They say the early bird gets the worm.
When I was working, I had to get up at 5.30 most mornings in order to join the moving car park that runs at peak times between our village and the town where I worked. I wasn't very keen in the winter, but in the spring and early summer I loved being up early, sometimes watching the sunrise turning the countryside all sparkly, and at other times just watching the new day unfold around me.
Now, unless we have a real reason to be up at the crack of dawn, like when we look after our youngest grandson for the day, we rise much later, usually after one of us fetches an early morning drink. We take time to sit and chat to each other, and peruse the world at large. During the summertime we enjoy a leisurely breakfast outside, watching the bees amongst the honeysuckle, and the sparrows in the eaves. It's a special time and we cherish it.
Since we first began DD/TTWD, we listen to each other more than we used to do. Words have assumed a greater importance. There is nothing Dan hates more, than when I am in a snit, and when he asks me what is wrong and to tell him what has upset me, to have me walk away from him. It gets him madder than a wet hen (rooster!).
Such an occurrence took place earlier this week. I shouldn't have bothered to write about it, but it was the way Dan handled it that pulled me up short. I suppose I am still thinking about it, and wonder what your reaction would be if it happened to you?
I had long finished my coffee, and Dan was sipping his (by now) lukewarm mug of tea. He was expounding at length on my snarky behaviour the previous morning, when he had been in too much of a rush to be at an appointment to do anything about it.
I was sent to fetch the little nipper. You can imagine the look of disgruntlement and horror on my face. A girl can get used to the feel of her man's hand, and even good solid leather if it is laid on with tempered strokes. But, as I was explaining to Ella the other day in a comment, wood has no give in it. It is what it is. I liked it once upon a time. But that was in the halcyon days when Dan still thought my bottom had the fragility of an eggshell, and only spanked so long, and so hard. At the time, I thought it quite long enough and hard enough, but the strange thing is that a bottom can get used to anything given time. His hand now feels like the very wooden implements I try to avoid. Leather has me glowing within five seconds the colour of Morello cherries. And really, you don't want to know how happily he wields things made of wood. Even those with holes in!
He held out his hand and I passed him the aforesaid little wooden horror, and climbed rather reluctantly over his lap. Imagine my consternation when he felt that I had slithered much too far forwards, my backside rapidly disappearing in a southerly direction.
He tugged me back, gave me a warm up to remember (long! believe me!) and set to with the nipper. It was not amusing. He needed his leg to keep me in place, and he proved once again that sit spots can be swatted just as hard as the rest of my rear. By the time he had finished, I was exhausted, hot and bothered, and ready to apologise for anything.
Once again, I thought to myself "How the heck can women stop yowling and struggling, and just give up and go limp?" I am most definitely not one of those women. The harder the spanking, the more I yowl and kick, and if it gets that bad I can cry with the best of them. (I suppose I am extra good at multi-tasking!)
The leg pinning me down was removed, and I lifted up to my hands and knees in order to crawl backwards to my side of the bed. Dan's hand on my bottom prevented me from doing so.
So picture this. Dan is propped in the most relaxed fashion possible against the headboard, with me on my hands and knees over his lap.
He started happily stroking my poor roasted rear. Thinking contentedly that this could lead to an extremely loving interval, I stayed where I was, almost purring.
Girls - beware of wolves in sheep's clothing.
Dan stopped stroking my bottom and ran his hand a couple of times over my back.
I felt him turn slightly, then something was placed right in the middle, on the flat bit just above my bottom. It felt suspiciously like a mug of lukewarm tea.
Too late I realised that the nipper had not strayed too far from his hand. He gave an evil chuckle.
"You better not move, or you will cover both me and the bed with tea."
He was serious.
I shifted just slightly and he informed me that there was still plenty of tea left in the mug, and that if it tipped over, both our beautiful white sheets, and the mattress, would be ruined. (Yorkshire tea is very strong.)
I gave a nervous giggle. I didn't know how full that blessed mug actually was, nor how long I would be expected to remain in what I thought of as a position straight out of 50 Shades.
This was confirmed by what followed. Dan solidly refuses to play with any form of tying me up, even though I think I would be more than willing. Yet I would challenge any of you to remain still whilst in the position I was in. Yet how could I move? Was that mug half full, or had he unknown to me, finished his tea, and thus it was empty?
"If you spill the tea, I shall go and get the big nipper. I think I should've used it anyway this morning."
Dan used various means to ensure I was soon squawking in an entirely different way and for an entirely different reason. And I couldn't move an inch!
Psychological bondage?! - It's blooming exhausting!
And completely hilarious!
He eventually removed the mug and I gasped with relief and collapsed on top of him.
He whispered evilly in my ear "It was empty. It's called 'trust', Ami."
He roared with laughter and after a while I joined him. Talk about a joker.
I then gave him a little lesson in trust, which I am not explaining here, but which you will have to imagine. It did involve me smiling like a Cheshire Cat at the end.