Full Circle

We are back from our much-needed break. It was hot, sunny and sadly I am no lighter, despite eating lots of Greek salads. (Minus the olives - Dan eats all of mine for me.)

We visited many interesting places, and the one we liked the best was a smallish island called Rhodes, just across from the Turkish mainland. The old town of Rhodes is a fascinating place; history built upon history.

Little narrow, winding, cobbled streets. Greek bars and restaurants with huge pomegranate trees with little tables and chairs under them to protect you from the heat of the day. Delicious food to try and highly intoxicating drinks to sip.

No, Dan isn't in the photograph, but it gives you an idea of what I am talking about.

See the sky. We don't see enough of that colour in the UK.

Dan and I wandered the streets and I flitted in and out of the charming little touristy shops. (I love touristy shops!) I bought some soaps made with olive oil, and some Greek herbs and spices.

Dan bought a couple of natural sponges, a new louffa, and this

It's an olive wood spatula, about twelve inches long and a quarter of an inch thick. Beautiful and innocuous. Ha!

When I fed the wooden spatula much featured in my first posts, (and the very first implement we ever used) that broke right down the middle, to the flames of one of our winter fires at least a year ago, I never thought I would have the pleasure of experiencing the feel of another one. How wrong I was!

We have turned full circle.

I hated that snippy little implement with a vengeance. It was light as a feather but it burned like a hornet's sting, and left more bruises than I care to remember.

I rarely bruise these days unless it has been a very intense session, but this little horror is a cracker. I end up with a large red patch on each cheek with a white centre to it; (Why white? I thought all bruises were blue.) These patches burn for hours and make me feel as if I have ants in my pants when I sit down later.

It only cost a few Euros and looks quite fragile. Believe me when I tell you this will probably outlast all our other implements! 

Dan is delighted with it. He can play rapid staccato, spank my thighs without causing any damage, slice it sharply into my sit spots, and even (horrors, but then, that's Dan's sense of humour) park it conveniently between my butt cheeks whilst having a discussion about my snippy attitude.

Yesterday he even went to the trouble of warming me up with leather paddle and playing Fifty Shades of Red with the cellulite brush, before ensuring my stress was totally obliterated by this endearing little wooden gem. 

At one point I tried to throw myself off his lap but he was having none of it and hung on like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. 

I was such a howling, snivelling, soggy mess by the time he had finished, that I decided on the spot to forget purchasing a wooden paddle like the big girls use - ever! 

Sadly he claims that a more severe spanking ensures better lubrication than any other kind. Horrors. Why does my body do this to me?! It seems to sever the connection with my brain and insist on commencing to orgasm. I no longer have any control over it at all. I have never yet gone into subspace, but this is something else! My mind may not be very submissive, but my body is determined to make up for it.

And it all began with a little wooden spatula.

Sigh.