Raven's Diary: Book Two

by Anastasia Vitsky

  Anyone else who gave me an expensive phone and vacation would expect me to contribute my fair share or, at the very least, be grateful. You don’t seem to want that. It’s as if that doesn’t matter to you, and you want me to focus on myself.

  I don’t get it.

  You keep saying, and my friend Mistress Lorelei says, that this is a job. I’m paid to do what you expect. But, and this is going to really offend you, what kind of job pays for someone to get spanked?

  Am I a call girl who gets spanked?

  (Maybe I should get a long, fancy cigarette lighter and black elbow gloves. And a tiara.)

  You talk about jobs as if I put on a suit to go to board meetings and write grant proposals, but my work consists of baring my backside and letting you inflict inordinate amounts of pain. Oh, and tell me when to go to bed and how to spend the money you give me.

  You’re persuasive. You make it sound so easy, simple, and matter-of-fact. I do as you explain, and everything will be fine. You make it sound adult. Responsible. Professional, even, and honorable.

  I sit here in this silly dress and slippers and feel as if any sane, competent adult would run the other way.

  What if I did everything you said, exactly how you said, and when you said? I don’t get to say no. I don’t get a safeword. There’s no emergency exit, right? Once I let you take over, where will you stop? Will I like it too much? What if I hate it?

  I suppose it’s completely inappropriate to say how sexy you are when you put your foot down. I hate that you’re upset and don’t want to be the cause of your frustration, but oh my gosh. My heart nearly stopped when you took me by the waistband of my skirt and made me stand in front of you.

  I hope you don’t think I’m being flippant. I know I was in trouble and deserved it, and I’m sorry. I can’t say how sorry I am. But is it wrong that your measured tone of voice, glittering eyes, and sense of coiled-up power gave me a thrill? It’s hard to explain because I don’t want you mad at me like that again. Ever. It was as bad as that night you got upset when I wouldn’t stay in bed. My knees weaken, my heart rate speeds up, and I can’t think straight. (Can a lesbian think straight? Ha!) It’s intoxicating, somehow. You’re like a lion, curled up and ready to spring at the slightest provocation. You don’t spring, but you give this impression of holding back enormous power and energy. Then your slightest touch or softest word makes me tremble.

  It sounds very cavewoman-ish, doesn’t it? Grab and whack, then watch me swoon. I still get tingly when I think about it. Even knowing this next spanking will be awful can’t quite kill the floaty, bubbly sort of happiness inside of me. I keep thinking, I love you. Only it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Silly puppy love trotting after the older woman.

  It’s as if we have an unspoken code. If I say everything that embarrasses me, maybe I’ll spoil the magic. I’ll ruin things or find out you don’t feel the same way, after all. I want you to do everything while I pretend I don’t want it.

  I’ve always thought of myself as clear-headed and focused, at least until I met you. Now I might as well be buck-toothed and thirteen, lisping through braces and anxiously peering into the mirror while I check for zits. I’m all arms and legs, awkward and inarticulate.

  You asked me a while back what I thought would help. I want to feel like an adult. I want to feel like this is a serious, legitimate job that I could talk about with my friends and family. I want…I don’t know? Performance evaluations and a business expense account and a boss? Now I feel like a little kid getting an allowance from Mommy, getting sent to bed like a child, and having to do chores because you’ll ground me if I don’t.

  Semantics, you might say. Only it isn’t. I want to respect myself. You say I should respect you and myself, but how is following orders showing respect?

  You keep saying this is a real job. Can we treat it more like one?

  I suppose I’m not in a position to ask for anything, am I?

  I think…well, sometime this seems like a trap. A long, slow game that leads up to something I don’t understand. It all seems too good to be true. Maybe you think I should “woman up,” as it were, and do what you want.

  Respect, commitment, honesty, and fulfillment. You talked about fulfillment before, only it got a little lost in everything else that happened.

  Okay, you want me to work toward long-term life goals. I can understand that. But bedtime?

  No, I’m not arguing about it! Don’t make it any earlier, please! Please! I beg of you!

  I already don’t know what I’m going to do about nine o’clock. Maybe you’re trying to teach me to give up. It’s like that plant that grabs you until you stop moving. Is that it? I’m supposed to give in, and you’ll let me go?

  If this is a real job and I’m a professional, why are you dictating my bedtime?

  I suppose you’ll say what you always say, that it’s about my choices and so on. You pointed out that some actors are forbidden from doing certain activities considered too dangerous, and some companies might forbid their employees from riding in a car without a seatbelt. Or that sometimes a curfew might not just be a company policy, but a government policy.

  But we live in America. We’re free. We can decide for ourselves.

  Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  Right?

  I know this much. You make me happy, even when I resist. I feel free when you hold me close. I feel alive when I’m part of you.

  And yet it all feels wrong.

  Doesn’t it?

  Didn’t you ever wonder if this was wrong? Like, I don’t know, if maybe you’d grown up able to like boys and do all the normal little-girl stuff, maybe you wouldn’t get fascinated by all this kink? What if your parents found out? Neighbors, business associates, friends?

  What if someone found out what I do?

  If this is my job, I’m your employee.

