Mr. McKay and I live in a townhouse (he likes to say- "This is our Tiny House," when I watch Tiny House Nation on HGTV), our neighbors are close because we share walls with them.
We try our best to be friendly. I don't need to be friends with all of them, but it's nice to say hi to the people you share a porch with. Or to know that someone will let you borrow their snow shovel to dig your car out if yours happens to break during a blizzard.
A new neighbor moved in next door to us in the beginning of the summer. She has been dubbed "the weird dog lady." I know we shouldn't talk. We can easily be the weird cat people. But, she's weird.
She's nice enough, and we have worked up to getting her to say hi. Before she would act like she didn't see us and then dart back into her house. Or wait in her car until we passed by before she got out to walk to her door. Maybe she was sizing us up. Now, she does say hello to us, but it always has a theme. She either mentions our cats, which she sees in our big front picture window, or she says something about the landscaping crew that comes once a week.
She likes to garden. Now mind you, we live in townhouses, each of us has a tiny little 2'x4' patch of dirt in front of the front window that has shrubs in it. Our community has a housing association and they send out a landscaping crew. We still aren't clear—after 7 years of living here—if it is our responsibility to weed this little plot of land, or their's.
Some people plant a few flowers in there, the lawn crew seems to leave them all alone. The most we ever do is Mr. McKay will buy new mulch every spring to throw under the shrubs and cover up the weeds that are growing there. We also have some flowers growing in a tiny sliver of dirt beside our back deck.
I am not a gardener. I don't enjoy any part of it. Dirt. Bugs. Sweat. It's not my cup of tea. We never had neighbors that did much to the outside of their house. And now this lady moves in and she's making our half-assed mulching look sad compared to her vast garden.
I don't really care if people look and judge. I have been making myself nervous that she is going to report us to the housing association for out of control weeds or dead flowers. You do not want the housing association on your back. They leave letters in your door and threaten to fine you. We have had notices about our back porch light (the globe around the bulb was cracked), ivy growing on the front of our house, and an old picnic table that our landlords left here that the association thought looked "rickety." Well, it was rickety, but it also wasn't ours.
So we have these flowers out back. And they all died. My mother in law mentioned that if we cut the heads off they would re-bloom. They also kind of spread and started growing in the cracks of our deck and I kept saying we should do something about that. (Really hoping Mr. McKay was going to take the hint because he likes doing garden-y things more than me.)
I built up the paranoia in my mind and was convinced that weird dog lady was going to report our lazy gardening skills to the housing association. This weekend the weather was beautiful, it was mild and sunny. So I ventured out back. Ten minutes into my foray in gardening I had tiny cuts in my hands, I kept screeching when a bug flew in my face, and despite the cool breeze I was sweating. But I was barely halfway through and couldn't abandon the project because then it would look really obvious I had started to make an effort and decided against it.
Forty-five minutes later all of the dead flowers had been removed. Weeds had been pulled up and things looked tidier. Whether or not the flowers would re-bloom was yet to be determined, but I had dirt under my nails and grass in my flip flops so I was done.
We try our best to be friendly. I don't need to be friends with all of them, but it's nice to say hi to the people you share a porch with. Or to know that someone will let you borrow their snow shovel to dig your car out if yours happens to break during a blizzard.
A new neighbor moved in next door to us in the beginning of the summer. She has been dubbed "the weird dog lady." I know we shouldn't talk. We can easily be the weird cat people. But, she's weird.
She's nice enough, and we have worked up to getting her to say hi. Before she would act like she didn't see us and then dart back into her house. Or wait in her car until we passed by before she got out to walk to her door. Maybe she was sizing us up. Now, she does say hello to us, but it always has a theme. She either mentions our cats, which she sees in our big front picture window, or she says something about the landscaping crew that comes once a week.
She likes to garden. Now mind you, we live in townhouses, each of us has a tiny little 2'x4' patch of dirt in front of the front window that has shrubs in it. Our community has a housing association and they send out a landscaping crew. We still aren't clear—after 7 years of living here—if it is our responsibility to weed this little plot of land, or their's.
Some people plant a few flowers in there, the lawn crew seems to leave them all alone. The most we ever do is Mr. McKay will buy new mulch every spring to throw under the shrubs and cover up the weeds that are growing there. We also have some flowers growing in a tiny sliver of dirt beside our back deck.
I am not a gardener. I don't enjoy any part of it. Dirt. Bugs. Sweat. It's not my cup of tea. We never had neighbors that did much to the outside of their house. And now this lady moves in and she's making our half-assed mulching look sad compared to her vast garden.
