Marquis De Sade
1st Level Blue Feather
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Diary (m/f)
This one's dedicated to some of the people I've met here (who shall remain nameless), who I think are really cool.
And, to all the other writers here who put their everything into their everything and continue to inspire me, make me laugh, make me really feel something when I read your work.
This one's called Diary.
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A few blank pages into the book, it’s written:
I celebrated my 13th wedding anniversary this year by surprising my wife with a return visit to this wonderful, magical place.
Look out the bedside window and you’ll see the rose gardens below where we exchanged the marriage vows we’ve kept since all those years ago.
Our first night as husband and wife was spent right here in the Fireside Suite. It was almost like coming home after a long journey for us. The decor hasn’t even changed: the all-white Queen-size 4-post bed with the hanging sheer drapes, the cultured old stone fireplace, the chairs and couches, the views of the ocean. It’s all just as we remember.
The only new addition seems to be the flat screen TV (thankfully hidden in a media closet), and they have DVD’s now instead of VHS tapes. But, like the new girl (Heather) downstairs told us, you probably won’t even feel like turning it on.
The staff are as warm and welcoming as ever. The service top notch. We highly recommend the breakfast. Their new chef, Charlie, is a splendid cook and can whip up just about anything you ask for as long as you put the order in a day ahead of time. Their tea is brewed right here, locally, and is some of the finest you’ll ever taste.
We look forward to visiting again in the years that follow. Enjoy your stay!
That one was dated a while ago. Not sure if they ever did come back but with so many volumes of diaries here, I’m not about to check.
This room, the Fireside Suite, it looks just how he described it in his diary entry. The rose gardens below are in full bloom.
The scent hits me two floors up even with our windows closed.
This next page, dated just a few days after the first entry, says:
From check-in to check-out our weekend here was…
Actually, I’ll skip this one. It goes on to sound more like a review on a Bed & Breakfast than something personal.
The whole idea of this diary thing, Heather explained to us, was so the guests that stay here can really, truly relax.
Just forget everything. Just completely, utterly unwind.
Unload everything.
Just get it all out on paper.
This one here’s much better. It says:
She’s in the shower right now and she has no idea.
Well, I mean she’s not STUPID. She MUST know that SOMETHING’S up because we’re here obviously and this isn’t something I ordinarily go out of my way to do.
This whole trip is something special.
I just hope my fake not wanting to get married and moving too-fast thing these past few months have worked on her too well.
HA! She thinks this trip is me making up for being an ass but really, I’ve had this whole thing planned out since November.
I want everything to be perfect. This is where she grew up. She LOVES the ocean. She’s always complaining how she hasn’t gone surfing in so long.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed here. I mean, all her friends say she’ll say yes. Her Mom helped me pick out the ring! I KNOW she’ll say yes. But, you know...
I mean it’s funny but, I really pissed her off these past few months.
Here we go.
What? You can’t leave us hanging like that.
Did she or didn’t she?
I flip through more pages. Past some of the other entries.
It’s funny really, some of the other people start having conversations with each other:
“WELL? What happened?”
“Do you think she said yes?”
“I hope she said Yes.”
Whatever. I move on.
To this:
A whole weekend away from the kids! This is the most amazing thing my husband has ever done for us!
We found this place under “The Top Ten Most Romantic Getaways” and we booked our stay through the Internet. We had actually booked ourselves into the Ocean View Suite first, but Heather downstairs was thoughtful enough to ask me if I had cat allergies because the previous guest had snuck their kitty in!
We wound up here in the Fireside Suite which, as you can see, is gorgeous. The best part of our whole stay here was the fact that it rained so much. It made it even more romantic! I didn’t mind. We cozied up in the library and just wound up talking all night, getting to know each other even more than we already do. I miss our all-nighters!
The sound of the rain on this old wooden roof added to the whole thing.
The next morning we went downstairs and met some of the other guests who were all from different states and different countries. We shared our stories, got to know our different worlds, then went our separate ways.
Come to think of it, we’re not all that different after all.
This whole experience was something I’ll never forget.
Thank you Love. I love you so much. More than you’ll ever know.
There are just so many diaries here. Each one slid between another one. The diaries packed in three neat rows on three wooden shelves.
The top and middle shelves permanently bending with all their weight. The top surface of the little wooden bedside table stained pale with beach sunshine.
I put that first diary back and pick out another.
I flip through the pages of this one. Its pages wrinkled from so many ballpoint pen entries.
So much “emptying” as Heather downstairs put it. That was the whole idea. For you to check in and just let go of every little thing that took you back to wherever it was that brought you here in the first place.
Just dump it all right here on these crumpled pages.
There are confessions:
I hope he never finds out I cheated on him. I hope my stay here makes me feel better about never telling him.
There’s poetry:
What I wouldn’t give
To call you Thine Own
To say Thou art my Juliet
And I
Your Romeo
There are responses:
Would you like some crackers to go with your cheese?
I put the diary down and take a look around the room. Just for a quick moment.
Thinking of all the different people who’ve sat right here reading all of these diaries before me.
Everyone’s hopes, dreams, failures and spiritual atonements.
Their deepest, most personal little private fantasies.
Their feeling more comfortable writing it down, seeing it on paper and have it mean something real instead of remaining intangible thought.
That was the whole idea of this diary thing. A freeze framed snapshot of whatever your life looked like right at that moment.
Then...
On the very bottom shelf I notice three diaries lined up next to each other from left to right. These three diaries with their frayed spines numbered “1”, “2” and “3”. The numbers scrawled in ballpoint pen. Traced over and over again until the numbers stood out from the other diaries lined up next to their ordinary blank spines.
Like these diaries were a set.
Curious, I slide the other one back in its place and pull out number 1.
I open the diary up.
Scrawled in woman’s handwriting, it says:
Charlie helped me with the tea. I asked for something relaxing. Charlie said Chamomile and I said, No Charlie, I need something stronger.
When I say relaxing, I mean knock-your-husband-out strong. What I mean, Charlie, is knock my husband out cold. Long enough for me to tie the bastard down to the bed.
I winked and said, Do you know what I’m talking about now Charlie?
