He Throws me a (curve) Ball…

so…ya’ll know that M and I are wicked football fanatics, yes? (American football, that.)

So we’ve had this bet thing going all season and I’ve been *wicked* good at it, earning O’s like crazy each gameday. So this week I sent Him my bet without talking to Him first.

Again.

What the fuck was I thinking? We’re not a vanilla couple. We’re not equals. I never *asked* but I did ASSume.

Yeah. That makes me an ass.

So the game starts and I’m all happy, and suddenly the Patriots are winning by a mile and the points rack up much higher than all the talking heads on sports radio had anticipated (after all, Detroit was reputed to have a blazing defense.)…and I read a text from Him.

In this game, you LOSE an O from your O-Bank for every point scored over your prediction.

I …my heart just *fell*. We were already 3 points over when I read that, and a sudden touchdown (7 points) totally wiped out my bank. Like–ZERO. And then we headed into negative territory. I have no way to call Him, as I’m home with the family, and only minimal text ability for the same reason and I’m dying inside to know what the ramifications are for going in the hole.

When I leave for work, I call Him, but the game is still on, and He won’t tell me what happens now.

I do recall sputtering….”but…but Master!!  This means I have NO O’s before our playday….”

and His unsympathetic, “aww, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

So…I still have no idea about what the bill will be…but the advantage has all fallen into His hands.

It’s totally unfair…

…and perfectly right within our dynamic for it to be so.

(Isn’t that maddeningly hawt???!)

 

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The Job

I’m not sure where these sort of tales come from. Maybe because I’ve had an extended mental vacation from writing, or maybe it’s the change in seasons, or maybe I’m just super horny right now, but idea’s for stories are just burning through my brain. Unlike the last one, this tale begs to be a long drawn out affair. ~nilla~

 
 
“Local bar looking for a janitor. Must be reliable, have references. No free booze, don’t apply if that’s your goal. Looking for self-motivated person that takes pride in their work. WE do, you should too. Respond to this ad by texting to 555-111-5555.”
 

Mandy picked up her phone and sent the text.

Looking for work. Never missed a day at my old job, just got laid off when new owner cleaned house. Ha ha. (not) Have experience, transportation, and references. And I don’t drink.

The ping of her phone less than two minutes after sending the text shocked her. There had been too many dead ends to hope…yet the text was a response to hers.

134 So. Main Street. Be there at 3 and the job could be yours. Why don’t you drink? AA?

She supposed that was a reasonable question.

I hate the taste of alcohol. And I get drunk super easy, and…I guess I’m too much of a self-control freak to let go like that.

She frowned. Three o’clock was in 90 minutes. She should likely put on somewhat decent jeans, janitor or not. And a bra. Definitely a bra. And run a comb through the rat’s nest that she hadn’t bothered to brush when she got up this morning.

*ping* her phone chimed.

You just haven’t had the right sort of alcohol then. See you at 3.

Pompous, was her first thought.

whatever. you said no drinking. that won’t be a problem, so you don’t need to ‘solve’ it.

He or she should know up front that she was a no bullshit kind of woman.

excellent response

Whomever it was, male or female, there was a hint of condescension that irked a bit. Still, she was desperate for a job. Her unemployment bennies would end soon, and there were not that many offerings there, at least not for permanent jobs. One-offs had helped, to be sure, but she needed steady income. She trudged off to prepare to impress.

***   ***   ***

Finding the parking space right out front had to be a good omen, right? She slid out of her car, locking it, then looked across the street. The bar, Nettles, looked pretty nondescript, though it was the only business housed in the large brick building. She slide her purse over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and crossed. There was a door that looked like it might have once graced the front door of a medieval manor, thick and imposing. Though there was a gargoyle-faced knocker, she chose the modern route and depressed the doorbell under the brass numerals ’134′.

The door swung open, soundless on the thick brass hinges.

She was uncertain for a moment, then taking a deep breath, stepped up, and in.

***   ***   ***

“You’re here for the job, right?”

The girl who closed the door behind Mandy looked to be about 12, but was maybe early 20′s. Her hair was center-parted and drawn up into two high ponytails on each side of her head. Her  outfit was schoolgirlish, in that slutty way. Super short, her blouse tight, unbuttoned, and tied below a set of impressive breasts. Mandy might have felt out of place–if she gave a shit.

