Raven's Diary: Book Two Read online

  That’s the catch, isn’t it? If she were a friend and suggested I go to bed early, I wouldn’t mind. It would be up to me if I followed her suggestion. Our arrangement changes everything. If she says I have to go to bed early, I have to do it. I can fight and argue (and I do!) to save my pride, but in the end she can and will make me go.

  I hate knowing she will always win, but it makes me feel safe.

  Isn’t that weird? The stories I read detail blissful women purring with amazing sex every single day. They never mind a spanking, and having to obey makes their sex lives better. Maybe they pout or throw a fit now and then, but it ends with a spanking, sex, and happily ever after.

  It’s too soon to know if Raven is my happily ever after, but she’s something. A year ago, I’d never have dreamed of meeting someone like her. She’s regal but sweet, stern but kind, and tough but fair.

  Well, fair-ish. Bedtime still is ridiculous. :-)

  Raven makes me feel like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum sometimes, but she also makes me feel like the little kid who did whatever Victoria said. Victoria was my childhood friend who wanted to play…well, embarrassing games that made me feel good inside.

  I guess, if I had to put it into words, that’s what Raven does. I’m embarrassed to do the things she says, but it’s only partly because the things are embarrassing. Mostly, I’m embarrassed that I like it. A little bit. But don’t like it at the same time.

  How can that make sense?

  I even like, as crazy as it sounds, her system of discipline and consequences. It’s not nearly as utopian as I thought it would be when I first learned about kink and power dynamics, but it does work. After the awkward ups and downs when we first got to know each other, she’s been amazingly patient and thorough in setting things up. Her insistence on no safeword (meaning no emergency exit for me to stop the action if I didn’t like what she was doing) raised a red flag in the beginning, but I’ve started to understand how she works.

  She’s being slow, patient, and careful. She’s never put me in a situation where I would need to use a safeword (want is another matter!) because she observes me all the time. She learns about me, and then she puts that knowledge into use.

  She’s almost like a really good teacher that way.

  Or an editor, come to think of it. I had a lot of awful editors before I found Nina, and she’s amazing. Ninotschka the Great, as I call her. :D

  I guess that listening to Raven is similar to listening to Nina. Nina doesn’t change what I write, or at least not the essence. She makes me think about how I structured a story or how I’ve established a character or relationship. Oh, often I’d love to smack her for making me rework a passage I thought beautiful already, but she always helps me make the book better.

  (I do like the freedom of writing whatever I want. I used to free-write all the time, way back when. After I turned professional, I forgot about that because I considered it an exercise for beginners. Now, I wonder if I should begin again.)

  In my head, I know all of this. I look at how my life has changed since I met Raven, and it’s almost all to the good. I’m happier, more settled, and more comfortable all around. Having a steady income lifts such a burden I didn’t realize I was carrying! Now, if books don’t sell quite as well in a quarter, I still have Raven’s stipend to see me through. She’s so generous that I’ve been able to set all of my book money into a separate account.

  Someday, I’m going to open a writing school for kids. Maybe it could be online, so kids everywhere could participate. Or maybe it would be local, so I could have the face-to-face interaction that writers lack.

  Writing got me through the worst parts of my life, and I never had much guidance. My writing teachers were every book in the library, not any formal classes.

  Before I met Raven, I didn’t think of things like that. I wanted to do something important with my life eventually, but I was too busy and too worried. It’s hard to dream big when I wonder how to pay the electricity bill.

  Raven said she didn’t have the necessity of paying bills to keep her grounded. Am I better off because I have that need? I don’t know. It seems like a fantasy to never worry about money, although I guess I’ve gotten to enter this fantasy with her.

  For a price. Always the price!

  Sigh.

  Speaking of the price, bedtime.

  What she’s started calling diary time.

  And what I hesitate to even admit but…

  Ugh, I don’t know if I should even write this.

  How many words do I have left? Oh my gosh, over 700.