Charlie just smiled and said, Just as long as I leave a little something behind. Something to remember me by.
Charlie said, It would be a shame to not record anything worth recording.
I said, Do you mean the diary? And Charlie said yeah. The diary. I said, No problem Charlie.
So here it is. Here’s my story:
I look up from the book. Crack my neck.
And start:
There’s a saying they have for those awkward pauses in the middle of a conversation. Some call it a “Tumbleweed Moment.” I’ve heard it’s an angel that passes by.
Personally, right then at least, I’d like not to think it was angel. Or anything Heavenly at all really. Not watching us. Not right then. This was private.
I’d like to think it was the look I was giving him that made him stop dead in his tracks. Him on top of me, pinning both my wrists down on either side of my head as we exchanged each other’s same passionate glances.
His grip on my wrists was strong. Not enough to hurt me but I wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time.
I must admit, I did put up a little more than my usual fight that night. It was a lot of fun though - pretending to be in a little danger. The Big Bad Man wanting to have his way with me. Take advantage of me.
It was always fun playfully scrambling away (usually right towards our bed), and trying my best not to giggle with baited excitement at what we both knew we would make happen on and with much anticipated purpose.
Me, playing the role of Helpless Heroine, I knew all my lines by heart by now: “Oh no! Please no! You want to what? Tie me up? Oh, how dare you! Anything but that, please!”
And of course: “You won’t get away with this!”
And of course: “Just wait ‘til I get loose!”
And sometimes: “I’ll never give you the satisfaction!”
It was fun, being tied down and teased. Him sucking on my nipples, fucking me just half-way and making me beg him to finish me off.
Me saying, “Oh no, please! You can’t leave me like this! It’s so mean of you! This is so unfair!”
Me saying, “Please! Please fuck me! Please let me cum!”
And sometimes: “God that felt so fucking good after all!”
And it always did.
Tonight, this weekend though, our little stage play had taken a slight change of direction.
This whole trip was about change. It was about really letting ourselves go and seeing if we would still be here, side by each other’s side, in full, afterwards.
Makes sense now Charlie asking me to log all of this down here in this diary. The whole idea of these little personal journals is to write and read for yourself what makes you tick. See if after all is done and written, you can still live with yourself.
Oh, and by the by, being one half of a whole - my husband’s version of that night is in the diary right next to this one. We’ve labeled them 1, 2 and 3.
Hopefully everybody will keep them in order.
I put this diary pages-down on the bed and reach for diary number 2. I quickly flip through its pages until I find the right place.
Scrawled in a man’s handwriting, it says:
The best part about sex other than the actual sex is right before all the fucking.
She’ll be on our bed lying on her back with both her legs up in the air. I’ll be straddling her from above. Her ankles resting on either side of my neck against my shoulders.
In this position, she’s gotta arch her back a little ways up off the bed so I can reach down and pull the underwear off her ass.
She’ll watch me, smiling as I slowly pull the underwear down the whole length of her legs. Then I grab a hold of her ankles, gently push her legs forward back towards her so I can slide the underwear right off.
And that’s all it takes.
Just that just long-enough moment where I catch a quick glimpse of the soles of her bare feet and we both know we’re in for a long, memorable night.
‘Course the rest of her turns me on but there’s just something about looking at the look on her face as I’m straddling her from above, sucking on her toes.
I’m too high up for her to be able to reach me. To get me to stop. What she’ll do instead is lift herself up off the bed as far as she can go with her legs still up in the air and me gripping her ankles and not letting go. Me kissing the bottoms of her feet and sucking hard on whichever toe makes her squeal the loudest.
She’ll fall back down against the bed from her half-crunch and flail her arms about. Maybe beat the mattress a little in sexual frustration at my having this much power over how she feels without her being able to fully participate.
She’ll playfully try and pull her legs away, sometimes for real, but I don’t let go and I don’t stop until I’m finished.
‘Course I always try and steal a quick tickle.
Always.
But this weekend was going to be more than just a quick tickle. This was going to be more than just a quick anything.
Picking up diary number 1 again, I pick up where I left off:
It’d all started this morning with an itch on the back of my neck.
I like sleeping on my side, curled up into a ball. My arms slid underneath my pillow. My legs tucked up into the rest of my body. My ankles sometimes crossed. How my husband usually wakes me up is by wrapping an arm around me. He’ll brush the hair away from my back and start kissing my neck.
This makes me curl up into an even smaller, tighter ball. I usually giggle, slap his hand away and pretend-bitch about how I’m only half awake and about how the kissing tickles so would he please stop it.
That morning though, he did not stop.
His arm wrapped around the already smaller, tighter ball of me, he just squeezed me into myself even more. Sort of trapping me in my own curled up position. Then his fingers went into all the places fingers should never go that early in the morning.
Both diaries in both hands now, I look over at the pages of number 2:
Really, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The plan was to start slow. Just a playful little morning wake up tickle was all. I mean, she was already bundled up in her little ball and I thought it was cute how she couldn’t get out of it with just my one arm wrapped around her.
I don’t know how long she took it. Probably only a few seconds really. I was only able to get at her breasts and her stomach.
Then there was the explosion right in my face.
I switch back to number 1:
His only reaction to my laughing was more laughing but he wasn’t understanding where that was coming from.
When I say I can’t stand it being tickled, that’s pretty much just what I mean. Oh, and by the by, anyone else reading this who’s thinking of maybe waking somebody else up like this, maybe you really shouldn’t.
He was able to tickle just my breasts and stomach. I tried pushing him off me, rolling over and prying his arm loose and kicking my legs out but nothing worked.
It wasn’t my fault my head snapped back all of a sudden and smacked him right in the face.
Diary 2:
It didn’t hurt that much but I thought I should at least let her go and maybe explain what this whole trip was going to be about.
Diary 1:
I was really freaked out at first. The back of anyone’s head is pretty rock-solid when you smash it right smack into someone else’s face so I was really concerned.
He let go of me at least but cupped his face in his hands, rolled over and started rocking from side to side, moaning about how much it hurt like a motherfucker.