Which she didn’t.

She was here for a job, and not to be a dressed up slutty barmaid. She nodded briefly, yes, and tried not to stare at where the hemline landed as the girl turned. Sashaying, for surely that was the epitome of that odd word, the girl abjured her to “walk this way.” Mandy had never walked that way in her life. If she was a super-feminist type she might have gotten all protest-y about the girls attire, but really it was none of her concern how the kid dressed.

They walked through the open bar area, and then behind to a full kitchen. Through the kitchen, into a hallway, and Mandy figured they must be at the back of the huge building now.  Behind the kitchen was another hallway with three doors. The girl knocked on the door with a brass plate on it that read “NO!” and opened the door when a man’s voice spoke.

“Your three O’clock appointment is here, Sir.”

The barmaid’s attitude was shy, almost.

“Show him in.”

“Actually, Sir, he is a she.”

There was a muttered curse, then a curt “show her in.”

The girl stepped away from the door, and ushered Mandy inside. She had a quick glance around at what was very obviously a man’s domain; leather tall-backed chairs on each side of the huge desk, dark curtains at the tall window, and a large man with tattooed ‘sleeves’ up both bare arms. He stared at Mandy for a long moment. She spoke, as much to fill the awkward silence as to speak her mind.

“So I’m not a guy. I work hard. I’m honest. If you think you can’t hire me because I don’t have the same plumbing as you do, then that’s your loss.”

She had NO idea where that spurt of rage had come from. Maybe months of job hunting and never quite being enough. This time the lack of “enough” was a penis? No, she wasn’t going to deal with this shit any more. She turned on her heel and started for the door. Her hand was on the knob when the voice from behind her spoke.

“So, you’re a quitter then?”

“You’re the one who freaked when you discovered I’m not a guy.”

“Just to clarify, saying “oh fuck” is not freaking. You’re not what I expected, but I can live with it. As long as you show up, and do your job, that’s what I need.”

“I’m not planning on dressing up like her.”

Mandy turned, her back against the door, and thumbed her finger behind her. He laughed, deep and genuine.

“I should hope not! I sincerely doubt you are a little…and it isn’t the right attire for an industrial engineer anyway.”

She cracked a smile. People always wanted to fancy up the title.

“I’m fine with being a janitor, doesn’t bother me a bit. I like the work most days. Mostly right now?  I need the work. I want a chance. Okay, I don’t have a penis. But I work steady, quickly, hard.”

“How about I show you around and see if this is something you feel….comfortable with.”

Something in the way he looked when he said that made her wonder. What exactly was this bar expecting her to do? Scrub the floor with a toothbrush? He rose, and she had to stare a moment. The guy was a fucking giant! She was, as she often described herself, vertically challenged. This guy was going to make her feel like a damned midget!

“Something wrong?”

“No…just…you’re really tall.”

“Funny. I was just thinking you’re really short.”

She didn’t intend to giggle, but it just spurted out from her mouth. With a smile, He took her arm , drew her out into the hallway, and began showing her around.

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Time (3)”

Tell me you want my cock.”

He was across the garage bay, leaning against the front fender of her car. Head tilted to one side, he looked at her. She was a beautiful mess; tits peppered with bruises, skirt hiked up to her hips, her breasts quivering. Her bottom lip was swollen from his hand and from his brutal kisses. Her face showed the strain of having her arms behind her, bearing the weight of the chain . The long length of  it trailed from her wrists to the ground,  pooled between her feet. She was close, he knew, to tumbling headlong into submission.

The tip of her tongue peeked out, her lips glistened with moisture as she licked. His cock twitched as his eyes followed the quick darting movement.

I want your cock.”

Her voice, though raspy, was audible even here. He pushed off the car, sauntering over to where she stood swaying.

“You’ve wanted my cock ever since you stood there watching me take a piss, didn’t you? You wanted to put your lips around it, feel my shaft in your hands, wanted me to shove deep into your sopping wet cunt, didn’t you?”

His words made her burn. Embarrassment warred with greed. She did want his cock. Wanted, yes, exactly as he described. Her fingers itched to hold him, feel the velvet hardness, the strong length of his shaft. Her cunt wanted to feel  him pummel her. He’d stretch her good, ride her hard. He wouldn’t be a gentle lover; he’d take, and use, and …

His hand closed in her hair, tipping her head back. His mouth moved over hers, biting hard into her sore bottom lip. She moaned into his mouth.