I don't really care if people look and judge. I have been making myself nervous that she is going to report us to the housing association for out of control weeds or dead flowers. You do not want the housing association on your back. They leave letters in your door and threaten to fine you. We have had notices about our back porch light (the globe around the bulb was cracked), ivy growing on the front of our house, and an old picnic table that our landlords left here that the association thought looked "rickety." Well, it was rickety, but it also wasn't ours.
So we have these flowers out back. And they all died. My mother in law mentioned that if we cut the heads off they would re-bloom. They also kind of spread and started growing in the cracks of our deck and I kept saying we should do something about that. (Really hoping Mr. McKay was going to take the hint because he likes doing garden-y things more than me.)
 |
| The flowers before they died. Picture this mess but dead and brown. |
I built up the paranoia in my mind and was convinced that weird dog lady was going to report our lazy gardening skills to the housing association. This weekend the weather was beautiful, it was mild and sunny. So I ventured out back. Ten minutes into my foray in gardening I had tiny cuts in my hands, I kept screeching when a bug flew in my face, and despite the cool breeze I was sweating. But I was barely halfway through and couldn't abandon the project because then it would look really obvious I had started to make an effort and decided against it.
Forty-five minutes later all of the dead flowers had been removed. Weeds had been pulled up and things looked tidier. Whether or not the flowers would re-bloom was yet to be determined, but I had dirt under my nails and grass in my flip flops so I was done.
Meanwhile, the night before we had a late dinner. When it comes to dinner we have unspoken roles that we've never discussed. Mr. McKay normally cooks (he likes to, I hate it) and then I will pack up leftovers and clean up. I am not a night person and we ended up eating so late that I was almost immediately falling asleep on the couch.
Dinner never got packed away.
At 8am I discovered the leftovers still out in the kitchen. I packed them up, wondering if I was going to kill us both with food poisoning in doing so—it was chicken. After stowing them in the fridge I left for work and had second thoughts about saving the leftovers, even though it kills me to throw food away.
So I texted Mr. McKay, he works from home and usually has whatever we had for dinner the night before for lunch. I warned him that the leftovers were probably no good and we should toss them. His reply? "I'll deal with you later."
Yum! Yes, please! (Am I not supposed to be that eager?)
I nearly forgot about this threat (or promise, really).
Until I was back inside the house after my foray in gardening. I took a shower to wash the outside off of me and I came out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, my wet hair dripping down my back. Mr. McKay trailed behind me, following me into our bedroom. As I slipped on fresh panties and rifled through the laundry basket for a shirt, he snagged me by the waist.
"Gardening makes you grumpy," he observed as he kissed me.
I agreed.
"I can fix that."
Before I asked him how he intended to fix my mood, he stood up and pulled my panties down. He pushed me forward until my thighs hit the bed and I was forced to bend over. Now I am all about an impromptu spanking, but I wasn't exactly in the right mood. For one, I WAS grumpy, I was also tired. I kind of felt like napping, not like getting my freak on.
But I am sure I am not the only person in the world who has a partner whose kinks don't exactly line up with mine. I feel like it took a long time for me to convince him that spanking me whenever was fine. He didn't have to ask. We didn't have to talk about it. He didn't have to wait for me to request it. So I wasn't about to undo all of this progress by complaining I was tired and putting a halt to everything.
So I went with it. And it hurt at first. A lot. He was only using his hand, but I wriggled around and said 'ow' a lot and wondered why I liked this to begin this. Do I like this?
Then I took a few deep breaths and settled into it and stopped thinking so much. And he didn't stop. But a flip switched somewhere and instead of it hurting and instead of being tired, I was arching my back and opening my legs. He'd smack and then caress and reach down between my thighs. Now things were on the right track.
Next he picked up the Magic Wand. He turned it on and placed it under me so it was sandwiched between my clit and the bed. Then he got the flogger. Much lighter than his hand, but enough to reignite the sting that was already there.
It all got to be too much, I started arching off the bed so I could move away from the vibrations. But every time I did, Mr. McKay put a firm hand on my lower back and pushed me back down.
The flogger, the control, the vibrator. It was all too much. I was either going to die or come until my brain exploded. Well, my brain didn't exactly explode. But things got fuzzy.
He pulled me up onto the bed and kissed and caressed until I regained use of my limbs. Things progressed and we made an afternoon of it, until we finally had to come up for air because our growling stomachs could no longer be ignored.
As I staggered from the bed to again find my underwear and some clean clothes, Mr. McKay pulled me close and whispered, "That'll teach you."