Diary 2:
This trip, this whole weekend was about opening ourselves up to one another. Going further than we ever have.
This would be a lot more than just some fun vacation. This would be more than just waking up to the sounds of the ocean and seagulls and the smell of sea salt for a few mornings or getting our tans and sightseeing.
I was going to tell her what really, truly turned me on.
Book 1:
After much concern over whether or not I’d broken his nose, he finally admitted there was more to his seemingly innocent little stunt that morning.
And just so you know, I don’t and can’t remember exactly word-for-word the words he used when he told me. This is by no means verbatim dialogue.
What I do remember is, it was one of those Tumbleweed Moments once he was done. I just sat there.
Book 2 (page turned):
I tried to explain it to her, how perfect this was all going, but it was a little difficult with her trying to make a break for the door.
Book 1 (page turned):
I threw shoes at him, breakfast mints, even a small suitcase and all he kept hollering about was how great it was that we were finally having The Chase.
He told me to write that in CAPS.
Then he went on about how this happens in so many of the different stories. I kept asking, “What stories?”
2:
“The Tickling Stories!”
1:
“WHAT TICKLING STORIES?!
And that brings me right back to where I started this little personal entry. With him on top of me. Him pinning my wrists down on either side of me. Both of us back on the bed.
I don’t even know how long our little chase had lasted but the sun hadn’t moved any.
I was probably red faced. More than a little out of breath. Like I wrote earlier, this was no usual little role-playing play fight.
When I say, Chase. I mean, Chase.
I mean scrambling over chairs, couches, jumping up onto the bed. I even tried outsmarting him by shifting my weight to the left and right while he waited for me, arms outstretched at the foot of the bed frame. When he jumped up to try and catch me, I dove through the drapes and almost managed to crawl underneath the bed.
2:
I grabbed a hold of her ankle, pulled her out from under the bed and started tickling her foot. It was all a bit dramatic, just like how its supposed to be with the yelling and all the laughing and swearing and squealing. It was great.
1:
I must’ve kicked him pretty hard. He landed in what used to be the lampshade.
Turning the page again, Book 2 reads:
I was and wasn’t expecting her to lock herself in the bathroom. It was flawed writing. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not right then at least. It was poorly thought-out pacing and just really bad editing to say the least.
I kept trying to explain to her how there should never be a break in the action. It has to keep going just like in the movies with the foot chase, the car chase, the train chase and sometimes even the speed boat chase leading up to the airplane chase.
Outside the locked bathroom door, doubled over and holding my knees, I kept telling her just stick to the script.
Book 1:
He was right. This couldn’t go on. Eventually I’d get hungry. I couldn’t stay locked up in here forever so I asked him, if I came out, if what I think would happen would happen even if he promised me it wouldn’t.
He said, “What do you think will happen?”
I said, “Knowing you? You’ll probably make nice and pretend to be all sweet at first, take me off guard by kissing me or something and telling me how much you love me. Then grab me by the waist, pick me up and Tarzan my ass over to the bed and tie me up.”
He said, “I promise that won’t happen.”
Book 2:
She looked beautiful like this. Her on her back, out of breath. Her chest rising and falling with her every deep inhale and exhale.
I could feel her squirm underneath me. I could feel the strength in her arms as she fought to try and get up again. The look on her face as she locked eyes with me, knowing that “The Chase” was now well and truly over and that I wasn’t about to let her up again.
Book 1:
It took a lot, but I decided that kneeing him in the balls just wouldn’t be worth it. I wanted to see where all this was going.
I said, and with as much firmness in my voice as I could muster, “You don’t seem to get it. I. AM. REAL. LY. TICK. LISH”
He just grinned at me and said he knew I’d say that. He said, “That’s what they all say. The ‘Lee’s.”
He said, “You’re going to be my ‘Lee this weekend.”
And cue Tumbleweed Moment Number Whatever.
“You’re what?”
“My ‘Lee!”
“Who the fuck is Lee?”
“No, MY ‘LEE!”
“WHO’S MEI LEE?!”
He said, “Nevermind. But you’re tired now.”
No, not really.
“So you have to let me tie you up.”
I asked, What was he planning on using? He said he hadn’t thought that far ahead. I told him how this was his stupid story which by now was getting really long, so he should start making shit up. Start thinking. So he gave me options:
He could rip the drapes into shreds and use those. I said I didn’t feel like paying for any damages. The weekend here had cost us a small fortune already. We’d already shattered what used to be the bedside lamp.
Book 2:
That was her fault.
Book 1:
He suggested using the shoelaces of my boots. I said they weren’t long enough, too easy to snap and how that they would cut off my blood circulation. He asked about the electric chord of the hairdryer. I pointed out how the hairdryer was very much attached to the wall in the bathroom, and that it would be damn near impossible for him to tie a real knot using electric chord in the first place.
I said, rather hopefully, “What about the cotton belts from the complimentary bathrobes?”
And now we were getting somewhere.
In Book 2:
I stood over her. Watching her closely. I didn’t want to miss that special moment. The one beautiful moment when the panic washes over her face once she fully realized the extent of her dire situation. I didn’t want to miss that split-second expression change as the images of her torture-filled near future projected itself onto the movie screen of her mind’s eye.
1:
Like I said earlier, none of this is verbatim but I had to keep from laughing with all his new dialogue.
There was, “Now I’m just going to tickle you and tickle you and keep on tickling and tickling you until you can’t take anymore tickling and then I’m just going to tickle you some more!” I asked where he got all that from and he said it was the right thing to say so I just nodded my head and waited for him to finish.
2:
With just two bathrobe belts, we had to be resourceful. Originally, it was supposed to be a spread-eagled position (and yes, I explained how it was ALWAYS a spread-eagled position), but she wound up stretched out across the length of the bed. Her arms stretched up above her, wrists firmly fastened to the wooden bed frame of the headboard.
I crossed her ankles, bound them with the remaining belt and pulled the leftover length as far down as I could, stretching her legs out beneath her. I fastened the belt to the heavy wooden framework between the thick wooden posts and made sure no knots were within her reach.
By the time I was finished, she couldn’t move.
1:
Took him half an hour to properly secure me to the bed.