“You need to work harder for it.”

He stepped back, then circled behind her. She felt him tug on the chain around her wrists, heard the clank of metal. Before she could wonder what he was up to, he was in front of her once more. He was holding a box, some kind remote control. With a half-smile, he depressed the button. From above her came a click, then a soft whirring sound. She felt the jolt as the slack was taken from the chain, then her arms came up. She cried out as her shoulders protested.

“Best bend over, girl.”

She folded, her wrists and hands rising painfully above her back.  He stepped back, placing the remote on the hood of her car, clicking off the hoist moments before she thought she’d start screaming. He looked at her for a long minute, then unzipped the fly of his work coveralls. Keeping his eyes on hers, he released his shaft. He was half hard as it was; seeing her at her most vulnerable made his cock continue to stiffen. Her head tilted as she followed his progress towards her. He stopped a full two feet away.

“Come get it.”

She took a half step forward, halted by the tug on her wrists.

“C’mon girl, you can reach it–if you want it enough.”

She whimpered as her arms strained, tugged high by her need to taste him with her mouth. He was so close–and just out of reach.

“Please…” she sobbed out the word, her mouth scant inches from the tip of his shaft. The head was swollen, red, glistening right there. Right out of her reach.

“What will you give me for a taste?”

She looked up at him, confused.  The corner of his mouth turned upward.

“You know. You’ll let me fuck you? Let me spank what I think is a pretty fine ass? Let me fuck that ass? What? What will you give me in return for my letting you taste my cock?”

He watched the thoughts flicker across her face. The anal bit certainly made her shift in place, even contorted as she was. He was sure he saw the glisten of juice on her inner thigh–he could smell the arousal.

He shifted his hips, making his cock sway and bounce.

“Well…what?”

She was more aroused than she had ever been in her life. Her clit pulsed with its miniature version of his erection. Her pussy was so hot that she could feel the press of her swollen lips on her thighs, the taunting rub of her panties jammed in her slit adding to her excitement. Other than slapping her around a bit, he’d barely touched her, and she knew she had to have more.

“Any.”

“Any?”

“Anything you want to do…I’ll …yes. You can do it all.”

He nodded, that half-smile still in place, almost mocking her, or her plight, or her wantonness.

He took a small step forward.

“Offer accepted.”

Stretching out to the furthest she could bear, her tongue barely brushed against the head. She moaned in frustration, stretched herself to her limit, and dragged the top of her yearning tongue across the slit of his cock.

He stepped forward, his hand soft on the back of her head, encouraging her.

“Good girl. Keep working for it.”

She  ignored the scream from her shoulders, and the tears tracing lines of pain down her face as  he slid between her yearning lips. The silky, salty taste of him consumed her, his hand on his head taught her. Her lips stretched wide, the bottom one aching with a throb that was answered between her wet legs.

As he stepped closer, as his cock slid into the hot depths of her wet, succulent mouth, she moaned. It was so big, this magnificent penis, thick and hard, with the tender yielding skin gliding over her tongue. She tasted the sweet saltiness of him, would have taken more, swallowed every drop, but he withdrew from her hot, greedy mouth.

Her moan was answered by his laugh.

“Time to pay your bill, slut.”

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HNT- Sunbathing

Tryin’ to warm up on this frigid, frost on the nips kind of  morning…

20141119_095301-1

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Time (2)

The girls voices droned on and on, faint annoying buzzes in the background. Twirling the olive in her martini, her body was here, but her mind and pussy were back in the garage, replaying the scene where he was standing there peeing, cock in hand and…

“Sarah!” A hard poke in her shoulder jostled her out of the moment. Pasting a quick smile on her face, she tried to recall what, exactly, the girls had been giggling about.

“Ashley.” She replied with a poke back at the blonde on her left.

“Can you believe that Ringer is retiring?”

“Actually–”

“They say his replacement will be announced tomorrow,” Ashley walked over Sarah’s comment, per usual. Well that was fine. She could stun them all into silence by naming Ringer’s replacement now, but why not wait and hold that close to her vest for a while longer.

