It's come to my attention lately that some readers have a view of Jason as being extremely serious and stern. My bad as a writer. In focusing on the whole D/S thing, I do emphasize that aspect maybe a bit too much. But I think if you met him, this would strike you as funny, because he is anything but extremely serious and stern.
Oh, he can be very stern. And I do love stern. In fact, I've been thinking a good deal lately on the appeal of authority, and why Jason's authority over me is so attractive (but no, no, that's a deep and involved topic that will take a lot of time and words! Not today! Look for that exploration in the next few weeks, ha!)
We do have morning check-in's, every single day. And yes, there are days when I'm feeling bratty, or overwhelmed, or I've got so very much on my plate, he takes my chin in hand, gives me that piercing look, and tells me "I expect you to obey me today and that's not a suggestion." There are times he pulls me down firmly over his lap and reminds me with a sound spanking what he expects of me. Just yesterday, he fisted his hand in the nape of my neck, pulled my head back, and whispered in my ear, "What did I tell you about that?" Pheeewww, stern hotness!
But no no no no! There I go again!
I promise, there's lot of room for goofiness, joking, and silliness! I've so neglected that exploration in my serious corner of blogland.
There are some days when he is not stern.
Just the other day, I was giving him a curious look, as he had that "come hither so I may spank you" gleam in his eye, and he pulled me over his lap with a "Don't worry, baby! I'm not going to spank you....yet! Dom, dom DOM!" with the wonky little inflection my kids use to indicate impending doom. Enter mammoth swat!
Then I dared show him a picture someone posted with a perfect shape of a red hand mark on a lily white bottom. I showed this to him because it struck me as funny (the girl had a feigned shock expression, covering her mouth with her hand with wide eyes, clearly quite enjoying herself). This was a mistake! Little did I know, Jason would take it as his personal mission to form his own perfect shape of a red hand mark on my bottom, and every single check in this week has gone like this.
Me, over his knee. He pauses. He centers himself. He aims. He fires!
"Ooooowwwww!" I say as I just about leap out of my skin from the impact of his bare hand on my own backside. He is completely unfazed, wholly fixed on admiring his handiwork, and seeing if he's yet achieved the perfect handprint.
"Hmmm," he murmurs, "not exactly perfect yet."
"Ah, that's better," in the subdued tone of an appraiser. "Perfect handmark." He gloats, while I feign being affronted and rub the sting out of my bottom (though I'm not in the least inclined to stop offering my bottom as his canvas).
There are some days these....ahem...cheeks of mine... (what do they call them in the books? Round globes? Half moons? Derriere? Oh, the amusing phrasing of one's arse in the literary realm amuse me to no end) are pinched mercifully and he decides he's going to do something extremely mortifying like play drums on my rear. Readers, beware of the dangers of submitting to a musical dom.
The title of this post says "the bad." Don't say I didn't warn you!
If you submit to a Dom with a sense of humor, he just might do something like make your butt cheeks talk to each other, for comic relief. He may even name them, or have them argue with one another. Lawdy.
He might think it outrageously funny as a date night tradition to corner you in your driveway and pinch your bottom mercilessly, and please, beware if he's had a drink or two and is feeling emboldened, and you just happen to be wearing a skimpy dress with a thong underneath, and you decide this time as soon as you exit your car you're going to run as fast as you can to your front door, knowing full well what's he planning, that you will have to fumble with your keys, and he he might think it vastly amusing to chase you down, lift your skirt, and give you a full-on bare bottomed spanking for all the world to see. Ahem.
And if you watch Outlander together, he may find it funny to lecture in the accent of a stern Scottish Highlander. "Over mah knee, lass, fer a reminder that yer ta obey the master of this house er else!" he may say, continuing to lecture in a variety of accents as your poor bottom submits to his vigorous hands. But, if you've watched Outlander together...you may find this hot. Incorrigible!
If he's been reading "Dr. Suess" to your children, he may decide to write his own little diddy, "I Will Not Spank You, Dom I am, I Do Not Like to Spank you, Ma'am! I will not spank you here, or there, I will not spank you anywhere!"
But if he's nice, he may apologize for scaring you by saying he won't spank you, and he'll spank you thoroughly anyway.
Be prepared by having your own tools at the ready. I have had some minor success in kneeling before him, wrapping my arms around his waist while pretending to hug him, and surreptitiously grabbing the implement he's left on the bed and very quickly tossing it to the other end of the bed so he's grasping at air when he goes to fetch it. This doesn't actually work in not getting you spanked, but it does give you a bit of a delay.
The other day, I told Jason I had just finished a delectably entertaining historical romance which took place in the medieval time period, and despite the fact that it was hot (and it truly had the best spanking scene I have ever read -- "Defy Not the Heart" by Johanna Lindsay, review to come this week!) one thing I liked best about it was the old-fashinoned insults. Lackwit! Ha! I now have these delightful little phrases at the ready, and when he began teasing me, I promptly announced he was a dog-hearted clodpate, as I tackled him on our bed.
Tackling him is really quite fun sport. It burns calories, and usually gets me spanked. Win, win, in my book.
He announced the next day, when I confessed to slipping up with a few mild swear words, that going forward I would get one firm swat for every letter of a swear word I utter.
"Good thing most of them are four letters," I muttered, my bottom still burning from his having spelled D-A-M-N on my round globes, puncuated by stinging swats.
He raised an eyebrow, with the following dire threat. "Maybe going forward, you'll reconsider your choice to call me a dog-hearted clodpate."
I nodded, while feigning being thoroughly chastened.
You see, dog-hearted clodpate isn't really a swear. But let's not tell Jason that, shall we? In fact, I'm open to suggestions of long-winded, old-fashioned cursing and insults. It's part of the fun, you see. ;)
(courtesy of societypages.org)