2:
I started where I was supposed to start: Her upper body. I tickled her ribs, her sides and her stomach. I tickled her armpits and she laughed like crazy.
She was like, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Then I moved down and tickled her legs, her thighs and finally, her bare feet.
She was like, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
1:
I felt bad, really, but after all this I really didn’t want this to go to waste.
I had to guide him a little:
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Baby, can you calm down for a second?”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing hon. Just...tickle me a little slower, okay?”
“Okay, where?”
“No honey. Don’t tell me. In fact,” and this is where I suggested using the complimentary sleeping mask to use a blindfold.
I said, “There’s no need to tell me sweetheart. Just go real slow. Tease me a little. You’re great in bed but this is a little different, okay? For both of us. So just go slow. I’ll feel it. It’ll be a surprise, okay?”
And so if this is a story, one of his “Tickling Stories”, then this must be what they call the Final Act. The Big Climax.
This is where the character’s arcs truly begin because now the characters have learned something about themselves. About each other.
Something more than when they first started.
This is right about when my world went all back as he slipped the mask over my eyes and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t make a sound.
My own breathing in, breathing out filling my ears.
My husband getting off me. Standing I don’t know where anymore.
This is when I feel what he wants me to feel. What it truly feels like to be tied down and hope that someone you trust knows you enough to give them their mercy when you need it.
I feel the first irritations on the pads of my toes. I can’t help giggling here. I wriggle my toes around and bend them backwards, flexing my feet.
It doesn’t stop though. I grit my teeth and grab a hold of the cotton belt around my wrists above me, tying me down to the bed and I hold on for dear life. It hasn’t really started yet, I know that much, but this is still quite enough to make me dread how long I know it’s going to take him to break me. I know myself. I can take a whole lot more than this.
He knows it too.
I can’t describe what I was trying to get across in the gasp that escaped my lips as I felt him suddenly grab a hold of my big toes. He pushed them back, taking the rest of each of my feet with him. My ankles crossed. This flexed-back position showing off the shapes of each foot and keeping me from moving them.
I laughed out loud now. My back suddenly thrusting itself up off of the bed and I crashed back down again, thrashing up and down the mattress, squealing but still holding back as I feel him gently scratching at the sensitive hollows of my soles.
This was maddening.
This was a whole lot better and a whole lot worse than having my toes sucked.
I couldn’t even try and reach up to try and stop him.
Gritting my teeth again, I grimaced and really tested my bonds now. I helped a lot with the knots so I suppose it was my fault I was tied down as tight as I was.
It was my fault the knots were out of reach.
I arched my back again, letting go a little more this time and letting out as much laughter as I couldn’t hold back.
His fingers digging deeper. Tracing patterns all across my soles. My feet still held in place.
His fingers moved quickly, slowly, tickled my feet in all different places. All different and confusing unpredictable rhythms.
I shook my head, resisting the urge to plead with him. To give in.
Not yet.
I wasn’t done just yet.
I tried focusing on anything other than what I was trying to acknowledge wasn’t happening to me but the moment I stopped laughing, the moment I managed to hold back he stopped.
I didn’t know what to say here that wouldn’t sound like something out of one of his tickling stories. I didn’t know my role or my lines yet. I didn’t know the proper way to react when I felt him begin to tickle the stretched-smooth skin of my armpits.
I couldn’t remember how it’d even come to this. The both of us testing ourselves to see how far we could both go without needing to want to come back as he squeezed, ever-so-gently, the sides of my body. Tickled my ribs.
His fingers fingertips tickling, scuttling, dancing, wriggling all around, across and around my stomach and bellybutton.
My skin, my exposed body stretched out across the bed for him to do whatever he unfairly wanted to with.
My self, my real self, not the me I was when we first checked in here for the weekend but the real me, deep down, lost somewhere inside all my grown up fakeness, all my borrowed individualism and practiced accidental traits and learned habits good, bad, confused, right and wrong and undecided finally, completely and entirely letting loose.
Letting go.
The whole point of this diary. This place. This weekend here with the new and improved Us.
I laughed I don’t even know how loud or how long or how stupid sounding or childish or just plan crazy.
I basically just lost my shit.
Book 2:
The best part about sex is after being honest with each other about each other.
I’ll never forget that night.
Book 1:
Charlie helped me with the tea. I asked for something relaxing. Charlie said Chamomile and I said, No Charlie, I need something stronger.
When I say relaxing, I mean knock-your-husband-out strong. What I mean, Charlie, is knock my husband out cold. Long enough for me to tie the bastard down to the bed.
I wasn’t about to let the rest of the weekend be just another rest of this weekend. I wasn’t about to let this self-discovery thing be all one-sided.
My husband needed to know just how good letting go really felt.
And maybe this is just my opinion here about you get what you give, but speaking from just my own point of view, you have to experience both sides of the experience before you’re on the same page.
This is where both diaries end.
I sit. I look around the room. I get up. Open the window. The smell of the rose gardens below flooding my senses.
I sit back down on the bed again. Leaving both diaries 1 and 2 on the bed next to me, I reach down and pull out number 3.
I open it up.
Scrawled in a woman’s handwriting, it says:
One thing my husband told me about storytelling is you have to keep your audience hanging.
Leave them wanting just a little bit more.
Like the half minute real Final Scene after the credits roll in a movie.
Or the seconds that count eighteen minutes of dead silent air after the last song on a CD until you get to the Hidden Track at the true very end.
This is Diary Number 3 and the rest of these pages are blank. Go ahead. You can flip through them all you want.
This book here, this whole diary thing, this is so you can write your own little personal something. Your own Act 3.
This is our little gift to you to do what you want with. Make of it what you will. Hopefully you’ll know enough about yourself to want to take the plunge.
I put the diary down. I look at my watch.
I stand up. I stretch.
I sit back down again.
I pick up the pen on the top of the little bedside bookshelf and I open up diary number 3 again.
I begin:
It’s whatever time it is right now and my other half should be here any minute...
This one's dedicated to some of the people I've met here (who shall remain nameless), who I think are really cool.
