As Mick has alluded to a couple of times over the past few weeks, our home has recently needed some repairs of a professional nature. Plumbers, electricians and people with knowledge on exterior cabin care have made their way here and back again. Those of you who have been with UCTMW for a while may also remember that, while submissive sexually, I can be hell on wheels in other situations. I think that’s why Bill has forbidden me to handle any of our BDSM paraphernalia without his express permission.
Take, for example, the case of the plumber. He really needed a couple of belts, one to keep the general public safe from his crack problem as he squatted down to work under the sink. Then another to handle his attitude in saying he could tell by our bumper stickers that we were most likely some of those liberals who don’t know nothin’ about politics. At that point, he launched into a convoluted declaration of support for the Tea Party. Without allowing anyone else to express an opinion, he loudly declared that the Tea Party is the last hope for this country since it has been overrun by immigrants and ruined by a person who isn’t even an American and who cheated his way into bein’ president.
Just as I was pondering whether the razor strop, the slut paddle or Bill’s honeymoon belt with the big buckle might be the better choice to use on this bigot, I looked up at Bill and caught sight of that one eyebrow rising thing he does that means he knows what I’m thinking and is asking whether I am ready to pay the price he will exact for my grievous offense. And no, I wasn’t, so I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything as I began mentally running through Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.
The electricians were our next visitors. They were due here on Tuesday at noon and arrived at 2:00 PM… on Wednesday. How can it be that they come in pairs, like nuts, and they are each carrying at least two cell phones but they can’t call and say they are going to be delayed? When I hinted at that question, the response was that it is too time consuming and delays them even further if they call customers.
Liar, liar pants on fire! Which brought to mind a bit of candle play and, perhaps since they are electricians after all, the electro-stimulation kit. I was pondering that question just as one electrician spit some brown fluid that I assume was chewing tobacco juice toward a nasty brown topped coke can he carried in a loop on his tool belt. Sadly, he didn’t completely make his target and some of the vile liquid dripped onto my kitchen counter, and he just left it there. As I turned and started for the bedroom where we keep our BDSM supplies. I felt Bill’s hand come down gently on my shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “I know what you’re thinking and I completely understand, but it’s not a good idea.” How does he DO that, spoil my fun and give me shivers up my spine all at the same time?
When we decided to buy a log cabin, one of the bonuses, as far as I was concerned, was that it wouldn't require that much upkeep on the outside. That's what the realtor said and I didn't look it up. You never read about Daniel Boone, Abraham Lincoln or Davy Crockett staining the logs, right? I thought they would just age naturally. Want to sing the Oscar Mayer song with me? b-o-l-o-g-n-a! That means that we are also having some work done on the exterior of our cabin.
On Saturday there were five members of a mountain family here applying stain to our cabin and deck. These are hard working, salt of the earth people. As I sat at my desk, glancing up now and then, admiring the efficient way they worked together, I realized that the only female in the group, whose name I don’t know since Mr. K, the man in charge, introduces here as “my little woman”, had a spit cup and used it with great frequency and great accuracy. I wondered what Bill’s reaction would be. A few minutes later he came over and stood beside me. I noticed that his smile dropped, his head tipped just a bit and then I saw his brow furrow as she repeatedly lifted the cup to make a deposit. When she moved onto the next area to stain, she set the cup all the way across the deck on the handrail. That’s a good six feet. Then, as we watched, she spat across that distance with such accuracy that the Styrofoam cup didn’t move at all.
Bill did a blink-blink of his eyes and started walking with a purposeful stride down the hallway toward the bedroom. I knew he was headed for the BDSM supplies and I suspected he was going to grab a ball gag to help the “little woman” keep from spitting. I followed him down the hallway and shut the door behind me. I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to raise one eyebrow as he does, and then said, “I know what you’re thinking, but her husband is big enough to bench press Clydesdales for entertainment. And if they get angry and leave, you will have to finish staining this whole place yourself.” He slowly nodded, tipped his head, got a gleam in his eyes, closed the bedroom drapes and motioned for me to lie across the edge of the bed. What followed can only be described as a release of a week’s worth of pent up frustration for both of us.
If the workmen or “little woman” heard anything, they didn’t mention it to us, although I did see Mr. K give Bill a wink and slap on the back as they loaded up into their trucks to leave for the day.
Senior Correspondent
Donna
