Raven's Diary: Book Two Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A Letter from Ana

  About the Author

  Join the Kinky Cookies!

  Wooden Spoon Chronicles

  Coming Soon! Bastia: The Early Years

  Other Anastasia Vitsky books available

  Raven’s Girl: Promise

  Gemstone

  Freiya's Stand

  Becoming Clissine

  Taliaschild

  Books by Anastasia Vitsky

  Books According to Character Pairing

  Ana on Social Media

  Raven's Diary

  By

  Anastasia Vitsky

  Raven's Diary Copyright 2016 by Anastasia Vitsky

  Formatting Services by Little Lynnie Designs

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For the bratty Miscreants, with all of my love.

  Chapter One

  Dear Diary,

  No, that’s stupid. I’m not a thirteen-year-old girl writing silly secrets in my diary, only to stuff it under my bed for nosy family members to find. I’m twenty-nine, for crying out loud, and I’m…

  Well…

  Oh, blast it.

  I’m sitting in the most elegant room I’ve seen in my life, high-backed chairs and glossy floors polished within an inch of their lives. Everything matches or complements each other, right down to the gold-tipped nib on this exquisite fountain pen. It’s exactly the same color and style as the gold accents on this leather-bound journal, the handles on the drawers of the writing desk where I’m sitting, and the rounded tips of the clothes rack. Hat rack? I can’t tell.

  I can’t write it! I’ll die of embarrassment if anyone finds out. But Raven left strict instructions, and she expects obedience. We’ve gone over that lesson a few more times than I’d like.

  Now I do feel thirteen.

  Dear Diary, I’m squirming and biting back exclamations as I sit on a hard, angular wooden chair. Raven’s maid must have untied the cushion. If I hold my breath and try not to move at all, it’s not so bad. But just the motions of my hand and pen across the notebook paper set off more pain. Worse? When I had to sneeze. I almost jumped out of the chair, but Raven’s head popped into the doorway.

  “If you are done, Alena, we will proceed with your second spanking.”

  My stomach is a quivering, trembling mess. I’ve spent so much of my author life typing at a computer that my hand keeps shaking instead of forming perfect handwriting, and tiny splotches of ink spread across the paper.

  It’s the most gorgeous notebook and pen I’ve ever seen, and Raven’s making me write things I never wanted to say. As long as I’m writing, she said, she will wait.

  I’d never admit it to her, but this is all my fault. She made me stand in the corner, and I got the giggles. Not just a discreet snicker, but full-out gales of uncontrollable laughter. She warned me to stop, but I couldn’t. I was embarrassed and nervous, really. After all, isn’t it bad enough that she sends me to bed and spanks me for infractions as if I am a child? Corner time was too much. I hooted until tears ran down my cheeks, and her lips got narrow.

  I’d been as good as good could be, too. For the most part. Okay, maybe I slipped up a little bit, but I’m only human.

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star. As long as I keep writing, Raven won’t come back. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Edelweiss. I can’t think what to write. This pen is wonderful. It’s hard to get used to, but the ink is an amazing, shimmering black. The smell of fresh ink makes me think of Louisa May Alcott. Wait, was she writing in the time of fountain pens? It’s so weird to write here in this notebook instead of on my computer where I can switch over to search engines or social media.

  Don’t come back yet, Raven. She looked in a minute ago, watched me writing, and nodded. Is she going to read this? She said I should keep a diary as it would be useful to me in my journey of submission. I protested it was a bit unreasonable to make an author write in her free time (does she make Susan, her cook, prepare food on her days off?), but she gave me the lecture I’m so tired of hearing.

  I signed a contract of employment. For 24 hours once a week, I don’t get to do anything without her permission. For that, I receive enough money to pay my bills.

  Fine, I get it. But she goes on and on about it, saying this is my paid job and I am to perform to expectations.

  I love when she whacks me for fun. Sometimes the yelps and shrieks turn into more, and the pain makes the pleasure better.

  Pretty mind-blowing, if I’m honest.

  I don’t even mind (too much) when she decides I’ve earned a punishment. I hate the telling-off, and my stomach writhes knowing she’s disappointed in me, but she’s always fair. It makes me squirmy to know she can give me orders. I’d rather not earn a punishment again, but it was almost exciting. Not in a positive way, but it still sends me on a roller coaster of thrills and emotions. She spanks really hard, but she forgives afterward and we’re closer than ever.

  Most things are great about this relationship. The problem? Her stupid rules.

  Yes, I said stupid.

  If you’re reading this, Raven, they are stupid. I don’t care that you’re the mistress and I’m the submissive. I don’t care if lots of dommes set whatever rules they want. Ten o’clock is a completely unreasonable bedtime for an adult. I do my best writing at night! Maybe I want to go out, at least when I’m at home. Some shows don’t come on until after ten. My eBar auctions go off after ten if someone bids from Europe.

