HNT- Two Views

I know…I can’t seem to stop.

It’s addicting, this technology.

I love my android phone. It’s all Star Trek’s fault, I’m sure. I had a reaaaal thing for that android persona in ST:TNG, Lt. Cmdr Data. :D

That said, I decided to try a comparative of a few different techniques for the same picture. So today I have two times the views for you.

Happy HNT!


Pencil-type drawing/rendering



and “silk effect” which has lighter “brush strokes”


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Our meeting for this upcoming weekend had to be postponed….it is another chaotic week in Casa nilla. Family life and a bunch of sundry things are keeping me moving 14 hours a day.  At this point, going to work in the evening is a small oasis in my day. I’m sad about missing our playtime…I really could use a good beating.

I have a whole post written in my head but no time to write it. I have stories that are begging to be told, but again, time is slipping away too quickly filled with other responsibilities. After next week the immediate hectic is over, and I’ll have time once more to sit and spin my tales.

Master and I will get playtime in late June or early July–and it will be what it will be. I can’t change the fact that we’re both busy, acceptance is the only way. Regret, oh yes. We both need some release. We’ll get some face time this weekend, which helps allay the sadness, which, if I had time to spare thinking about it– I’d be wallowing in. I guess it’s a good thing I’m busy then, right? But if I wasn’t so busy I’d have time to BE with Master and then I wouldn’t be sad in the first place…

Whatever. It is what it is. Suck it up buttercup.

See? I can be my own bolster-er, too.


So, toodles for now, peeps. Hoping that this weekend will give me a much needed recharge with the Master, that we’ll drink tea together and He’ll make me giggle, and we’ll kiss and I’ll be back in the submissive zone.

But for now, tis time for me to charge forth into the morning!

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On My Knees

amazing the memories that float to the surface weeks and weeks after a play time with Master…

He called me to kneel between His legs as He sat in one of the stuffed chairs. I was there a long, long time, longest ever for kneeling that way. He pulled my head to His chest with my hair, then held me close. I could hear His heart beating steadily under my ear as His hands moved over my head, down my neck, over my shoulders. It was a gentling thing, then the solid whack of His palm on my shoulder, or my upper arm. There was no rhyme or reason to it, a long series of strokes, then a period of hard solid slaps.

Time stood still for me. Occasionally He would pick up one of the implements that He’d placed along the flat arm of the chair. A dog grooming brush (the kind with the metal teeth). A small hairbrush. Sir Wolf’s cake spreader (covered with tape to protect skin from cuts).

Sometimes He would take one of them, and sitting up, would deliver a series of strikes down my back or arms or both. It was painful and soothing, like being fed steadily yet slowly. I need pain. Okay, I don’t need it to live, but I crave it. I guess I’ve always played a bit with pain. Even as a kid I’d poke and prod at scabs (my mom was forever telling me to stop picking at them! But the pain gave me a curious thrill even at 9 or 10) and I had no idea. NONE of my friends did it, just me. So the craving for pain runs very deep. This pain, His pain, was all at His whim, and balanced with the gentle strokings, the occasional tugs on my hair, I remember it all braided into one sensual experience though there was no “sexual” touching.

Sometimes I’d just lay there, cradled to His chest, and we’d stay just like that. Time didn’t move for me, it was one of those rare, almost meditative moments where I was simply existing in wholeness. It was one of the most peaceful times I have ever had as an adult.

Then He’d shift and I’d feel the steady thwap against my back, His fingers buried in my  hair holding me there, even when I squirmed, as the implement hammered at my back. It was soothing and magical and painful–and just when I thought I couldn’t bear it–He would stop.

The crescendo came when He tugged me up from my kneel (as I creakily rose) and up over His knees. I told you in a prior post about that, the long, long intense session of spanking, over His knees, like none we’ve had before. I confess, my ass hurt for several days after that, a delicious throb whenever I sat. It is a good memory, this one.

My vanilla life has been near to overwhelming me, so that sometimes I forget I’m a slut, I’m a submissive, that I’ve got another side of me. The pendulum will swing back the other way, I know it will. Life is ever working to balance itself, after all. It will be a long while before we get another play session, so for now, I let the memories of that other time rise.


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The Artiste is In….more phone-art HNT

In the never-ending  bed-fun of creating erotic art with my boobage pictures, I offer you this soft and gentle “painting” of the girls…

classic art tits


Happy HNT!!

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I tried to post todays post via my phone, but alas. Some entity ate it. Yes. It is gone. Poof. Evaporated into the ether. Ah well. I’ve only lost a post a few times but it SURE is aggravating. Then again, I was uber tired last night so maybe it wouldn’t have made any sense?