“Aaaand,” Miranda took up the tale, her dark eyes flashing around the table, holding everyone in suspense. Before she could continue, the waiters returned with the horderves, laying platters around the table. It was the perfect opportunity to break away.

“I’m sorry ladies,.” She pushed her chair from the table, rising with a look of regret.  “I have to run. I’m borrowing someone’s car and have promised to get it back …”  pausing to glance at her watch she was shocked to note that less than an hour had passed since she’d left the garage  “….very soon.”

There was that hot, slick feeling between her legs as she moved around the table hugging her coworkers, saying her goodbyes, the kind of wet heat that only  came from deep arousal. Day-ammmmm. All from watching a man take a piss?

There were a few pouts, a breath full of mixed perfumes, a bevy of air kisses, and then she was away. Why ever had she agreed to go out with them in the first place, she wondered, feeling a sudden release of pressure. She chose to ignore the equally sudden sharp slap of lust.

She made her way to his car. It was a slick little machine for a grease monkey. She could tell that he’d customized it. The engine purred as she slid through the gears and raced off into the night. Fuck him! Wouldn’t it just serve him right if she took it home with her for the night?  Or went to a club and picked up some man-whore and fucked him senseless in the backseat. Not that there was much in the way of backseat. Yet the car kept heading homeward, despite her half-formed plans to thwart him. She spent the last moments as she nudged up to the battered garage building pretending that her pulse didn’t bump up a few notches.

“Damn that big cock,” she muttered. She had not been able to get the image of it, the stream of urine gushing out of the thick head, the knowing look in his eyes as he saw her watching him pee.

She pulled into his parking spot, slid out of the hot ride. A shiver danced down her back as the frigid  breeze blew up her skirt;  such a sharp contrast to the intense heat between her legs.

The bell over the door swung wildly as she entered the waiting area. The lights here were dim, as was the garage.

“Hello?”

Shedding her coat, she strode into the garage, but didn’t see him. It would be too much to hope that he’d be taking another piss, she imagined, but she opened the door anyway. It was empty, but before she could move, arms came around her from behind. She caught an image of his face in the mirror before he tugged her away.

“Look who came back.”

She would have replied but his hand around her throat made it difficult. His other hand was cupped under her right tit, as if weighing it. Like the hand around her throat, it kept clenching, releasing.

“I figured you’d wait until tomorrow to return my ride, and you know,  I’da really been pissed. But now you have me all kinds of happy that you came back.”

The hands clenched harder this time, and her head fell back against his shoulder, seeking air. Her breast ached where his fingers dug into the soft skin, yet she could feel her nipple pressing into his palm. There’d be grease marks on her blouse, she was sure.

He bit her earlobe.

“All kinds of happy,” he whispered. “Say no, and this stops now.”

He paused but her mouth stayed shut. For better or worse she had to see, to feel that cock.

“Figured you for a chicken-shit coward. Guess I was wrong again. Let’s see if I can shake up that confidence a wee bit, eh?”

Both hands cupped her tits now, and they weren’t being gentle as they mauled at her. It took him seconds to undo the buttons, though she had pegged him for a rip-it-apart kind of guy. Her bra was tugged up, her tits fell free. His voice hummed against her neck as his fingers tortured her nipples, twisting, tugging, pinching.  The crotch of her panties went from damp to soaked.

Releasing her, ordering her to “stay put” he moved across the garage. She saw the length of chain he stalked toward her. A lightning-quick slap on her right tit made her squeal.

“Hands behind your back.” His voice was a growl, not to be argued with.  There was a tug, the icy touch of metal around her wrists, moving up her arms. A snick and tug informed her that he’d locked her in the chains.

She was helplessly aroused. Standing, tits thrust forward by the tight binding of her arms, she was both vulnerable and brazen. He stepped to her front. Pinching both nipples, she had to rise to her toes as he lifted her tits high. Her breath came in fast spurts, a combination of fear and fascination. Never had she been treated this way. Never had she been this wet, felt this intense need. Heat burned in her clit, wetness leaked from her pussy. Around and around her he moved, continuing his torture of her naked breasts. She felt the heat in them, the glow from the constant rain of blows. And then he was against her, face to face, his mouth crushing hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, as his palm raced up her thigh and cupped her mound.

Fingers slid up and over the sodden fabric, drawing a line from front to back, deepening the crease until her panties were drawn tight into her slit.