  Well, I can’t think of any other way to fill up these words so…

  I’m sitting at Raven’s desk wearing…

  Well.

  A little white dress with no waist, just a few little ruffles and eyelet lace and a bit of pink ribbon here and there.

  I feel like I’m in a Nutcracker ballet, creeping into the living room by the Christmas tree after everyone else has gone to bed. At least Raven didn’t insist on pink ribbons for my hair.

  OMG. SCRATCH THAT. Raven, I do NOT want pink ribbons for my hair!

  What was I thinking to even mention that?

  Crap crap crap crap.

  Hey, if I keep writing that another few hundred times, I’ll be done.

  Anyway, I’m sitting on this chair wearing the little ribboned dress and nothing else.

  Nothing.

  White anklet socks and soft leather slippers, but nothing else clothes-wise.

  (Does clothes-wise count as one word or two?)

  1521 words. Sigh. I’m never going to finish. Wait, I’m not sure I counted the words correctly. Oh, well. Sure wish I were using my computer so I could tell it to count words.

  Crap.

  Rats.

  I’m bored.

  I don’t want to do this anymore.

  Ugh, if I stop doing this…

  Then I have to go to Raven.

  Never mind, I’ll keep writing. I’ll pretend it’s a free writing exercise. Though I still think it’s awfully rough to make a writer write on her day off. Okay, Raven doesn’t consider Fridays a day off, but it’s a day off from writing.

  I suppose that Raven would say I wouldn’t be doing this diary writing if I hadn’t disobeyed her in the first place. She does love to give lectures like that.

  Some parts of discipline are fabulous.

  Some parts really, truly suck.

  Okay, what was I supposed to answer? What do I get out of submission? I guess I already answered that. Financial security. And some satisfaction that I refuse to describe in any more detail.

  Why do I resist it?

  Honestly, Raven. I’m sorry to be rude, but that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. What if someone picked up a wooden paddle and whacked you across the backside hard and fast until you practically couldn’t breathe? Every time I think I won’t make a fool out of myself, and every time it’s worse than I remember.

  I’d be a lot more grateful and appropriately sorry for my sins if you didn’t use wood.

  Apology.

  I am sorry.

  Does it count if I’m really not?

  You promised not to punish for anything I write in here. I’m not sorry for wanting to be able to sit comfortably now and then. I hate sitting here like a five-year-old, squirming on an already slightly sore backside as I try not to think of the spanking to come.

  1811 words. I’ve started making little marks in the margin for each hundredth word. Almost done. Hope my word count is correct. (Are you going to count these words?)

  I don’t want another spanking when I finish. My stomach gets all twisty and squirmy, and I never know what you’ll do. Will you be stern and forbidding, or will it be more matter-of-fact? Will you look rather sorry as you begin, or will you start lecturing before I’ve gotten myself in position?

  Are you going to spank hard? Will it just be with your hand? Please, please, please. If you’ve absolutely got to use something, l
et it not be wood. I’ll even take your leather paddle over even your lightest wooden implement. Wooden spoon, ruler, brush, paddle, bath brush…ugh. I hate them all!

  Maybe if I say that I’m sorry nicely enough you’ll go easy on me.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m really, really sorry.

  I’m sorry I don’t always do exactly what you want at exactly the second you say it, but you don’t understand how hard it is! You don’t know how much it hurts. You get to always be in charge, always make the decisions, and be in control. I have to jump and say “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am” or “whatever you say, ma’am” at the drop of a hat, and sometimes even when you haven’t dropped a hat.

  What if I’d met you on a vanilla online dating site? What if we’d bumped into each other in an ordinary way, and you’d taken me out for a first date?

  I love being close to you, and I know the discipline is good for me in a lot of ways (and, okay, I did really want this), but sometimes I wonder.

  What if I weren’t your submissive?

  Would you still care about me then?

