Please send help. And possibly a blanket.

It’s been a few days again and plenty has happened. I think I wanted to do it this way, to report every few days — maybe once or twice a week — rather than report on every little thing that happens. Life happens, but if I’m reporting it, I’m not really living it.

Master now knows in full about the trip to Newcastle, and he has the tour tickets in his hand. I held a mini “surprise” (but not really because I accidentally revealed the plan to him on Facebook!) party on Tuesday — that was originally planned for Saturday — but we were both still ill. I’m now pleased to say that, minus a slight dry cough, I have more or less shifted the bug.

The party was a success, and everyone cooed over the choco-mint cupcakes I made with green, mint-flavoured buttercream and candy football decorations. It also turns out, mine is a family of spring roll lovers — the three remaining in my biological family wound up standing around in my kitchen, discussing our favourite fillings and dips for them.

My father-in-law has caused some irritation: he told Master Levi that he is “glad you liked your surprise”, he also told him that “Elena did a lot of planning”. I took a sharp intake of breath: he’s glad?! I “did a lot of the planning”?! It was my fucking idea! Elena also paid 17% of the cash pool (my Mum paid a whopping 67%, my father-in-law just 10%). Master’s best friend Lewis — who will be accompanying him on the trip — paid for the transport, which makes up approximately the remaining 16%. Still, he’s glad?! We’re all fucking glad!

There was an attempt to upstage the group effort too, almost as though the trip wasn’t enough somehow and he wanted to get Master some match tickets as well. I rolled my eyes, though I did have to have a naughty little smile when he was told that match tickets are almost impossible to get hold of only days before a game.

Perhaps your biggest rival is the one in your mirror?

So I’m going to address the events of yesterday in reverse order, because, well, teasing is fun, isn’t it, Addy? 😉

So my friends on the Lovehoney Forum, I think, now know who the Admiral is. He mentioned “Kinky Fuckery Science” on the forum. I had to smile.

For those who don’t know, “Kinky Fuckery Science” came about after I used the common adage “for science” to justify my reasoning for doing something. I use it a lot: new chocolate flavour I’ve bought? It’s for science. Interesting biscuit flavour combination? It’s for science. New type of toy on the market? You get the idea.

So I’d said (in my private conversations) that I was going to do something — I believe it was try a new toy type — and I said that I was going to purchase it “for science”. To see what it was like.

With that, the Admiral said that it was “for Kinky Fuckery Science”.

Dear God, no. No! A thousand times, no.

Since then, the Admiral has loved “Kinky Fuckery Science”. He is the founder of Kinky Fuckery Science and the mad scientist behind it. I did not sign up for it, and I did not agree to it. Yet, he knows that my body and mind have a very hard time resisting it — he knows that he’s playing with my deepest, darkest desires.

Even if I try to resist it, I end up at war with myself. Resistance really is futile with him, and he knows it too.

But perhaps that inability to resist goes both ways?

It makes me giggle saying that, actually, because one of the perfumes in my… arsenal, is Very Irresistible Givenchy. I make no apologies for the fact I used to wear it — lightly — when I fucked Master Levi’s brains out, and then I’d wear it, say, to the pub with our friends. I make no bones of the fact I conditioned my poor husband to find me irresistible, because, well, I knew what I wanted!

He now bans me from wearing it, heaven forbid a man becomes… dickstracted by my presence!

Ah, these boys. They think they’re in control? It’s cute 😉

But back to my story.

I went on the Lovehoney Forum to help people who are curious about kink, to provide links to my articles (and thus get me out there and help drive up traffic) and maybe nab a few freebie testers along the way. That was it! Not romance — the forum isn’t about hook-ups or romance. I was there to work.

The Admiral and I — who both have decades of kink experience behind us — started working together to help kink-curious people; we even started joking about being one another’s “work wife” or “work husband” while we did. It was a shared joke about what we did; I don’t think either of us really took it seriously because neither of us were looking for love — we both knew that the forum isn’t about that!

Then we discovered that we are “simpatico”. That was the word he introduced me to, that meant nothing to me until it did. “Simpatico” — we think alike. We see the world similarly. We are aligned in our goals. We are “simpatico”.

Of course I laughed — there was no way that this man could be anything like me! If he was trying to sweep me off my feet then he’d be hard-pressed: three heartbreaks in three years of polyamory meant I wasn’t buying what he was selling. At all!

He was serious. We’re both Virgos, self-employed, stubborn, strategic. We both play battleships, we both cook and we both love nature, walking and animals. We both love machines, science and the sound of an Intercity125 on a cold start.

He saw me.

