remembering what had happened the night before. 

Valkyries had dropped me a message, inviting me to think about what might have happened if he’d been a decade younger and we’d crossed paths on the sand dunes of Cornwall. I think how it might play out in his mind is very different than how it plays out in mine. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a woman who sets out solely to tease men — sometimes I really am out, simply adventuring. 

“What if?” thinking has been a burden for me in the past. There was a time — long before I understood geopolitics, media sensationalism and military posturing — when every “what if?” thought was fuel that would leave me bedridden with anxiety: “what if a Russian jet collided with a NATO jet, or a NATO soldier shot a Russian soldier?”, “what if Putin got mightily pissed off and launched a nuke our way?”.   

But now, now that I understand how the world works, that same “what if?” thinking presents some more interesting scenarios. I am — and my apologies to my fellow nerds who are about to have a nerd-gasm they weren’t ready for — very much a WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get) girl, and so he really would be meeting me on the dunes.

So, what if we had met on the dunes of Cornwall?  

How that interaction would go down is probably not at all how Valkyries imagines it might: I’m a friendly woman, pleasant, but I don’t chase men. So it wouldn’t be “hey, you’re fit, wanna go behind those gorse bushes and make out?”, it would be more “ah, somebody else with a sense of adventure” — friendly, lightly playful, and little else. Unless and until it was.

I have been pursued on holiday in Cornwall before, by the way, though it’s a memory I’d much rather forget. He was a site rep on the site that I was staying on, and I thought he just wanted to be friends (d’oh!). So I agreed to be friends, agreed to the whole mobile number swap thing, then he asked if I wanted to have sex in his car and I turned him down — said that I had a boyfriend, which was true at the time (though he’s now my husband). His response to that was “you have a boyfriend? I have a WIFE!”. 

Ultimately it ended in disaster for him: I said again that we should cut contact, but he came over one evening while I was playing pool with my family and pinched my ass. So I hotfooted it over to reception and I promptly reported him to management, and I held nothing back of him — a site representative — soliciting me — a holidaymaker — for extramarital sex, or of his now assaulting me after I turned him down. I made sure they understood how terrible it would look on the company if they kept him on.

They did promise me a “thorough and comprehensive” investigation, though uiltimately it wasn’t up to me whether or not they decided to terminate his contract with the company. I didn’t see him again, though, and I haven’t heard from him again either.

But that’s not to say that I haven’t thought about the “what if’s?” of Cornwall before. 

A favourite fantasy of mine would be being picked up by a couple at the on-site nightclub, possibly by the man and bought back to his wife in their caravan, though I’m cool with either option. I would be one of those “while on vacation” experiences for them: not something any of us would normally do, perhaps, but while we’re there. 

And I would be with them for a night of fun, and then in the morning, her husband would wake to find his wife already enjoying her “breakfast”. To be that for a couple, for a weekend, kind of appeals to me. 

Today has been largely unproductive again. Not because anything sex happened, but because the things that should have been working, weren’t. My combi drill battery was flat, so I charged that, then it seemed the chuck is knacked and it won’t tighten. Mr C was the one who used it last, so I’m confident that he knew it was damaged when he returned it but didn’t have the guts to tell me. I’ve decided not to confront him about it though — you can’t make a dishonest man be honest, and trying to do so would likely be a waste of my time. 

So the fence post that I have to repair is now a “Tuesday” problem, and I’ll now have to try and find a new compatible chuck to be delivered tomorrow instead.  

Master knows that it annoys me though, he can see it. He knows that nothing frustrates me more than not being able to succeed in my goals. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Fine” I reply curtly. He smiles. 

“Pissed off?” he asks.

“Pissed off that I can’t get what I wanted to do, done. Pissed off also that I think somebody returned my combi drill broken and didn’t have the gall to tell me” I say.

“I won’t be lending my tools again” I continue, “I still haven’t had my tamper back, that was my Dad’s. That’s now lost somewhere in the abyss that is his back garden!”  

Also today, Master has decided to quit football. I’ll admit that I’ve wanted him to quit for a while now, partly for somewhat selfish reasons, but also partly for his own benefit. 

The football-fitness thing that Master is signed up to requires weekly weigh-ins and food tracking. As a former anorexic — who used to be obsessed with BMI and calorie counting — both of those are habits that leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Seeing Master worry about what he “could” eat — a habit I painfully remember — I really, really wanted him to quit. I wanted him to be able to enjoy his food again, in moderation. 

And over the Christmas period, Master has definitely been enjoying his food!

So now that he’s given himself the freedom to enjoy food again, I think he’s come to realise quite how restrictive the weigh-ins and tracking can really be.

So we spoke about it, and Master seems not as excited about football as he once was. 

“I think you’ve probably hit a bit of a crossroads about it all” I say, tracing a comforting finger over his back. 

“You’re probably right” he says, “stop being right about me! I’m your husband! Let me be right for a change!” he says. I chuckle. 

“No” I say, “can I be honest about something?” I ask, turning to face Master directly. He nods. 

“I have missed our date nights; I have missed our nights together. Friday nights used to be our nights”. I see the tears form in Master’s eyes and I pull him to me.

“Hey! No need to feel guilty!” I say, “I chose to do that! I chose to let you go to football because your fitness matters too. It was a reluctant sacrifice, sure, but one I chose to make!” I continue. 

“I know” he says softly, “I’ve missed our date nights too.” 

So Master is going to go one more time to say his goodbyes, and because “I would feel like an ass if I don’t”. He has friends at football, he says, and I fully understand that — I’d never want to keep Master from his friends. 

But with date night now back on the cards, I am very much looking forward to our new future. 

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Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,

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