What part of I want to play does she not get? Does she not understand that I'm wild for the nasty, dear, and intimate? But I humor her and think it over. I mention to my wife that I'm thinking about writing something and she becomes sneering skeptic. She just got a Kindle which she pours over all the time. Accuses me of never reading much of anything and where am I going to get the time to write anyway, she snorts derisively.
Wait a sec. I've been writing for a year. Regularly. Hey, maybe my shrink was onto something.
I decide for inspiration I'll read some short stories, so I grab a copy of some by Ernest Hemingway - a veritable role model for submissive men everywhere. I begin with "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber".
The story is about an American man in his thirties who, with his beautiful wife, goes big game hunting in Africa. Hemingway is the master of the sparce and direct. The story is about how the guy chickens out on a lion hunt. Me? I like my lions where I can admire them from afar - in the Bronx. Anyway, the great white hunter who serves as maitre 'd for endangered species murder is telling Francis about how the help needs discipline to keep them in line:
“What were you telling him?” Macomber asked.
“Nothing. Told him to look alive or I’d see he got about fifteen of the best.”
“What’s that? Lashes?”
“It’s quite illegal,” Wilson said. “You’re supposed to fine them.”
“Do you still have them whipped?”
“Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they don’t. They prefer it to the fines.”
“How strange!” said Macomber.
“Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?”
Actually Papa, I prefer to part with my pay for a good birching!
I suppose I can find inspiration anywhere. Maybe I do have a beautiful, impassioned, kink-love story in me. Maybe I do...
But now, a word from our sponsor.