The Games We Play IIII

“Voicemail set today at 06:08AM” the mechanised voice tells me. My next ‘me’ day has begun.

Really it’s not another ‘me’ day exactly, but it’s another day where I’m focusing on me and the things I want and need to do. My to-do list is at 47 items, which is the lowest it’s been in a long time. Most of it is really banal stuff – wipe down the tops in the lounge, wipe down the aquarium, empty the robovac, that sort of stuff. I was going to do a spot of gardening too but it turns out my new shovel is coming Thursday, not today, Tuesday. My bad.

On Sunday Martin’s dog, Mia, died. She was old and, according to him, really ill too. The trouble with Martin is that he’s a prolific liar, so eventually you learn to take everything he says with a very larfe pinch of salt. He’s worked for Bll Gates, besties with Miley Cyrus, worked out with Sylvester Stallone and done security work for Mark Zuckerberg, to name but a few. He even had me again a few days ago, I really believed that he was in a throuple. It took Matt pointing out to me that we’d never actually heard nor seen these girls for me to realise that it was probably all in his head.

So when Martin broke the news to me, with eyes full of tears, I was a little… umm… stoic.

I gave him a very flat and disinterested “oh, I’m sorry to hear that”, genuinely believing that Mia was probably absolutely fine and he’d just rehomed her or something, but needed a dramatic story (as usual) to accompany it. It was only when I went out into the back garden and saw the mound of earth with a bunch of roses on top of it did I realise that she was reallly gone.

I feel bad about Mia. Martin neglected her horrifically and I let it happen because I was afraid of the reprisals if I reported him. She was a territorial dog and she cornered my father-in-law twice while he was in the communal garden, though she never bit him. I could work Mia, even if she wasn’t mine. I’d tell her to sit and pull a treat from my pocket and her ass would hit the floor like it’d been electromagnetised to it. Once she and I were bonded, we were bonded for good. “Mia Mischief” was my name for her, she was a happy dog under a neglectful owner. He never let her outside very often because that meant going downstairs.

I’ve promised Mia that, if he gets another dog, I won’t let him get away with it again. The last I heard though, he doesn’t plan on getting another dog. Perhaps he’s realised that he truly can’t cope.

Things did go a bit awry with Bill and I yesterday, but not awry in a big, bad, unredeemable way. Simple misunderstandings, moments where boundaries are crossed and things feel a bit yucky. The problem with our relationship being long distance is that, when it does go yucky (and it inevitably will from time to time), we can’t be there for one another to talk it out over a cup of tea. We’re limited to texts or emails among all else, and the melancholy that impacts and frustrates two busy people in between times.

What I am proud of above all else is the way that we handled it – like two adults who still care about one another as much as ourelves. Perhaps that’s why I felt so sad; I know Bill and I didn’t want him to be sad, I also couldn’t stop him being sad and that was further bugging me. Bill talks rationale, he’s problem-focused and not egocentric, like me. It was relatively easy to smack the big, red “STOP! button, take a step back and analyse what had gone wrong, as a team. Bill is not in charge of us, he recognises the power balance and we work together to assess and fix it. This all promises good things.

We recognised almost straight away that we had rushed into things, though it is different to the situation with my ex. Bill picked me up after that relationship, as my friend, and he knew that I was kinky. We decided to pursue the relationship without ever diiscussing things like rules and hard limits because we already knew one another as friends, so it felt like a natural progression of that. I think that’s a testamount to how we are with one another – there’s already trust and respect there, we don’t need no rules.

But Bill is a Dom and I am a sub, so it was working to find, if we can, what works for us while retaining both what we already have and a desire to explore kink together. It’s almost clean slate stuff from here; start from scratch and go again.

I was clear with Bill that I don’t do punishments. I can negotiate rules that I will follow and I am agreeable to ‘funishments’, but not punishments, I don’t consent to being punished. If there’s a problem, we talk like a normal couple. Keep it light, keep it playful, keep it fun. A need for fun is a boundary for me, I can’t be doing serious all the time.