And, to all the other writers here who put their everything into their everything and continue to inspire me, make me laugh, make me really feel something when I read your work.
This one's called Diary.
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A few blank pages into the book, it’s written:
I celebrated my 13th wedding anniversary this year by surprising my wife with a return visit to this wonderful, magical place.
Look out the bedside window and you’ll see the rose gardens below where we exchanged the marriage vows we’ve kept since all those years ago.
Our first night as husband and wife was spent right here in the Fireside Suite. It was almost like coming home after a long journey for us. The decor hasn’t even changed: the all-white Queen-size 4-post bed with the hanging sheer drapes, the cultured old stone fireplace, the chairs and couches, the views of the ocean. It’s all just as we remember.
The only new addition seems to be the flat screen TV (thankfully hidden in a media closet), and they have DVD’s now instead of VHS tapes. But, like the new girl (Heather) downstairs told us, you probably won’t even feel like turning it on.
The staff are as warm and welcoming as ever. The service top notch. We highly recommend the breakfast. Their new chef, Charlie, is a splendid cook and can whip up just about anything you ask for as long as you put the order in a day ahead of time. Their tea is brewed right here, locally, and is some of the finest you’ll ever taste.
We look forward to visiting again in the years that follow. Enjoy your stay!
That one was dated a while ago. Not sure if they ever did come back but with so many volumes of diaries here, I’m not about to check.
This room, the Fireside Suite, it looks just how he described it in his diary entry. The rose gardens below are in full bloom.
The scent hits me two floors up even with our windows closed.
This next page, dated just a few days after the first entry, says:
From check-in to check-out our weekend here was…
Actually, I’ll skip this one. It goes on to sound more like a review on a Bed & Breakfast than something personal.
The whole idea of this diary thing, Heather explained to us, was so the guests that stay here can really, truly relax.
Just forget everything. Just completely, utterly unwind.
Unload everything.
Just get it all out on paper.
This one here’s much better. It says:
She’s in the shower right now and she has no idea.
Well, I mean she’s not STUPID. She MUST know that SOMETHING’S up because we’re here obviously and this isn’t something I ordinarily go out of my way to do.
This whole trip is something special.
I just hope my fake not wanting to get married and moving too-fast thing these past few months have worked on her too well.
HA! She thinks this trip is me making up for being an ass but really, I’ve had this whole thing planned out since November.
I want everything to be perfect. This is where she grew up. She LOVES the ocean. She’s always complaining how she hasn’t gone surfing in so long.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed here. I mean, all her friends say she’ll say yes. Her Mom helped me pick out the ring! I KNOW she’ll say yes. But, you know...
I mean it’s funny but, I really pissed her off these past few months.
Here we go.
What? You can’t leave us hanging like that.
Did she or didn’t she?
I flip through more pages. Past some of the other entries.
It’s funny really, some of the other people start having conversations with each other:
“WELL? What happened?”
“Do you think she said yes?”
“I hope she said Yes.”
Whatever. I move on.
To this:
A whole weekend away from the kids! This is the most amazing thing my husband has ever done for us!
We found this place under “The Top Ten Most Romantic Getaways” and we booked our stay through the Internet. We had actually booked ourselves into the Ocean View Suite first, but Heather downstairs was thoughtful enough to ask me if I had cat allergies because the previous guest had snuck their kitty in!
We wound up here in the Fireside Suite which, as you can see, is gorgeous. The best part of our whole stay here was the fact that it rained so much. It made it even more romantic! I didn’t mind. We cozied up in the library and just wound up talking all night, getting to know each other even more than we already do. I miss our all-nighters!
The sound of the rain on this old wooden roof added to the whole thing.
The next morning we went downstairs and met some of the other guests who were all from different states and different countries. We shared our stories, got to know our different worlds, then went our separate ways.
Come to think of it, we’re not all that different after all.
This whole experience was something I’ll never forget.
Thank you Love. I love you so much. More than you’ll ever know.
There are just so many diaries here. Each one slid between another one. The diaries packed in three neat rows on three wooden shelves.
The top and middle shelves permanently bending with all their weight. The top surface of the little wooden bedside table stained pale with beach sunshine.
I put that first diary back and pick out another.
I flip through the pages of this one. Its pages wrinkled from so many ballpoint pen entries.
So much “emptying” as Heather downstairs put it. That was the whole idea. For you to check in and just let go of every little thing that took you back to wherever it was that brought you here in the first place.
Just dump it all right here on these crumpled pages.
There are confessions:
I hope he never finds out I cheated on him. I hope my stay here makes me feel better about never telling him.
There’s poetry:
What I wouldn’t give
To call you Thine Own
To say Thou art my Juliet
And I
Your Romeo
There are responses:
Would you like some crackers to go with your cheese?
I put the diary down and take a look around the room. Just for a quick moment.
Thinking of all the different people who’ve sat right here reading all of these diaries before me.
Everyone’s hopes, dreams, failures and spiritual atonements.
Their deepest, most personal little private fantasies.
Their feeling more comfortable writing it down, seeing it on paper and have it mean something real instead of remaining intangible thought.
That was the whole idea of this diary thing. A freeze framed snapshot of whatever your life looked like right at that moment.
Then...
On the very bottom shelf I notice three diaries lined up next to each other from left to right. These three diaries with their frayed spines numbered “1”, “2” and “3”. The numbers scrawled in ballpoint pen. Traced over and over again until the numbers stood out from the other diaries lined up next to their ordinary blank spines.
Like these diaries were a set.
Curious, I slide the other one back in its place and pull out number 1.
I open the diary up.
Scrawled in woman’s handwriting, it says:
Charlie helped me with the tea. I asked for something relaxing. Charlie said Chamomile and I said, No Charlie, I need something stronger.
When I say relaxing, I mean knock-your-husband-out strong. What I mean, Charlie, is knock my husband out cold. Long enough for me to tie the bastard down to the bed.
I winked and said, Do you know what I’m talking about now Charlie?
Charlie just smiled and said, Just as long as I leave a little something behind. Something to remember me by.
Charlie said, It would be a shame to not record anything worth recording.
I said, Do you mean the diary? And Charlie said yeah. The diary. I said, No problem Charlie.
