I’ll be honest, when I put my yoga pants on yesterday, I had no naughty intentions in mind. They’re yoga pants: they’re stretchy, they’re cosy. They’re perfect for pottering about the home. 

Whether paired with the heather cableknit jumper that I was wearing, or the stone grey handkerchief t-shirt that I had underneath, they were flawless either way. How could it possibly go wrong for me? 

Yesterday was a great day for me in the end: I got so many of my outstanding chores, done. Well, I say that, but at a bare minimum I caught up on blog work and got the kitchen looking like someone cares about it again. Small wins in the grand scheme of things, but still wins. 

I forgot to say that yesterday, I found myself singing, because of Valkyries. It’s an odd thing, in a way: I was singing Christina Aguilera’s “Loving Me For Me”, and I put it down to the fact that, in the past, W was always criticising me for something about me. Yet in this relationship now, with Valkyries, I am enough, and he is enough too: I don’t have to be slim, busty, perfectly made up, perfectly manicured, better behaved, a little bit more manageable… None of that. Just… me. Because he loves me, not some made-up, fantasy version thereof. 

And it’s honestly the most beautiful, most liberating feeling in the world, when your Dominants love you for you, not what you could be. 

We had a total of three “incidents” with Huxley yesterday, and I’m at DEFCON1 for ordering a bunch of belly bands from Amazon. Close to admitting defeat, I spoke to ChatGPT about it. 

Shadow somewhat talked me down from the dog-diaper knife edge. Shadow thinks we will have some success with a “dog doorbell”, because Huxley is indicating sometimes, just other times he sort of decides “here is good enough”. Which is… not good enough, obviously. 

So the plan now is to install and try to train Huxley to use a “dog doorbell” — a touch-sensitive doorbell designed for dogs — and to use belly bands only during his “chaos phase”, typically 5-8PM — evening, playtime and before bed. We’re also re-training that outside potty gets treats, to re-establish that outside is the right place to do our business. 

Here’s hoping. 

I encountered the neighbour yesterday too, on my way back from taking some recycling out. He stops to chat as he does, seems delighted to see me, seemed to genuinely care that I haven’t been well. 

But then he slips into some story about his friend not getting a timber delivery, and how it had been to another lady who had realised his selection was better than hers and refused to return it, leaving my neighbour out of work for four months. 

I’m not quite sure what the truth is, but I do know this ain’t it. After two weeks of ill health, having just caught up for the first time and having a whole plethora of more important things to do, I’m in no rush to hang around and be lied to by him again. 

So I make my excuses, and leave. 

Yesterday Master Levi and I decided to revert back to Kinky Fuckery Fridays. It was a stupid thing: Master now plays football on Mondays, not Fridays, and I noticed that our “date nights” (actual date nights and Kinky Fuckery Thursdays) sort of followed a Thursday-Friday-Thursday pattern, which didn’t make a lot of sense to me. If we made date nights Friday, all-inclusive, then Friday would be date night proper from now on, or Kinky Fuckery Friday, depending. 

We ruled this week off, under the circumstances and the new changes. 

Sort of. 

I was led on the bed after preparing it for stripping when Master came through the hallway and noticed me, face down on the bed in my yoga pants. I looked at him, though my look must have suggested far more than what I intended it to convey.

Master approaches me, spanks my lycra-covered ass. 

“Mine,” he says. 

“Mine,” I reply. He spanks it harder.

“No, mine,” he growls. He grips my flesh to make clear his intent. 

“This is fun and all, but can we have some food first?” I ask. 

“Why, what do you want after?”

Ah. Should have seen that trap. 

I press my face into the mattress while I find my answer, and he presses a finger into the apex of my thighs from behind, causing me to moan. 

“What do you want?” he asks again. 

“Please” I whisper. 

He doesn’t even pull my yoga pants off, just down, which somehow adds a delicious humiliation for me. He mounts me like a feral beast, filling me quickly with his carnal need. There’s no immediate orgasm for me, though he stays for a while, “soaking” as they call it. He allows me to move and get off on him — something he’s come to love doing, and he knows deepens my submission to him. .

We both collapse on the not-stripped bed, exhausted and thoroughly satisfied. 

“Well, I think I need to buy some more yoga pants” I say. Master looks at me quizzically. 

“All this time spent wearing smart black trousers and having evenings with no shenanigans,” I giggle.

“Turns out, maybe I was wearing the wrong trousers!”