  Can a boss date her subordinate?

  Are we dating?

  If I treat this like just another job, what does that mean for you and me?

  (1285 words! Surely quality matters more than quantity? This is agony!)

  Okay, here’s something else I don’t get. I understand I have to do what you say, blah blah. Why is the tracker app so important? You would really throw me out over one tiny mistake?

  That was forty-six more words. Forty-six plus one thousand two hundred and eighty five equals how many words? One thousand three hundred and forty nine.

  Words.

  More words.

  Thoughtful, funny, insightful, and appropriate words.

  Words that change your mind.

  Words that promise what you want to hear.

  Words that will make everything all right.

  Words that will make me all right, our relationship all right, and this trip all right.

  I’ve never been to Florida before. Will we lie about in the sun, tanning ourselves and drinking exotic alcohol?

  Will there be a cute cabana girl to serve us?

  Or are you expecting me to be the cute cabana girl?

  Mm, that might be fun.

  More words.

  I hate writing punishment essays.

  My neck itches.

  Please tell me we can leave this awful dress here. I don’t want it to come with us to Florida.

  If you don’t want to listen to me complain (read, really), how else am I supposed to use my two thousand words?

  Are you bringing this huge, heavy book onto the plane? Hope it’s going into your luggage. It won’t fit in mine. I need my computer and pillow.

  Too bad I can’t bring extra pillows to sit on.

  If you’re going to make me carry a phone with a tracking app, why not just microchip me? Like I’m a dog?

  Sorry, that was rude. I just don’t know what else to write, and I have several hundred words left.

  I’d rather have almost any other punishment than these essays.

  I wouldn’t whine if I didn’t have anything to whine about!r />
  How are you going to introduce me to people? Are we going to go as friends? Co-workers? Girlfriends?

  Is this trip supposed to be a punishment? Am I supposed to worry and wish I’d behaved better so I wouldn’t have to go? It is a little of a bother to reschedule my teeth cleaning since the dentist is always booked six months in advance, but that’s not a big deal. I have another round of edits coming in, but I can do that anywhere.

  It’s exciting, really. One moment you’re scowling at me as if you’ll shout to leave forever, and the next you’re making airline reservations.

  I don’t think I own a swimsuit anymore.

  Can I propose a deal?

  If I don’t have to write punishment essays anymore, I’ll stop complaining about bedtime. Cross my heart and hope to die and all those things we said when we were kids. I don’t care if this serves as good free writing for the other things I have to do. Writing is my job, well my other job, and I hate it when my two worlds collide.

  I don’t mind so much when it’s time for thinking and so on, but I hate writing as a punishment.

  You asked for honesty. Here’s the best I can do.

  I wish that you needed me. I wish I had expertise you needed, and you could learn something from me. I hate that things are one-sided. That’s what self-respect means for me, being equal.

  Maybe we can’t ever be equal, not in this kind of arrangement. Maybe you don’t even want it.

  I’ll go on this trip with you, and I’ll do what you say. But…I have the sense that something bad will happen. Things will go wrong. We’ll fight. I’ll keep disappointing you.

  I’m tired of always being on the receiving end. (Pun not intended.) I hate that I never get to give back.

  I want to give something back to you, Raven.

  How can I respect myself unless I do?

  (I need sixty-seven more words. Do these count? I don’t think you know how long a two thousand word essay really is, Raven. Really long. Really, really, really, really, really, really, really long. Filled with lots of words that don’t add meaning but simply add to the word count. That’s forty-nine words. Fifty-two. Only fifteen words left, and now it’s a lot fewer. Maybe next time I can write until I’m done instead of for a word count.)

  2011 words. I think I’m going to collapse from exhaustion.

  OMG, I just remembered.

  Now you’re going to spank me.

  Wait! I want to write some more! Don’t call for me yet!

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear sweet, impossible girl of mine who over-thinks everything and gets herself into trouble by breathing,

  We’re here. You’re unpacking your suitcase and heading for a much-needed shower. (Goodness, who would have thought Florida could be this hot?) Everything is so tiny here. Tiny, delicate, and open wide. There’s no need to bundle up against the freezing cold, and even the walls seem less rigid. I’m sitting in what would be a screened-in porch back home, but here it seems to be a permanent room with screens instead of walls. “Be careful of snakes,” Celine told us. I think even a snake might be peaceful here.

  I must admit, the house is far smaller than I’d anticipated. Just the two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and this tiny pool. It’s odd to have you close enough that I can hear the shower running.

  Look, Alena. There are so many things you can’t or won’t understand, and maybe I’ve gone about things the wrong way. I think it’s wonderful for you to talk with Celine later today. She’s been in a D/s relationship for quite a while, and she might have good advice for you. If nothing else, it might help you to commiserate with someone who’s been in your shoes. Or in the same spanking position. :-)

  There’s no right or wrong way for us to have a relationship. You seem to flounder in search of some blueprint that will tell you exactly what to expect. Or you seem convinced that I have the answers and am purposely not sharing them with you. I can tell you what’s happened with relationships prior to you, but I can’t tell you where you and I are going. We simply don’t know.

  We can start with the basics.