That’s my hope, anyway.

The original post would have been called “Naughty slut”. Remember that post the other day about perfectionism? Well, I managed to perfect “naughtiness” this weekend. Who knew, right?

Master was away. Busy, for some of the time. Driving away, driving back. HE wasn’t driving, and I didn’t want Him to be bored or anything like that. So I started “text poking” Him. I even wrote a song to the tune of “Row Row Row Your Boat” (You can youtube the tune if you are unfamiliar with it, it’s not letting me get links today–apparently technology thinks I should be doing something else….!)

I must’ve sent a bajillion texts. Some just a simple “poke”. Some were longer or with more pokes. The jibes flew hard and fast, with NO response from Him, until waaay late in the afternoon.

He got home last night, and I called Him on my way to fetch the teen from the City. We talked “vanilla-ish” for a while….and then.

“You know, slut, there is a price to be paid for today’s ‘envelope pushing’, right?”

I swallowed before I spoke, and despite the sweater I was wearing, I shivered. There He is, there’s that tone that strikes like a quick slap. And what is my response after a brief moment to catch my breath?

Yes. I giggled.

I’m sure it was nerves.

He went on to tell me that the cane will have a starring role in our next playtime, to remind me that there is always a price to be paid for being a naughty slut, and this next time, my tits and thighs will pay.

“Those back of your legs are quite sensitive, aren’t they, nilla?”

He draws out my name “nil-pause-la”. More shivers ensue.

I love drawing out His Beast, but it does make me nervous too. I’ll admit that I was pretty turned on — fear does that to me. And I’m pretty sure my legs are going to regret the price that was overdrawn by my texting fingers.  I am not a huge fan of the cane. That stingy hurt is…hard to manage? There is that initial *slap* (and He’ll do a quick series of snap snap snap so I can’t quite catch my breath or grab a rhythm) and then the pain just spreads out like an echo….it reverberates from skin to muscle and back out. Hard to describe. If you’ve not felt it, then you should try it. You know, for science’s sake. :D

I teased Him that “You’ll forget, Master.”

Quietly He reminded me that He keeps a mental file of this sort of thing– (He does, too. He never forgets when I owe Him for being a naughty slut. Ever.) –because payback always had to be paid. His way. With pain.

He says that last word almost lovingly, then repeats it.

“My pain, nilla.”

A wealth of meaning in those few words. His pain. His duration, and His intensity. Damn but now I’m turned on, and feeling more than a wee bit of trepidation.  He loves doing that to me, too, turning me on and making me….well “fearful” is too strong a word. “Nervous” is a bit too mild. But somewhere between the two, definitely!

It may be a while before we get to meet–and I’ll have to deal with this longing and trepidation until we do. Which puts me, (I think), exactly where He wants me.




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Missing Him

The truth is, we spend very little time together. It’s the nature of any LDR, I know. And the fact that we get to spend any time on a regular basis, together? That’s a bonus, isn’t it?


But this weekend He is away, about 300 miles (482 kilometers) away, and there is zero chance of seeing Him other than if He remembers to send me the picture of Himself in a tux as I have begged Him for. Yes, I’m a greedy wench. :)

I mean really? He makes me all drooly when He’s wearing a sweatshirt. The few occasions I’ve seen Him in a suit, I’ve gone all gooey (yes, even that way!). In a tux? I’m sure I’ll be a melted puddle of slut. The Man turns me on, peeps.

But He’s away.

And though we are still in touch via texting…I am missing the holy fuck outta Him.


Until next weekend, I guess I will sit and stare at this picture of my Master, in His crisp shirt and tie…and drool a little bit.


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Imperfectly Perfect

I don’t believe in perfection. I know, I’ve written that before. I saw a thing on Facebook this morning that got me thinking about this. About how we chase that fantasy, going all gung-ho and striving for the impossible dream of being “perfect”. Which got me to thinking (I know, always so dangerous, right?) even more about the myth of perfection (and how it pertains to my D/s world).

I don’t even believe that perfection is attainable–because what IS perfect? It is  a variable that it defies definition.  I used to say “I’m the best me there is and every day I get a little better at it” but I’ve come to understand even that isn’t true. Some days I wake up in fine fettle, ready to take on the world, write the best story ever, yada yada….and some days I wake up grumpier than shit, ready to bite the first person who crosses my path. And on still other days, I wake up feeling at peace, and wind up in a tussle with the kids, or a problem with the spouse, or a busted water heater and I feel just……. defeated. Who can be feeling that *this* is a “better” today than the previous day? These are things that are not in my control. And yes, I can and will work on my responses to them…but hello. Human. We ALL react to things in ways we don’t always like in retrospect.