  I’ve explained this until I’m blue in the face, and she won’t budge. I’ve tried to be reasonable. I’ve offered to negotiate. Compromise. Meet her halfway.

  She says if I mention it one more time, my bedtime will be nine o’clock.

  Bedtimes are not sexy.

  Or fun.

  I didn’t sign up for this, after all! I thought, well, I didn’t know what to think when I answered her ad. I thought the no safeword stipulation could mean sex, or weird stuff like pony play or that thing my friend Mistress Lorelei ranted about the other day. Face-sitting? She said the next random stranger who asked to sit on her face would get more than he wanted.

  Raven came in again. She raised her eyebrows at all of my writing. I was afraid she’d read the rude sentences about her, but she said this new approach seemed more effective than corner time. She said we’re going to do this from now on.

  Every.

>   Blasted.

  Time.

  Argh!

  I hate having a domme sometimes. If I do what she says, she concludes that the method worked. If I don’t do what she says, she concludes that I need more “persuasion” or “motivation” to try her method.

  Yes, it sends shivers up my stomach to know she can do whatever she wants with me. It does thrill me, I’ll admit. It makes Fridays exciting, and I can’t wait to see what she has planned each week.

  But this bedtime is utter crap! No, I’m not going to say anything. It used to be midnight, then eleven, and now ten. I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but even I learned. She moved it an hour earlier every time I complained or asked for an extension.

  I told her that it made no sense to lie in bed awake when I couldn’t sleep. She said she could fix that, and now every Friday night she spanks me before bed.

  I might possibly sleep a tiny bit better on Friday nights.

  I’m never admitting that to her.

  Oh, no. She came in and said she was really pleased I was taking this exercise so seriously. She didn’t want to interrupt, so now when I finish I have to go and find her .

  I thought it was bad when she looked in every ten or twenty minutes! Now I have to decide when I’m ready to go to her study and ask for my next spanking.

  No!

  I won’t do it!

  If I don’t get a safeword and she decides everything, I shouldn’t have to ask for the blasted spanking.

  It’s not fair.

  Sigh.

  Maybe if I get it over with, the enormous butterflies in my stomach will go away.

  I’m so sore! I can’t take any more.

  I wish I’d never, ever let Mistress Lorelei have Raven’s contact information. I feel like a little kid with two moms. Or maybe one mom and a tattling neighbor. Not that Mistress Lorelei is as nasty as Mrs. Kravitz.

  Hehe.

  Maybe if I go and act really sweet and contrite, Raven will change her mind.

  Yeah, right. Like she’s ever changed her mind about something like this.

  If she’s going to spank me, why can’t she just do it and get it over with? Why drag it out?

  When she gives an order, I’m not supposed to talk back. She says it over and over, and I do try to remember. I forgot again, though, and I told her no way when she wanted me to kneel by her chair at the dinner table. That was bad enough, but she said I would have to let her feed me.

  I’m not a stupid dog. I’m not going to…

  Sigh.

  How was I supposed to know she had this amazing fondue set and wanted to teach me some rather naughty things to do with liquid chocolate?

  Argh! Okay, I’m sorry. All right? I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, Raven. You spanked me for it already. You made me put my hands on the table while you lifted the back of my skirt, and you whacked the little black paddle across my bottom. That awful thing hurts! No teasing, no sexy banter, no flirty promises of how you’d make me pay.

  No matter how many times she takes out Blackie, the wood against my bare skin stings like a swarm of bees. I’ve gotten used to so many other things from her, but I can’t get used to wood. I can’t hold still no matter what Raven threatens.

  I don’t want a second spanking. Please, Raven! I swear I won’t argue and disobey again the way I used to. I’ve learned my lesson.

  Ugh, it’s been ages. I’m going to miss dinner at this rate. I can’t even go to the bathroom or get a drink of water until we finish.

  In my next life, I’m going to be the domme. And when I’m in charge, I’ll sit down my sweet submissive and say to her, “This dominance and submission stuff should be fun. I won’t ever make you do what you don’t want to do.” We’ll eat popcorn and watch spanking videos, and every weekend will be nonstop laughter and kinky games.

  Oh, and the sex will be amazing.

  You hear me, Raven? You better read this and listen to me.

  Gulp. That’s her footsteps on the stairs. Is she coming in again?

  Chapter Two

  My dear unmanageable girl,

  I am delighted you have found your “corner time” useful, as you made a spectacle of yourself in the actual corner. Giddiness does not become you, dear. Even if you feel awkward or embarrassed, remember that you are mine and do as I bid you. If you laugh at yourself while performing my orders, you laugh at me.

  I suggest refraining from laughter.

  Your bedtime will remain at ten PM until further notice. This is the last time I will address the issue, unless you prefer nine? Keep your tongue in check, young lady, or you’ll find yourself going to bed before sunset. Imagine how awkward that would be! If I were you I’d be as sweet and obedient as possible, and I wouldn’t dream of getting to bed late.