“You’re a fucking wanton slut, you are. Tell me.”

His hand fisted in her hair and shook her head. Eyes the color of graphite burned into hers. Her lips stayed shut, refusing this final capitulation.

“Tell me,” he ordered, refusing to break his gaze from hers.

Heart thudding hard in her chest, she met his gaze with her own haughty look, despite her naked tits, despite the burning wetness of her cunt.

His slap came hard against her cheek, then a second, a third.

She shook as the orgasm claimed her.

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Time (1)

i think i have a garage fetish….~n~

She glanced at her watch with a faint scowl.

“I only have an hour,” she muttered, frowning. She glanced towards the garage where an assortment of dings and bangs were echoing. Pacing the tiny space, she watched the street lights come on, a long zipper of them stretching down the road. It was cold outside; her breath fogged the glass. Around the edges, frost was forming. The room was overly warm, perhaps to compensate for having to open and close the bay doors so often. Shrugging out of her coat, she folded it neatly, placing it over her small handbag. She looked at the calendar featuring some muscle car–and a very scantily clad model with silicone boobs. She shook her head, amazed that in this day and age men still found those fake things arousing. Why, even when laying down across the hood like that, the girls boobs stayed upright. It was annoying, not merely misogynistic, she thought.  Her boobs–breasts, she corrected herself quickly, though large, always kind of flopped to the side when she lay down. Not that she could picture herself draped that way, wearing nothing but three triangles of silk. She hugged herself and moved back to look out the window. Glancing at her watch, she noted eight minutes had passed.

He noticed her looking at the calendar. Funny how the chicks always glanced at it. Some frowned, some just kept looking, almost all wound up hugging or touching their own tits at some point. He watched her face, the way her mouth turned down in a frown, then zoomed the camera in to look at her tits. She had great natural ones, large and round. His mouth watered. 

Wondering what the fuck was taking so long–after all, it was just one tire she needed looked at–she peered into the gloomy garage. She didn’t hear anything now, and it felt…empty. Stepping through the doorway brought the tang of grease and other unknown automobile things. Her nose crinkled as she tried to sort them, but grease and oil, and ‘man sweat’ seemed to surround her. She peered over to where her car hung up in the air, the front right tire removed. Cars were strange things when they were suspended, she mused. But of the one fixing her tire, there wasn’t a trace.

“Hello?”

Her voice was low, and broke. She cleared her throat, tried again.

“Hello?”

The electric heater clicked on with a thud and bang, startling her. Hand to her throat, she whipped around as the heated blast spewed from the beast in the corner.  Geeze, she rolled her eyes at herself. A sound came from the far back of the garage. A door was half-closed, and she moved gingerly towards it, picking her way carefully across the dark floor. There was a splashing sound, she noted now. He was …washing up? She was confused, then annoyed as she glanced once more at her watch. Dammit! She’d told the girls she’d meet them for drinks at 6 and it was 5:47 now. She’d told the jerk that she only had an hour. A quick flush of annoyance rushed through her. Reaching out, she whipped open the door, only to freeze in shock.

He was pissing.

She wished she hadn’t seen how huge his cock was, how thick in his hand it was. How yellow the pee was as it zinged into the toilet. She stood for five, ten seconds in pure shock as he looked over his shoulder at her, unfazed.

“See something you like?”

His voice broke the spell, and she shook herself.

“Ohmygawd…I…Sorry…I…” Spinning on her heel she slapped at the door, which bounced from the latch and opened even wider. This was not happening. It just wasn’t. He tucked his cock away, zipping his pants, and moving to the sink to wash his hands. And still she stood staring.

“Door doesn’t close, you see,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“And you sure did see, didn’t you?” The smile danced on his face, in his eyes. Tugging a paper towel from the dispenser, he turned as he swiped his hands with it. “Liked it, too. Didn’t you wonder for just a moment there…”

His eyes traveled down her body, stopping briefly on her breasts where the tiny vee of cleavage peeked out from her buttoned shirt. Her cranberry blouse highlighted the creamy valley, the round mounds of her breasts lifted nicely. Very, very nicely in his opinion.

“I..” she cleared her throat. “I wondered what was going on with my tire.”

Her eyes flashed down to his crotch. She didn’t mean for it to happen.