So here it is. Here’s my story:
I look up from the book. Crack my neck.
And start:
There’s a saying they have for those awkward pauses in the middle of a conversation. Some call it a “Tumbleweed Moment.” I’ve heard it’s an angel that passes by.
Personally, right then at least, I’d like not to think it was angel. Or anything Heavenly at all really. Not watching us. Not right then. This was private.
I’d like to think it was the look I was giving him that made him stop dead in his tracks. Him on top of me, pinning both my wrists down on either side of my head as we exchanged each other’s same passionate glances.
His grip on my wrists was strong. Not enough to hurt me but I wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time.
I must admit, I did put up a little more than my usual fight that night. It was a lot of fun though - pretending to be in a little danger. The Big Bad Man wanting to have his way with me. Take advantage of me.
It was always fun playfully scrambling away (usually right towards our bed), and trying my best not to giggle with baited excitement at what we both knew we would make happen on and with much anticipated purpose.
Me, playing the role of Helpless Heroine, I knew all my lines by heart by now: “Oh no! Please no! You want to what? Tie me up? Oh, how dare you! Anything but that, please!”
And of course: “You won’t get away with this!”
And of course: “Just wait ‘til I get loose!”
And sometimes: “I’ll never give you the satisfaction!”
It was fun, being tied down and teased. Him sucking on my nipples, fucking me just half-way and making me beg him to finish me off.
Me saying, “Oh no, please! You can’t leave me like this! It’s so mean of you! This is so unfair!”
Me saying, “Please! Please fuck me! Please let me cum!”
And sometimes: “God that felt so fucking good after all!”
And it always did.
Tonight, this weekend though, our little stage play had taken a slight change of direction.
This whole trip was about change. It was about really letting ourselves go and seeing if we would still be here, side by each other’s side, in full, afterwards.
Makes sense now Charlie asking me to log all of this down here in this diary. The whole idea of these little personal journals is to write and read for yourself what makes you tick. See if after all is done and written, you can still live with yourself.
Oh, and by the by, being one half of a whole - my husband’s version of that night is in the diary right next to this one. We’ve labeled them 1, 2 and 3.
Hopefully everybody will keep them in order.
I put this diary pages-down on the bed and reach for diary number 2. I quickly flip through its pages until I find the right place.
Scrawled in a man’s handwriting, it says:
The best part about sex other than the actual sex is right before all the fucking.
She’ll be on our bed lying on her back with both her legs up in the air. I’ll be straddling her from above. Her ankles resting on either side of my neck against my shoulders.
In this position, she’s gotta arch her back a little ways up off the bed so I can reach down and pull the underwear off her ass.
She’ll watch me, smiling as I slowly pull the underwear down the whole length of her legs. Then I grab a hold of her ankles, gently push her legs forward back towards her so I can slide the underwear right off.
And that’s all it takes.
Just that just long-enough moment where I catch a quick glimpse of the soles of her bare feet and we both know we’re in for a long, memorable night.
‘Course the rest of her turns me on but there’s just something about looking at the look on her face as I’m straddling her from above, sucking on her toes.
I’m too high up for her to be able to reach me. To get me to stop. What she’ll do instead is lift herself up off the bed as far as she can go with her legs still up in the air and me gripping her ankles and not letting go. Me kissing the bottoms of her feet and sucking hard on whichever toe makes her squeal the loudest.
She’ll fall back down against the bed from her half-crunch and flail her arms about. Maybe beat the mattress a little in sexual frustration at my having this much power over how she feels without her being able to fully participate.
She’ll playfully try and pull her legs away, sometimes for real, but I don’t let go and I don’t stop until I’m finished.
‘Course I always try and steal a quick tickle.
Always.
But this weekend was going to be more than just a quick tickle. This was going to be more than just a quick anything.
Picking up diary number 1 again, I pick up where I left off:
It’d all started this morning with an itch on the back of my neck.
I like sleeping on my side, curled up into a ball. My arms slid underneath my pillow. My legs tucked up into the rest of my body. My ankles sometimes crossed. How my husband usually wakes me up is by wrapping an arm around me. He’ll brush the hair away from my back and start kissing my neck.
This makes me curl up into an even smaller, tighter ball. I usually giggle, slap his hand away and pretend-bitch about how I’m only half awake and about how the kissing tickles so would he please stop it.
That morning though, he did not stop.
His arm wrapped around the already smaller, tighter ball of me, he just squeezed me into myself even more. Sort of trapping me in my own curled up position. Then his fingers went into all the places fingers should never go that early in the morning.
Both diaries in both hands now, I look over at the pages of number 2:
Really, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The plan was to start slow. Just a playful little morning wake up tickle was all. I mean, she was already bundled up in her little ball and I thought it was cute how she couldn’t get out of it with just my one arm wrapped around her.
I don’t know how long she took it. Probably only a few seconds really. I was only able to get at her breasts and her stomach.
Then there was the explosion right in my face.
I switch back to number 1:
His only reaction to my laughing was more laughing but he wasn’t understanding where that was coming from.
When I say I can’t stand it being tickled, that’s pretty much just what I mean. Oh, and by the by, anyone else reading this who’s thinking of maybe waking somebody else up like this, maybe you really shouldn’t.
He was able to tickle just my breasts and stomach. I tried pushing him off me, rolling over and prying his arm loose and kicking my legs out but nothing worked.
It wasn’t my fault my head snapped back all of a sudden and smacked him right in the face.
Diary 2:
It didn’t hurt that much but I thought I should at least let her go and maybe explain what this whole trip was going to be about.
Diary 1:
I was really freaked out at first. The back of anyone’s head is pretty rock-solid when you smash it right smack into someone else’s face so I was really concerned.
He let go of me at least but cupped his face in his hands, rolled over and started rocking from side to side, moaning about how much it hurt like a motherfucker.
Diary 2:
This trip, this whole weekend was about opening ourselves up to one another. Going further than we ever have.
This would be a lot more than just some fun vacation. This would be more than just waking up to the sounds of the ocean and seagulls and the smell of sea salt for a few mornings or getting our tans and sightseeing.
