Here’s the problem with writing a sexy D/s blog.
Sometimes we aren’t all that sexy. Or all that D/s-ey.
See, we’re in that in between space. We’re in between being parents and still being someone’s children. That’s not a sexy place to be, frankly, when both parents and children are in your house. Surrounded by people, most of whom I am related to by blood and DNA makes me—well—
Really, really vanilla. Like more vanilla than vanilla ice cream. More vanilla than Laura Bush. More vanilla than Pope Francis.
So in this summery house-full-of-offspring and prespring and oldspring and God knows who else, we are NOT very much into this whole power exchange idea.
Roman isn’t bothered by any of the offspring/old prespring people at all. I have to say that. He isn’t. He shrugs and takes me into the bedroom by my hair and spanks me as hard as he likes when I give him that look or get mouthy because —let’s face it—I’m safe, aren’t I? I mean, there are people here.
Hold on, he’s calling me.
He wants to see me privately, so just wait a sec—
Okay, so that’s how I end up in the bedroom, being held by my hair.
There’s only one thing that keeps Roman from being all D to my s. And that’s work. Travel, and work.
So sometimes that happens, too.
But then there’s less to talk about.
Except everything else I’m thinking of.
Thank goodness he takes care of you or you would really be a vanilla mess! (picturing a puddle of melted ice cream) ***