  Do you think I’m not serious? Go to bed late. Just once. Just a minute or two.

  I dare you.

  From now on, you are to report to this writing desk before every spanking. You will dress in the clothes Clara sets out, and you will write until you have prepared yourself to come and ask me for your spanking. (Thank you for pointing out how effective this technique was for you, dear. It will be standard practice from now on.)

  I will not punish you for anything you write in this diary, not even your foolish attempts at time-wasting drivel. But I will punish if you use diary time for anything besides sitting at this desk and writing. You may write that you hate being spanked and everything is unfair, but you will sit down and write.

  I will read your entries each week, and I will respond as necessary. Perhaps we will use writing time after your spankings, too. Let’s see how effective this is.

  One last thing. Your next entry will be a two thousand word essay on why you have a ten PM bedtime and why you have made it necessary for yourself. You will also reflect on your continued resistance, brattiness, and failure to comply with the most basic rules. You will ponder the reasons your behavior became appalling in the first place, and you will propose how we should deal with your continued disobedience.

  I also expect you to include, as a properly brought up young lady should, appreciation for my patient efforts with you.

  It would behoove you to include an appropriate apology, as well.

  There you go, my girl. You’ve cried into the corner after your spanking, and you sound ready to come out. I will give you a brief hug and comfort, and we will go to dinner. Then you will come back upstairs to work on your assignment.

  If you please me, bedtime may be more enjoyable than you expected tonight.

  If you fail to please me, well, Blackie’s proven quite effective. She won’t mind getting another use today.

  Be a good girl, Alena. Stop fooling yourself with this nonsense about being too old to submit to another. If anything, you are too young. When I was twenty-nine, I’d been a widow and orphan for four years. I had the family money to shelter me from paying bills, but at the same time safety insulated me from motivation. I couldn’t see any reason to keep on, and I didn’t need to show up to work every day to keep the electricity running. I was lost, alone, and adrift.

  Ask yourself these questions:

  Are you happier now than you were before?

  What do you get out of submission?

  Why do you resist what gives you the most fulfillment?

  Chapter Three

  Two thousand words? Two thousand words? What???

  You’ve got to be kidding me!

  I won’t do it!

  I won’t!

  There, that’s nineteen words. Four more. Twenty-one. No, twenty one. That way, without the hyphen, it counts as two words instead of one.

  Two thousand words for an essay for Raven?

  What is she, my editor?

  I hate my life! I’m going to march right up to her now and…

  Quit?

  Go home?

  Sigh.

  At least she won’t punish me for the words I write in here, no matter what. Good thing, too, as it�
�s not easy to erase fountain pen ink.

  Okay, fine. Raven said I can write whatever I want. Does that mean all of this counts toward my essay, or is that something separate? I don’t dare go and ask her, or she’ll think I’m ready for yet another stupid spanking.

  You promised no punishment for what I write here, Raven, so I’ll say it now. BEDTIMES ARE STUPID AND RIDICULOUS AND UNFAIR.

  That felt good. :-)

  But it feels weird to write these kinds of thoughts using this pen. I played with fountain pens as a kid, but they were cheap, disposable junk from the local store. I had fun switching the ink cartridges, and I got a set of red ones. I scrawled all kinds of doodles with the ink until it ran out.

  Raven’s pen is different. The ink is thinner and lighter, and the tip glides across the page without any scratching. I’m annoyed at how long it takes to write versus typing on my computer, but the slowness makes me stop, think, and re-read. Back in elementary school, we had to practice cursive letters over and over. The funny “Q” that Ramona Quimby turned into cat tails, the loopy capital “L” that felt like a rollercoaster going up and down…

  I used to take my dad’s favorite Cross pen and draw on the backs of envelopes from the mail. When a bill came and Dad didn’t need to use the pre-addressed envelope, I got to seal my own “payment” and draw a special stamp in the corner.

  Raven asked if I’m happier now than I was before. That’s a silly question. Of course I am. I can say that bedtime is stupid without forgetting the other parts. No one’s ever been as considerate or generous as she is, and the money is only part of it. I’ve had to stop myself from mentioning things I like or want to do because she always tries to give it to me. I feel like an extremely spoiled small child with a fairy godmother. I said meat was expensive and I mostly cooked vegetarian meals for myself. The next week, she had Susan prepare T-bone steaks even though Fridays are usually fish. Fry-days. Ha. :-) (Does a smiley face count toward the word total?)

  Raven makes me feel about four years old, and I both love and hate it. She makes me feel safe, warm, and fuzzy inside. But she also has a gift for drawing out the bad parts of my inner preschooler. I literally want to stamp my foot and shout at her that I WON’T go to bed when she gives me an order.