  You say you want a more business-like arrangement, but you shy away from the commitments of doing so. Performance evaluation? How can I evaluate your submission? I can and do tell you when I’m disappointed in your behavior, and I have pointed out ways I’d like you to improve. And, let’s be frank, you haven’t appreciated any of that.

  You want to know whether I’d care for you if the situation were different. Let’s flip that around. Would you care for me if the situation were different? It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it?

  I’m setting up a daily schedule for you—well, for us, really. I’m willing to forego the punishment essays for now, provided you make a genuine effort in your diary. But please be forewarned that the discipline will not get any easier. We’re here for intensive training, and you may not find it pleasant. You will be expected to submit in ways you don’t enjoy, and you may struggle with rebellion and attitude.

  The good news, my girl, is that here I am prepared to deal with it. You will not be expected to handle things on your own. In fact, if you would like to argue and rebel—have at it. Get it out of your system. You will be dealt with swiftly and severely, but it may do you good to express your frustration.

  You’re new. This is a learning experience.

  The only non-negotiable item is your phone. I will not let you turn discussion into a power struggle. The phone stays on and tracking stays on. If you want to be put on the first plane back to Ann Arbor, disable your tracking device.

  Think I’m not serious?

  Try me.

  And, no, I said you may not ask why.

  We’re taking a two-week break from the responsibilities of real life. Yes, I have built in time for your authorly work. But other than that, your whole focus should be on our training.

  It’s okay to be scared, Alena.

  It’s not okay to try to deceive me.

  There is no failure except dishonesty.

  When you come out of the shower, you will put on your white dress and sit at the kitchen table. This first time, I’ll let you write in the diary until you’re ready to begin.

  This won’t be easy, dear, but it will be worth it.

  Let go of your fears and trust me. Trust yourself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  So. I’m writing, but I’m writing on my own notebook paper.

  If it’s on my paper, I don’t have to leave it for Raven to see. She’s busy checking out the neighborhood, talking with people on the phone, and “freshening up” as she calls it.

  I wonder how she’s going to manage without Susan and Clara to take care of everything. Does she cook? Are we going to have pizza and take-out for two weeks? Does Raven even know how to do that?

  The flight down was wonderful. I’ve never been in first class before. Wow!

  I guess this kind of stuff I could put in the real diary where she can read it.

  I don’t want her phone. There’s something she’s not telling me, and I don’t like it. What if it’s tracking more than my location?

  I don’t want this “vacation.”

  Maybe I should find other ways to earn money and tell her I’d like to continue this arrangement, but on my terms. I thought this sugar mama thing would be a dream come true, but I hate always having to be grateful.

  Do I have to obey her out of gratitude?

  Yikes, she looked my way. I better put something in the real diary.

  Dear Raven,

  Thank you for bringing me here. The house is lovely, and it’s amazing to see palm trees. It will be fun to meet Mistress Lorelei, I mean Gemma, and Celine.

  I don’t have anything else to say.

  The phone you gave me is buzzing. It says we’re supposed to have a “morning talk,” whatever that is. Talk or “talk,” I wonder.

  I guess I better go and talk to you.

  Bye.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alena crept int
o the sunroom, small by any standard but cramped compared to Raven’s rooms at home. The early morning rays glinted on wind chimes, sun catchers, and Raven’s glossy black hair. Instead of the sleek, sophisticated twists and braids she wore at home, Raven had let her hair settle around her shoulders. The sheen was so alluring that Alena wanted to touch, but she kept hands at her sides.

  She looked down, instead, and gave a slight gasp at Raven’s toes hugging the center nub of a white and gold sandal. Flip flop, if Alena was not mistaken. Imagine Raven in flip flops! The remote, self-contained older woman clicked along in high heels or elegant ballet flats at home, but her feet never peeped out like this.

  And her dress! After her shower, Raven had put on a plain white sundress, almost similar to Alena’s detested dress with the pink ribbons. Raven’s, however, draped over her torso and legs with an understated appeal. The slight darkening where fabric nestled against skin made Alena’s breathing come a bit faster.

  The ripples in the tiny pool shimmered with sunlight, and Alena took a step forward. Her socked and slippered feet squeaked on the tile, and Raven nodded downward.

  “You may take those off, if you wish.”

  In the oppressive heat, any clothing felt like too much. At the same time, Alena hesitated. Socks and slippers with the white dress. That was the rule. She glanced with longing at Raven’s bare toes and down at her own overdressed ones.

  When in Florida, do as the Floridians do?

  Alena kicked up one foot at a time and slid the tight, non-breathable material off. The socks and shoes lay in a small heap next to the sliding glass door. She tried to speak and gulped instead. Giving a cough, she held up the shiny black phone.

  “It says we’re supposed to…uh…talk.”

  Raven beckoned for her to come closer. “You can take the plastic film off the screen, you know.” She took the device from Alena’s hand and peeled off the clear, protective coating. “The touch screen won’t work properly unless you do.”

  “Right.” Alena edged closer to the pool and away from Raven. If only she could dip a toe into the cool water! It glimmered and sparkled with such inviting promise. She focused on the water with such intensity that she nearly missed Raven’s next proclamation.