I was going to tell her what really, truly turned me on.
Book 1:
After much concern over whether or not I’d broken his nose, he finally admitted there was more to his seemingly innocent little stunt that morning.
And just so you know, I don’t and can’t remember exactly word-for-word the words he used when he told me. This is by no means verbatim dialogue.
What I do remember is, it was one of those Tumbleweed Moments once he was done. I just sat there.
Book 2 (page turned):
I tried to explain it to her, how perfect this was all going, but it was a little difficult with her trying to make a break for the door.
Book 1 (page turned):
I threw shoes at him, breakfast mints, even a small suitcase and all he kept hollering about was how great it was that we were finally having The Chase.
He told me to write that in CAPS.
Then he went on about how this happens in so many of the different stories. I kept asking, “What stories?”
2:
“The Tickling Stories!”
1:
“WHAT TICKLING STORIES?!
And that brings me right back to where I started this little personal entry. With him on top of me. Him pinning my wrists down on either side of me. Both of us back on the bed.
I don’t even know how long our little chase had lasted but the sun hadn’t moved any.
I was probably red faced. More than a little out of breath. Like I wrote earlier, this was no usual little role-playing play fight.
When I say, Chase. I mean, Chase.
I mean scrambling over chairs, couches, jumping up onto the bed. I even tried outsmarting him by shifting my weight to the left and right while he waited for me, arms outstretched at the foot of the bed frame. When he jumped up to try and catch me, I dove through the drapes and almost managed to crawl underneath the bed.
2:
I grabbed a hold of her ankle, pulled her out from under the bed and started tickling her foot. It was all a bit dramatic, just like how its supposed to be with the yelling and all the laughing and swearing and squealing. It was great.
1:
I must’ve kicked him pretty hard. He landed in what used to be the lampshade.
Turning the page again, Book 2 reads:
I was and wasn’t expecting her to lock herself in the bathroom. It was flawed writing. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not right then at least. It was poorly thought-out pacing and just really bad editing to say the least.
I kept trying to explain to her how there should never be a break in the action. It has to keep going just like in the movies with the foot chase, the car chase, the train chase and sometimes even the speed boat chase leading up to the airplane chase.
Outside the locked bathroom door, doubled over and holding my knees, I kept telling her just stick to the script.
Book 1:
He was right. This couldn’t go on. Eventually I’d get hungry. I couldn’t stay locked up in here forever so I asked him, if I came out, if what I think would happen would happen even if he promised me it wouldn’t.
He said, “What do you think will happen?”
I said, “Knowing you? You’ll probably make nice and pretend to be all sweet at first, take me off guard by kissing me or something and telling me how much you love me. Then grab me by the waist, pick me up and Tarzan my ass over to the bed and tie me up.”
He said, “I promise that won’t happen.”
Book 2:
She looked beautiful like this. Her on her back, out of breath. Her chest rising and falling with her every deep inhale and exhale.
I could feel her squirm underneath me. I could feel the strength in her arms as she fought to try and get up again. The look on her face as she locked eyes with me, knowing that “The Chase” was now well and truly over and that I wasn’t about to let her up again.
Book 1:
It took a lot, but I decided that kneeing him in the balls just wouldn’t be worth it. I wanted to see where all this was going.
I said, and with as much firmness in my voice as I could muster, “You don’t seem to get it. I. AM. REAL. LY. TICK. LISH”
He just grinned at me and said he knew I’d say that. He said, “That’s what they all say. The ‘Lee’s.”
He said, “You’re going to be my ‘Lee this weekend.”
And cue Tumbleweed Moment Number Whatever.
“You’re what?”
“My ‘Lee!”
“Who the fuck is Lee?”
“No, MY ‘LEE!”
“WHO’S MEI LEE?!”
He said, “Nevermind. But you’re tired now.”
No, not really.
“So you have to let me tie you up.”
I asked, What was he planning on using? He said he hadn’t thought that far ahead. I told him how this was his stupid story which by now was getting really long, so he should start making shit up. Start thinking. So he gave me options:
He could rip the drapes into shreds and use those. I said I didn’t feel like paying for any damages. The weekend here had cost us a small fortune already. We’d already shattered what used to be the bedside lamp.
Book 2:
That was her fault.
Book 1:
He suggested using the shoelaces of my boots. I said they weren’t long enough, too easy to snap and how that they would cut off my blood circulation. He asked about the electric chord of the hairdryer. I pointed out how the hairdryer was very much attached to the wall in the bathroom, and that it would be damn near impossible for him to tie a real knot using electric chord in the first place.
I said, rather hopefully, “What about the cotton belts from the complimentary bathrobes?”
And now we were getting somewhere.
In Book 2:
I stood over her. Watching her closely. I didn’t want to miss that special moment. The one beautiful moment when the panic washes over her face once she fully realized the extent of her dire situation. I didn’t want to miss that split-second expression change as the images of her torture-filled near future projected itself onto the movie screen of her mind’s eye.
1:
Like I said earlier, none of this is verbatim but I had to keep from laughing with all his new dialogue.
There was, “Now I’m just going to tickle you and tickle you and keep on tickling and tickling you until you can’t take anymore tickling and then I’m just going to tickle you some more!” I asked where he got all that from and he said it was the right thing to say so I just nodded my head and waited for him to finish.
2:
With just two bathrobe belts, we had to be resourceful. Originally, it was supposed to be a spread-eagled position (and yes, I explained how it was ALWAYS a spread-eagled position), but she wound up stretched out across the length of the bed. Her arms stretched up above her, wrists firmly fastened to the wooden bed frame of the headboard.
I crossed her ankles, bound them with the remaining belt and pulled the leftover length as far down as I could, stretching her legs out beneath her. I fastened the belt to the heavy wooden framework between the thick wooden posts and made sure no knots were within her reach.
By the time I was finished, she couldn’t move.
1:
Took him half an hour to properly secure me to the bed.
2:
I started where I was supposed to start: Her upper body. I tickled her ribs, her sides and her stomach. I tickled her armpits and she laughed like crazy.
She was like, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Then I moved down and tickled her legs, her thighs and finally, her bare feet.