“Your mouth says tire, but every other bit says…”

“It doesn’t. I don’t. You’re wrong.”

Despite her words, she could feel her nipples crinkle tight, and knew the tell-tale bumps would be visible through the thinness of her blouse. To cross her arms would look defensive, so she kept them at her sides. Her belly fluttered, as she imagined the thickness of that shaft in his hand, moving towards her, impaling her, filling her. Taking her roughly as she imagined a mechanic would.

That was pretty judgmental. Amazed at the turn her thoughts were taking, she took a deep breath.

“I have an appointment to keep.”

“Your tire is patched, but I’m waiting for it to set. You go out on it now and it will blow again. I’ll be here for a while…I have a carburetor to tinker with.

If she wanted to play it cool, he could too.

“You can borrow my car, bring it back when your appointment is done. Your car should be ready in a bit.”

“What…what if my appointment is over and you’re closed?” She didn’t want to face him again. “I can just wait…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be late.” 

Sarcasm. She didn’t have to be physic to see that one.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be back in an hour or so. It’s a brief meeting.”

“That’s cool. Drive safe.”

He tossed her the keys to his ‘stang, watching on the monitor as she went into the foyer, and donned her jacket, tugging the long fall of hair from under it, then pulling on her gloves. He decided to give his cock a break and not watch her skirt ride up as she slid into his sports car. Turning, he went back to work.

 

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A Borrowed Quote to Sum up Grief…

“You will lose someone

you can’t live without,

and your heart will be badly broken,

and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved.

But this is also the good news.

They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up.

And you come through.

It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—

that still hurts when the weather gets cold,

but you learn to dance with the limp.”

~~ Anne Lamott

Thank you sofia, for finding this–my own words fail me in this task. Readers, bloggers, we have lost an amazing man, a blogger, a Dominant, a friend.

David is the person who I turned to when I started this blog, when I wrote my first few stories, asking for His advice, and He encouraged me to continue, to grow. I’ve not had any contact with Him in a long while, beyond knowing that He and monkey had become a couple…

And the hardest thing has happened for her–the thing I fear most in being a semi-LDR, and not living with my Dom 24/7–the sudden “vanishing” of Him and discovering later that He had died.

Gods it is so hard to write that so baldly. It happens to us all, this end-of-life,  and I cannot in good faith “ignore” the loss and pretend David never had an impact in my life, never had an impact in several bloggers lives, never was the Dominant to my friend.

His blog is here, A View from the Top, if you’d like to read His words. His stories were just amazing, and He was a true Gentleman Dominant.

You will be missed by our community, David.

And by me.

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HNT- waiting

Sad mouth.

Empty.

image

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LoL

Thanks to sofia for reminding me that it’s Love Our Lurkers time.

I’m down with the flu (remind me *why* I even bothered to get a flu shot 6 weeks ago??), as is half my family. Well, we’re getting over it before the holidays, and kudos to the folks who make all those wonderful ‘quill’ versions–one to keep me moving during the day, one to help me sleep at night despite coughing up a lung.

Okay, but this isn’t about me, so let us switch gears here and focus, people! (Okay, it’s focus, nilla, I know)

Happiness for a blogger/writer is comments. We love them. We adore interacting with our “audience”. But for a variety of reasons, many more people come here, (and other sites) and read and move on. They keep coming back (and you know who you are) and are the hidden “bones” that help support we writer-types. We *know* you’re reading, we just don’t build upon any sort of “relationship”…and that’s cool because sometimes it’s just about the sex-reading, getting off, and going back to your life.

I get that.

I was a lurker, too.

Back in the days when I shared a “family” computer, and had to delete the history, before I learned about “incognito” windows, and all the ways one can hide one’s real identity. I did it because…well, there’s a certain shame factor to finding all this dark-assed shit and getting off on it, right? Society thinks we’re all wife-beating sick fucks, after all.

And we aren’t.

We are perverts, but for most of us, I’d guess it’s for our own personal thrill…I’d like to imagine that most of you aren’t dreaming (for real) of going off and stealing someone and making her/him your very own sex slave because that crosses the line, peeps, from fantasy to total ass wipe, in my book. We can roll play all we want, assume the identities that feed us in our own spaces, with those that we trust and I’m down with it, I’m right there with you.

