He lets her sleep, watching her breathing, her body curled, mouth a little open.
So tender she looks, and tenderness is what he feels in his heart.
And his cock is half-hard. Because he knows how her awakening will be.
The wheels of chance have spun, and I wanted champagne and runny cheese, or possibly money. But what I got was “natural light” and “toys”.
“Well, all right,” she said, “at least about the natural light. But that damn paddle is never a toy.”
I picked up the paddle, and slapped it on the wooden table, which really was there, just out of shot in this image. The impact of leather on wood made a noise like a Presidential assassination. With an old-fashioned 303: they were loud. It made a noise that discouraged further argument with the man who held that paddle.
“I say it’s a toy,” I said. Cockily. “Discuss?”
No. There was no more discussion.
It was time for percussion.
The title of this post includes a word I think I’ve never actually typed before. It’s there because a romance writer of modest gifts, Faleena Hopkins, took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, and is using that as the basis for sending threatening letters to other writers who’ve used the word “cocky” in book-titles.
The letters threaten to take all the proceeds from any book written with the word “cocky” in the title.
As a former magazine editor, if I got a letter on those lines I’d laugh, show it round the office so others could have a snort, and glue it to a sheet in the crank file. (We used to keep the threats we received, to look through and cheer ourselves up if we ever thought we were being boring.)
But writers who don’t have access to legal advice, and are living hand to mouth, can easily find such letters alarming.
The Romance Writers of America is now preparing a case to have the copyright over the word “cocky” overturned. But for this week, in support of writers threatened by Faleena Hopkins, my every post will have the word “cocky” in the title.
You can follow this story by checking #byefaleena on Twitter.
See where she lies! a mortal shape indued
With love and life and light and deity,
And motion which may change but cannot die;
An image of some bright Eternity;
A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendour
Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a tender
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love
Under whose motions life’s dull billows move;
A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning;
A Vision like incarnate April, warning,
With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy
Into his summer grave.
Oh, did you find the whip then?
Oh, yes, thank you.
The Third Sphere, in Plotinian philosophy, is the circle/orbit of Venus, goddess of love. Her Sphere is pilotless when she visits one of the other Spheres, e.g. Earth’s.
That flogger had to be somewhere. That dom had looked under the end of the bed. But when he came back up to bed level, he saw his girl had changed positions. And he looked at the sweet, beautiful lines of her body.
And he wasn’t looking for his whip anymore. Which meant he was about to find it.
Life teaches submissives in fierce, fiery sensations. But doms don’t have doms, generally, so it teaches us in parables.
A lazy afternoon. A dom, looking under the bed, the chair, in the tools drawer, muttering.
A girl with a smug, quiet smile.
“Where’s my damn flogger?” he shouted.
She said nothing at all.
The body in this image, and the idea for this picture, is that of the lovely model, whose blog is here.
Wordsworth once said that poetry is emotion reflected on, during tranquillity. So this is poetry: Everything was movement and heat, barely controlled and pleasurable chaos, just minutes before.
Now, there’s a long moment of peace. She is still, and her mind is still. Her body is warm, and her mind is cool. No thoughts, just body-memories.