I did have a moment yesterday, a stupid moment that made me smile. I guess on the back of what Bill had said, about this being the niggles that every couple has in the beginning of a relationship. I thought about the end of the first Fifty Shades, and the beginning of the second, after their big bust up. Okay, so ours was hardly a big bust up and Bill hasn’t sent me flowers (though for a severely anthophobic person like me then that’s probably for the best!) but it was that. That moment, that tension – wanting to try again, but setting out the terms.

“No rules, no punishments, no secrets” I smile to myself in the mirror.

I love Dakota Johnson, and I guess for two reasons. First, she’s brunette and blue eyes like me, so pretty much whatever Dakota can rock, I can rock. I never thought to wear dark grey (no reference) before, but thanks to Dakota, it’s now in my wardrobe. Second, she’s a smartmouth like I am, and I find people love that about me too – my feisty side. I can’t count the number of times Matt gave me the side eye during the films, only to catch me trying to stifle a giggle because he knew it was exactly the kind of shit that I’d come up with.

“Your mouth has a tendency to get you into trouble, Mrs S” Matt warns me.

“It’s possible,” I reply, “but it’s damned good at getting me out of it, too.”

Last night I made “Guide Camp mac ‘n’ cheese” or, really just mac n cheese without the faff. No baking in the oven, just cook it up in the pan and serve. I’m confident, but Matt doubts it will taste as good as his many hours, many pans recipe.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks, I raise an eyebrow at him. Coming from the man who wrongly thought that I made spaghetti bolognese with a sauce jar and burnt a lasagne? That’s a bit rich.

I throw the macaroni in a dry pan just to fuck with him, then I add the water. While that boils I fry off some diced chorizo and line a bowl with kitchen towel to absorb the oil.

“What are you doing?! You need the oil” Matt says in a state of dismay.

“No, I don’t. Go and sit down, this is my recipe” I tell him. He goes, but he’s not happy about it.

I make up my roux with ease and add the cheese with a quantity of freshly ground black pepper. Pasta drained, I add it and the chorizo and combine. Not to be outdone, I top the bowls with some grated grana padano and grill them for a few minutes. I pull them out and place them down on the table.

“Buon appetito” I smile.

He’s hesitant, but he clears the lot.

“That, Mrs S, was a bloody good mac n cheese” he admits.

“Next time, o ye of little faith” I tease.

“Two pans and twenty minutes, to boot. Your move” I wink.

I got up this morning in a rather disheveled state of affairs, My once-brushed hair is in serious need of some taming and I could smell the sex on me. It’d been a fun night, a wild night, an unabashed night. I’d never heard my husband growl before and yet I don’t know that I minded it.

“I’ve unleashed the wolf, haven’t I?” I ask.

“I think you have” he growls, and fills me again.

Confessing my surrender to his will and desire was his undoing. My bad. A cunning linguist is a dangerous thing.

By day I’m back to errands as though nothing had happened. I’m washed, dressed and lightly deododorised, my air of nonchalance is frustrating for my husband because he knows exactly why it’s there: my submissive state has ebbed off and I’m fully recharged, I’m ready to duel again.

Today though, he decides the last laugh is his

I’m in the kitchen making pancakes for Pancake Day when I hear the kitchen Google speaker chirp. It seems momentarily odd to me but I don’t think too much of it. Technology does weird stuff sometimes, technology’s technology, after all.

While I’m making his second bacon and maple syrup pancake, I hear Rolling Stones’ “Beast Of Burden” played over the speaker, I know straight away what he’s getting at. He’s too proud of himself as he saunters out of the bedroom.

“Alright dear?” Matt grins.

“Fine thankyou, and you?” I smile back. I’m not going to be bugged by him and his games.

“The pancakes smell good” he says as he steps into the kitchen.

“We aim to please, Mr S” I reply. Might as well beat them at their own game.

“Hmm, I prefer to aim somewhere else” he smirks against my cheek.


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