And so we lurk. Because we don’t want our wives, our husbands, our lover, our significant other to know about the darkest of weird things that turn us on. Because they love us as we are (vanilla-style) and wouldn’t understand this new…sick…part of us. (We’re not sick, by the way. Just…differently wired.) Many is the confession I’ve read that the significant other is “horrified”  or “turned off” or “turned away” from this sort of lifestyle. Some of these dark-style relationship do work however, as you can see from some of those other bloggers….sofia, Mistress Molly and Mick, and fiona are three that I know personally that worked at it. And make it work. Make it real.  (And there are more–check out my blog links, or if you read here and living the dream, do post your link back to your blog in my comments so others can find you!)

It helps to know that for as often as we hear the the downside, there is an upside that works, doesn’t it.

And still, I’ve wandered away from my point (blame it on the day version of the medicine…it’s kinda making me buzzed…) here.

My point is YOU, lurkers. You who come here and read, and can’t leave a comment just in case you get busted. Or because you’re protecting your anonymity. Or because you don’t like to fill out forms with your email etc. Or because you don’t want to. Or whatever.

It’s okay.

Today is YOUR day, (okay it might not be *specifically* today, as I think I’m a day or so out of time, since I lost a few days to the flu)…but on MY blog? Yeah, today IS your day, Lurkers.

I love ya…I have for years and years, you who bolster me, who make me feel a little less alone when I come here to whine, or silently make your way through my stories (because if you didn’t like them, why else go through the archives, right? 5 years of writing in there, peeps….I applaud your diligence. :D )

Thank you, Lurkers, for your quiet and ongoing support. Do, if you feel you can, take a moment to pop out of obscurity and give me a wave, and I’ll give you a shout out in reply!

Hooray for LOVE OUR LURKERS Day — the celebration of those we know are there, but are hiding amongst the trees…!! Ally ally in come freeeeee….

 

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Busting the Bank

By now you know that He controls my orgasms. He has ever since sliding that gold collar around my throat years ago. No more “pounding the pussy” (as He calls it!) unless I have His permission–or unless it’s Tuesday. I’m not entirely certain, now, how Tuesday became “Like Day”…but it had to do with me stomping my foot and having a giant tantrum about His unwillingness to speak words of caring to me. Mind you–He never has to say “I love you” –how silly would that be of me to expect that? He knows I love Him, and I know He cares deeply for me….but this slut not only likes to hear those words of caring, but needs to know that my Dominant cares about me, to get that message verbally from His mouth to my ears and not have it be implied. It doesn’t have to be every day, every week, even, but now and again, toss me some crumbs, Sir. (Sorry, but I’m still a romantic at heart. I know this isn’t a scenario that works for everyone–but it’s how I’m wired.)

That was the major point of my tantrum, way back when (and okay, occasionally now and again)…that I needed to know that He cared. Had to hear it, not just understand that it was a constant state of being for Him.

As He put it, if He wasn’t happy with me, didn’t care at all, we wouldn’t be together. And we are, so shut up and put up. But …we talked (this Man is so good about talking through the hard stuff). And eventually “Like Day (Tuesday)” was born.

Okay, so back to the topic at hand, my favorite, orgasms.

He and I are both AVID football fans. And I’m allowed to bet with Him. But you know where this is going, right? Not something as inconsequential as money. I could give a rat’s ass about money. Show me the O’s, peeps, show me the O’s. 😘

He has a betting game called Over/Under. You pick a number, which represents your best guess of the total number of points for the game, (scored by both teams and added together)…and then have to decide if the total points will be OVER that number, or UNDER it. I’ve played this game twice this season and have done verrrrrrrrry well.

Very well.

I had 16 orgasms “in the O bank” by Sunday night, thanks to the Patriot’s resounding win over the Bronco’s (Sorry WW!) Some of them were carried over from the prior week’s win, but my number by the end of Sunday’s game was really high–likely the highest number of O’s in the “Bank”, ever. I can use them *anytime* (unless He out of the blue says no, which has happened now and again. Or unless it’s ZNN –which is His special day to torture me. But more on that, later.) and as many as I want at a shot. Since I’d called 42 OVER, and the score total was way, way over 42, and since  I earn 1/2 O for every point scored over my guess, I was *rollin’* in O’s Sunday night. And giggling about it.