  Chapter Four

  My dear, exasperating, and headstrong girl,

  You’re lying in bed with the lights out, whimpering a bit as you try to get comfortable. After your attitude tonight, it makes me sigh to read your essay. You’re such a mixture of good intentions and self-destructive stubbornness. You have talent, drive, and this amazing indomitable spirit. I didn’t have half of that fire at your age.

  “At your age,” indeed! Watching you makes me think of those earlier years. I wandered up and down the halls, with Susan and Clara fading into the woodwork whenever I approached. They were afraid to speak to me, in case I began to cry again. They were so gentle, so protective, and almost motherly. After all, they’d taken care of me since I was a little girl. I worried something would happen to them, too, and I’d be completely alone. Yet they’ve always been there for me. How lucky I’ve been, even if I thought otherwise at the time.

  When I was twenty-nine, my life had been over for four years. You say that my life of financial security seems like a fantasy. Is it? Wealth buys a lot, but it also serves as a barrier. You wonder whether I’d care about you if you weren’t my submissive. I’ve wondered all my life whether people would care about me if my family’s money didn’t provide something they wanted. Or if not the family money, the family name.

  You say you wish you could make the decisions. Do you, really? If you honestly wish you could be in charge, why not experiment? What would you do with a girl of your own, dear? How can you discipline someone else when you can’t discipline yourself?

  I don’t mean to take Blackie and spank yourself, although that’s quite an alluring image. (Perhaps we’ll have to do that soon.) I mean the forbearance and self-control to act in your own best interest even if it’s not immediately pleasurable.

  If you need proof, take bedtime. You love to rant and rave about getting sent to bed. You never did answer my question about how it came to be, young lady. What did I tell you when we first began? Your time was your own, and as long as you came to me on Fridays in good condition, I wouldn’t interfere with your daily life. How many times did you arrive exhausted and fall asleep as soon as things became quiet?

  How can you expect to do your job properly if you won’t take care of your basic needs?

  You are mine, Alena. I expect you to take good care of what’s mine. I could give you a long list of rules. Perhaps I should. You seem to respond only to the most concrete of consequences and expectations. I thoroughly enjoy spanking your little bottom to a bright red, but I dislike punishments as much as you do. Wouldn’t you prefer to play kinky games and engage in submission exercises, rather than sob your heart out after I’ve had to take you to task?

  Think of your cries tonight. You came to me sweet-tempered, well-dressed, and with a good attitude. The second I gave you an order, though, your innate obstinate streak took over. You sassed, tossed your head, threw out defiant replies, and attempted to physically prevent me from disciplining you.

  I warned you many times. Maybe too many. Maybe I should stop warning and instead punish immediately. You beg for lenience, but you only respond to strict discipline.

  I wanted a lovely, sweet evening culminating in perhaps some intimate play at bedtime. Instead, you dug your heels in and Blackie had to spank until you begged to go to bed. You’re still whimpering, rolling over in bed and muttering to yourself how much it hurts.

  I love disciplining you, my impossible girl. But must you require a showdown for each and every order? Couldn’t you submit and obey like a good girl, without all of the fuss and drama?

  Or do you simply need the spanking in a way you can’t explain, so bratting is your way to make sure you get it?

  Have I missed this all along?

  Do we need to go back to basics? Submissive boot camp, as it were?

  Your friend Lorelei has kindly offered us the use of her bed and breakfast down in Florida.

  Shall we go for a visit, away from the constant power struggles of home?

  Chapter Five

  It’s Saturday morning, and normally Raven and I would cuddle for a bit before breakfast. Today, though, Clara woke me up at half past five and told me to get dressed, go to the writing room, and write until Raven summons me.

  I’m sitting in the stupid dress and stupid shoes at the desk taller than I am, with intricate scrolls and carved details everywhere. Instead of a plastic mat underneath the chair (like I have at home), there’s a sort of built-in tile spot where the rolling chair would normally go. The writing part of the desk is covered in a sheet of heavy glass, and the top of the desk has all kinds of slots, cupboards, and hidey-holes.