The Admiral did message me through Discord, through my blog. Despite how much of a hoo-ha there is on the forum about members being able to contact blogging members through our blogs, and despite there being no built-in IM function on the forum, it doesn’t actually happen that often. Probably only three times that I can recall, and only one of those has led to romance.

Even our birthdays are a week apart, though the age gap is quite a bit more than that — ten years.

So I could resist it, or I could accept it. Either way, he would have me know: resistance is futile; assimilation is certain.

I sent him the Mission: Impossible theme; I said it would be “impossible” for him to get close to me. I said I was done with romance.

He told me I might try Wagner’s “Ride Of The Valkyries” instead. I gasped, I know that piece! It’s military and intimidating and overpowering and…

So I dubbed him “Mister Valkyries” to diminish his rather inflated sense of bravado. Instead of finding me weird, the sod adopted it like a badge of honour.

I called him “Admiral Snookiebear” when he kept asking me to say hello to my Mum for him. I said that I would tell her “Admiral Snookiebear says hello”.

Ha! Cute and cuddly. Absolutely not fierce or intimidating at all!

He adopted that one too.

Well fine. If he wants to fight the battle for my heart? Then fine.

I told him that folk would write fables about his brave efforts in years to come. In the end, he will go the same way Richard of York did.

The sod knows I’m bluffing; he knows that I wouldn’t hurt him intentionally, or at least not without good reason. The pair of them do this to me and it is infuriating as hell.

I mentioned this clip on Fetlife the other day, but I will mention it here as well. It made me laugh out loud in that it is so reminiscent of some of my exchanges with the pair of them. I meet them with a point to make, then I discover too late that they’ve already come well prepared.

So I told the Admiral last night that I would put out a “memo” today, publicly acknowledging the relationship between he and I. Though, I said, I wasn’t sure it would be a memo so much as a mayday call. After all, I also said, the one with the pirate-adjacent name had boarded my ship, stolen my heart and taken me prisoner for his Kinky Fuckery Science to boot.

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

So about playtime last night.

I was looking forward to last night. It’s been a long time and, now that I’m finally managing the housework much better, I was really looking forward to playing. Not just fucking, but playing. I wanted the bondage, the pinwheel, the flogger. The lot.

Flat tidied, I fetched Master’s “box of tricks”.

So a quick update: the door broke off of the mirrored wardrobe in our bedroom and, despite my best efforts, it couldn’t be fixed. So we now have a shared open wardrobe with a wardrobe with shelves and doors next to it.

And whilst we like the open-plan feel, it did leave us with nowhere to hang our toys, and hanging them on the bedroom door would leave them adjacent to the bedroom window, on the ground level with a street view — perhaps not the best location!

So they’re now in a white woven wicker box at the bottom of the wardrobe instead. Minus the crop and cane, which are hung up on hooks on the inside of the side panel.

I placed Master’s box of tricks on my desk, then moved over to kiss him. I was flirting with him about the night ahead, and how he might “try” to handle me.

But later. Not now.

Master moved suddenly, leaving me bent over the bed and remarkably unstable on my feet. He walked behind me, wrapped his hand in my pony and pulled my head back gently. Suddenly, I don’t feel so in control.

“And who makes the rules?” he asked. I didn’t answer him. I refused to answer him.

He spanked me hard. I gasped.

“Who makes the rules, Kitten?” he asked again. I lowered my head as best I could.

“You do, Sir,” I whispered.

“That’s right! Daddy makes the rules.”

“So who decides when we play?” he continues. I hear him unzip his fly and I bite my lip.

“Daddy does,” I whisper.

Though Kitten is not against this.

He takes me hard, deep and without abandon, his need created by more than a week of illness. Daddy is not the type to masturbate; he much prefers his seed where it belongs.

I left him to sleep after and while I cooked dinner. Even if a submissive “should” feel grateful to be used, I can’t help but feel a little salty about how the night went. We both have needs, but right here, only one has been met.

While I cook, I’m huffy. I find myself singing Britney’s “Touch Of My Hand” again, and Julia Micheals’ “Heaven” too.

It’s no use. I’m only tormenting myself.

We ate dinner in near-silence, not because either was really angry at the other but because neither of us knew what to say, and neither wanted to say the wrong thing and make the situation worse. Master knew that I was upset, he didn’t need me to tell him.

“Well, I suppose I better go put your toys away then,” I say wryly after dinner.

“Though I might have to get one of mine out later instead,” I add with a giggle.

“Fair enough,” Master says plainly. Oof. I felt that one.

As it was, I didn’t need one of my toys. Master now knew that I had plans to take care of my needs, so when I went into the bedroom to get changed for bed, he followed me — all cocksure like — stripped me of my clothes and devoured me instead.

“Still need your toys?” he grins, wiping my nectar from his beard.

“Oddly enough, no!” I breathe.

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