And while I was trying to be ….well, you all know I’m not that discreet…but I wasn’t gloating, either… He was plotting. We speak on Wednesday.

“I want that bank.”

His words are deep, slow, ominous. Of course He could just take them away…but He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t just snatch away something I’d earned in good faith. But His mind is so fucking devious.

He let me know there was an impending robbery. Then paused and corrected Himself.

“No, not a robbery.” 

There is a pregnant pause, and my hands are starting to sweat, and I’m feeling that nervous twitch in my belly that He inspires. It’s a good feeling, never failing to make me wet, wanton, horny, and totally His.

“After all, you did earn them, slut. A robbery wouldn’t be fair. I need to think on this a bit. But there may well be a return to the half-O, nilla. I know how you love that.”

I think I gasped. I so do NOT love the half-o, being driven to the peaked edge…and having to stop before falling over and getting that blessed relief. It’s painful, torturous. And while I don’t love the half O, I DO love that He controls the situation, that His Dom-beast is awake and kicking at me. (It is, after all, part of what I love most about being His submissive, being made to do things I don’t want, a way for Him to reach out and “touch” me from afar.)

The call ends shortly after that, and He leaves me hanging, anticipating His devious minds creativeness.

On ZNN, (Zero, Nada, No pussy pounding) He has the option always of torturing me. That’s His special day, as Like day is mine. This way we each get a touch of one another. And He’s been (as He admitted later) lax about doing anything torturous to me. It’s been summer, and we’ve both been busy and yada yada. We’d fallen into a bit of a rut, our last playtime notwithstanding.

Suddenly we’re ramping up a bit, and He’s getting into the swing of things and BOOM. I get a text as I’m heading to work.

“ZNN announces its 7 half O special for nilla the slut! Details to follow!”

Seven.

7!

OMFG—-SEVEN half fucking o’s? OMG the Man is trying to KILL me, I think. And then I pause. No. Nope, not even close. He’s found a way to rob the bank. Because He knows I’ve not done a half O in months…and there is NO way I could do 7 without falling over the edge into full orgasm (and boy would I be fucked then!)…so he is going to make me rob my own bank to pay off the o’s.

While I was at work I decided that I’d jump onto the aggressive train. Yes! I’ll jump into the conversation first and offer to give him one full O to cover 3 half-o’s. My fall back was to offer one full o for 4 half o’s. Yeah, I know that’s backasswards thinking, but the idea was to make Him laugh at my terrible math skillz. :D And then maybe talk Him down to a 1:2 ratio, and not what I feared, a one-for-one rate.

Yeah.

That was the plan…and He didn’t even come close to falling for it. He laughed at my lame attempt to distract Him with nilla-math, and then firmly said, NO.

“It’s a one to one exchange. You can buy all 7 half o’s with 7 full o’s. Or you can do some of the half o’s, and not make such a substantial withdrawal from the bank. C’mon nilla, (His voice turns soft, silky, a hint of cajolery now–a tone I always fall prey to0…it’s so seductive).

You know you can do it! You can give Me two half-O’s and only spend 5 from your bank.”

I’d already used one, so my tally was down to 15. That withdrawal would leave me with ten. Double digit O’s? Yeah, I could do this, I think.

“Okay M,” I hear myself say, feeling a bit faint after I hang up. The evening approaches, and His last words hover in the forefront of my brain…

“Don’t even think about those two half O’s while you watch your program on TV tonight, nilla, Don’t fret a bit over it.”

He plants these damn seeds and how can I not think of it after He uses that sexy voice to paint the idea into my head?  Reluctantly I go to bed, quivering at my fate. And then I get a writing Jones on and write until 1130 and OMG! It’s time and the half O’s must be 5 minutes apart (to give just enough cool down time)…and I have to be done by 11:59:59…

And I am.

I pause during that 5 minute “rest” to shoot off a quick series of texts to Him…some of which were unintelligible. And then I’m back to laying my vibe on my still sensitive clit and coming close without cumming and I’m so fucking close and …

I stop.

And quiver.

Shed a few tears, and send a few more rabid texts, and fall into a very restless sleep. Today my pussy and clit are still throbbing, still needy. Still in denial. It’s keeping me on edge, reminding me of my place (on the bottom, nilla, on the bottom)…and making me hornier than I’ve been in a while.

It really is a horribly wonderful place to be.

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