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The Sub with Three Thumbs

12 Apr

In my ongoing war with the bath brush, my bottom is not the only loser. D nearly broke my pinkie finger. Correction: I was responsible for D nearly breaking my pinkie finger.
D’s impromptu command for me to fetch the bath brush, just moments before our long road trip to the ocean, had me searching his face for intent. His voice had been different then. This wasn’t play.
He informed me that my grumpy attitude of the past week needed to stop. I argued, saying that it wasn’t “grumpy” so much as “snarky” — for you word-lovers out there, there is a keen difference.
D apparently hates words.
With no time for debate, he immediately maneuvered me over the back of the couch and delivered brisk, walloping swats. Not having had a proper warm-up, nor a proper spanking for quite some time, each blow with the brush was almost unendurable. I did not like it. No, I did not. (I should insert here that my panties later told a different story about my “enjoyment” of the bath brush.)

I’m not dumb enough to consciously block the blows from that wooden bully. While silently cursing my assailant, I am quite aware that the best defense is no offense. Be still. Play dead. Don’t move lest the brush find its mark on my upper thighs or, gasp, between my legs.
Awareness does not equal obedience.
When the brush struck my disobedient hand, it cast a magical spell in my living room. In addition to the stars and white light that appeared before my eyes, I was the sub with three thumbs. I could have taken that show on the road — and did, wasting little time on first aid, when we left for our trip.
Let it be a testament to my quick reflexes, and how strong my natural defenses are, that my hand courageously stood up for the underdog.
That pinkie finger may normally be the smallest appendage on my body, but it has the heart of a lion. An extremely foolish and swollen, pink lion.

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