She was like, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
1:
I felt bad, really, but after all this I really didn’t want this to go to waste.
I had to guide him a little:
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Baby, can you calm down for a second?”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing hon. Just...tickle me a little slower, okay?”
“Okay, where?”
“No honey. Don’t tell me. In fact,” and this is where I suggested using the complimentary sleeping mask to use a blindfold.
I said, “There’s no need to tell me sweetheart. Just go real slow. Tease me a little. You’re great in bed but this is a little different, okay? For both of us. So just go slow. I’ll feel it. It’ll be a surprise, okay?”
And so if this is a story, one of his “Tickling Stories”, then this must be what they call the Final Act. The Big Climax.
This is where the character’s arcs truly begin because now the characters have learned something about themselves. About each other.
Something more than when they first started.
This is right about when my world went all back as he slipped the mask over my eyes and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t make a sound.
My own breathing in, breathing out filling my ears.
My husband getting off me. Standing I don’t know where anymore.
This is when I feel what he wants me to feel. What it truly feels like to be tied down and hope that someone you trust knows you enough to give them their mercy when you need it.
I feel the first irritations on the pads of my toes. I can’t help giggling here. I wriggle my toes around and bend them backwards, flexing my feet.
It doesn’t stop though. I grit my teeth and grab a hold of the cotton belt around my wrists above me, tying me down to the bed and I hold on for dear life. It hasn’t really started yet, I know that much, but this is still quite enough to make me dread how long I know it’s going to take him to break me. I know myself. I can take a whole lot more than this.
He knows it too.
I can’t describe what I was trying to get across in the gasp that escaped my lips as I felt him suddenly grab a hold of my big toes. He pushed them back, taking the rest of each of my feet with him. My ankles crossed. This flexed-back position showing off the shapes of each foot and keeping me from moving them.
I laughed out loud now. My back suddenly thrusting itself up off of the bed and I crashed back down again, thrashing up and down the mattress, squealing but still holding back as I feel him gently scratching at the sensitive hollows of my soles.
This was maddening.
This was a whole lot better and a whole lot worse than having my toes sucked.
I couldn’t even try and reach up to try and stop him.
Gritting my teeth again, I grimaced and really tested my bonds now. I helped a lot with the knots so I suppose it was my fault I was tied down as tight as I was.
It was my fault the knots were out of reach.
I arched my back again, letting go a little more this time and letting out as much laughter as I couldn’t hold back.
His fingers digging deeper. Tracing patterns all across my soles. My feet still held in place.
His fingers moved quickly, slowly, tickled my feet in all different places. All different and confusing unpredictable rhythms.
I shook my head, resisting the urge to plead with him. To give in.
Not yet.
I wasn’t done just yet.
I tried focusing on anything other than what I was trying to acknowledge wasn’t happening to me but the moment I stopped laughing, the moment I managed to hold back he stopped.
I didn’t know what to say here that wouldn’t sound like something out of one of his tickling stories. I didn’t know my role or my lines yet. I didn’t know the proper way to react when I felt him begin to tickle the stretched-smooth skin of my armpits.
I couldn’t remember how it’d even come to this. The both of us testing ourselves to see how far we could both go without needing to want to come back as he squeezed, ever-so-gently, the sides of my body. Tickled my ribs.
His fingers fingertips tickling, scuttling, dancing, wriggling all around, across and around my stomach and bellybutton.
My skin, my exposed body stretched out across the bed for him to do whatever he unfairly wanted to with.
My self, my real self, not the me I was when we first checked in here for the weekend but the real me, deep down, lost somewhere inside all my grown up fakeness, all my borrowed individualism and practiced accidental traits and learned habits good, bad, confused, right and wrong and undecided finally, completely and entirely letting loose.
Letting go.
The whole point of this diary. This place. This weekend here with the new and improved Us.
I laughed I don’t even know how loud or how long or how stupid sounding or childish or just plan crazy.
I basically just lost my shit.
Book 2:
The best part about sex is after being honest with each other about each other.
I’ll never forget that night.
Book 1:
Charlie helped me with the tea. I asked for something relaxing. Charlie said Chamomile and I said, No Charlie, I need something stronger.
When I say relaxing, I mean knock-your-husband-out strong. What I mean, Charlie, is knock my husband out cold. Long enough for me to tie the bastard down to the bed.
I wasn’t about to let the rest of the weekend be just another rest of this weekend. I wasn’t about to let this self-discovery thing be all one-sided.
My husband needed to know just how good letting go really felt.
And maybe this is just my opinion here about you get what you give, but speaking from just my own point of view, you have to experience both sides of the experience before you’re on the same page.
This is where both diaries end.
I sit. I look around the room. I get up. Open the window. The smell of the rose gardens below flooding my senses.
I sit back down on the bed again. Leaving both diaries 1 and 2 on the bed next to me, I reach down and pull out number 3.
I open it up.
Scrawled in a woman’s handwriting, it says:
One thing my husband told me about storytelling is you have to keep your audience hanging.
Leave them wanting just a little bit more.
Like the half minute real Final Scene after the credits roll in a movie.
Or the seconds that count eighteen minutes of dead silent air after the last song on a CD until you get to the Hidden Track at the true very end.
This is Diary Number 3 and the rest of these pages are blank. Go ahead. You can flip through them all you want.
This book here, this whole diary thing, this is so you can write your own little personal something. Your own Act 3.
This is our little gift to you to do what you want with. Make of it what you will. Hopefully you’ll know enough about yourself to want to take the plunge.
I put the diary down. I look at my watch.
I stand up. I stretch.
I sit back down again.
I pick up the pen on the top of the little bedside bookshelf and I open up diary number 3 again.
I begin:
It’s whatever time it is right now and my other half should be here any minute...
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I'm very happy the humor (and sarcasm) came through. The one thing I'm a little upset about is my strikethroughs didn't come through. I wrote it in Word and several lines and words are crossed out on purpose and replaced with another one(s) to make it look, as much as it can, like someone really did write it in a notebook. 
What? Now now, you're more than capable of writing a Book 3 here on your own. If you felt like it that is. 