  I only wish I had a desk this nice at home. Raven’s fountain pen is amazing, but I can see myself dipping a quill pen into a bottle of ink and scratching on parchment.

  Funny, this early in the morning, how I’m annoyed at getting woken up but still peaceful at this desk.

  I didn’t expect Raven to reply again already. She’s in her rooms a few minutes away, but it’s as if she’s a new penpal. And her handwriting! Wow! Every loop is in place, and her letters slant at the perfect 30 degree angle. It’s even neater than the Parker penmanship books we used in third grade. If you want a definition of copperplate writing, it’s Raven’s handwriting. Mine looks like chicken scratches in comparison, but it’s getting better.

  Does Raven use her own fountain pen? Or do we share the pen and the journal, passing it between us?

  I’m getting rather silly, I think. Maybe it’s the quiet giddiness of waking up in Raven’s house. I get hot all over when I think of last night and my outburst. Ugh, there’s no way to describe it but a temper tantrum. After I’d sat here and told myself I’d listen, too! I don’t know what it is, but whenever Raven gets that certain tone in her voice and glint to her eye…well, I can’t help but answer back. I want to dig my heels in, argue, and prove to her that I don’t have to do what she says.

  Does she really dislike punishing me as much as she says she does? I never would have thought so. She never hesitates, never stops, and certainly never relents.

  I won’t admit that, deep down, I’m glad she doesn’t.

  Nope, we’re not going down that path.

  I stopped for a while and stared out the window. So many things come to mind, and writing this way is slow enough for a million thoughts to whiz by before I finish one sentence.

  Wouldn’t it be weird if hiring myself out as a kinky Girl Friday (literally!) made my writing better?

  I used to write in diaries, journals, letters, etc. all the time. I had pen pals all over the world, back when I had to get special fold-up aerogrammes or pay the shocking postage of two stamps instead of one. I wrote all the time, and it was fun. I wrote on the backs of letters, envelopes, ticket stubs, or anything I had handy. It was fun. I had to hide everything I wrote in case prying eyes came across it, but I liked doing it.

>   I wonder, now that I’m an adult and writing is my full-time job, if I’ve lost that joy. I’m so stressed all the time, and writing has to meet deadlines. I love the initial writing, but I get worried that things won’t work out. I hate my books in their second drafts. I hate the awful clunkiness of revising. I want to tear my hair out at going over line edits five hundred times before having to proofread the galley all over again.

  When I was a kid, becoming an author was the best dream in the world. I’ve achieved that dream, even if more meals consist of ramen than is probably healthy. Do I always remember this? Or do I focus on the annoyances?

  I like being a pain for Raven. Okay, I admit it. There’s something wonderfully bubbly and releasing about not having to be reasonable. I don’t like the consequences afterward, but it’s kind of fun to snap back at her with the first snotty comment I can think of.

  I sound like such a brat, don’t I?

  I was so annoyed with Clara, or rather Raven, for making me get up early this morning. But watching the sunrise and listening to the soft stirrings inside the house has made me peaceful in a way I haven’t been for a long time.

  Raven, I don’t know if you’ll read this before we get started today. I didn’t mean it last night when I wrote it, but I do today. I’m sorry I was such a brat, but at the same time I’m not. I think I’m glad whenever you draw me back closer to you.

  Of course, I can say this now because you’re not here with that awful Blackie in hand. :-)

  I’ve gotten more and more sorry to leave your house on Saturdays. I don’t like your suggestion of boot camp! I’m sure it would be horrible. But going away together sounds nice. My friend Mistress Lorelei did invite us, didn’t she? Florida sounds fun. I’m curious about starrygirl, her sub.

  I’d have to take writing with me, but that’s easy enough if the B&B has wifi. Waking up in the same house as you every day sounds lovely.

  But…what if we go and fight? What if we can’t stand each other more than two days in a row? I like my space. I need it, after all.