So these days I’m just taking each day as it comes, reveling in the fact that this–these small details–ARE what life is about.

D/s is like that for me. I’m NOT always a perfect, moderate, good little girl. Some days I’m crabby, or snappy, or sassy. He doesn’t care about that, really. He’ll dig to find out why I’m in a mood if it persists, and help me work through it. But He doesn’t punish me when things aren’t going right, either. He understands that we’re both human, and it’s part of the ride that we’re on. I love that about Him,  that He can see (or dig) to the root of the issue, and I’m not in trouble for not being His perfect little slut. I don’t need punishment when things are not going right, I need His guidance to help make it better. If He went at me with a heavy hand (metaphorically rather than physically) He would damage me, and my faith in Him would waver, and fall apart. This flies in the face of most D/s relationships, I know.

We’re not together 24/7, I’m not His live-in whore, He’s not my Daddy, nor my husband. Most times I *do* treat Him with respect, but I’ve been known to throw an occasional rare “fuck you Master” into the mix. This has happened less and less as we settle into our 5th year as a D/s couple. As a side note, He *loves* it when, during playtime, I growl “fuck YOU, Master”  after He’s hit me exceptionally hard. In fact, He laughs. What can I say? We’re a perverse bunch, right? :)

I read of  couples younger than Master and I, who want to “get it right”. I want to jump up and down and shout “you know…there isn’t One True Way”…but I think everyone has to discover that for themselves.  What works for one won’t work for another. I suspect that, even if Master and I did live together, vanilla would be 90% of our day-to-day, with 10% of D/s as spice. Even now when we hang out together it hovers around that ratio. I’m good with it. He’s good with it. Because over and around everything else?

I know He is the Boss.

There is not one iota of doubt of that, when I’ve occasionally crossed too far over the line with Him–it only takes that one raised brow for me to drop my eyes and fall into submissive mode and utter a quick apology. It’s a thread that braids into our relationship.

So, I’m not perfect.

Neither is He.

I’m not preachin’ here–you can go off and strive to be that “perfect slave”, or the “perfect submissive”. You can live your Gorian fantasy and be perfectly happy doing so. He is okay with me being imperfectly perfect for Him…and that makes my imperfectly submissive heart go all pitty patter.

Here’s the illustration that got me going on this tangent today:




Yes, you don’t have to give 100% to everything. You can give it your best today. Which might be less than yesterday, and could be more than tomorrow–and guess what?

You’ll still be okay.

And if you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe Pink. 


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HNT- Painterly

More fun with the phone. Who knew they could be so entertaining? You’ll be treated (tormented?) with lots of pix in the future as I work my way through the various settings…this one is a “Paint” type overlay, with high color contrast and the texture of “canvas”…Happy HNT!


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Still Here– Really!

Not much sexy stuff happening, tho there was a wee bit of pinchy pinchy with Master on Sunday evening…

And my vanilla world has once more expanded to take over all parts of my life…

And it’s Spring in New England and there are sprouts and sunny blue skies and almost all snow piles melted…and it’s alllll good.

And I hope to not be a stranger on my own blog for much longer…

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The Predicament

She arched, inner muscles clenching around the dildo vibrating in the deep places of her cunt. The sudden curving of her spine pressed her clit hard against the vibrator that had been barely touching a moment ago, adding a layer of intensity to the paroxysms of her pussy.

“Quite a quandary you have there, little whore.”

His voice was amused and pleased. She could hear him moving around her, though her eyes were closed.  He did admire his own handiwork, she thought with a frown. Her clit screamed, the motions of the big vibe now too intense as orgasm approached.

Her arms were tied tightly over her head, stretching her. Her legs were spread, cuffed to a spreader bar that didn’t allow for any shifting movement. A swatch of thick duct tape passed from thigh to thigh holding a thick dildo inside her dripping pussy. In front of her a breath away from her breasts was a thin  metal bar, held by the stand that also supported the heavy-duty vibrator that barely touched her slit, and her swollen, protuberant clit. From the ends of the bar were cables, attached to a car battery. Her nipples were wet with the gel that would conduct the jolt of electrical current, should she arch sufficiently to make contact.  And behind her, another dildo, speared on a long pole, was buried in her ass. A thick rubber footing was affixed to the end of the pole, pressing it against the floor.

“a non-skid ass plug” He’d said, laughing at his double entendre as he’d speared her butt,  propping the stick behind her. It was a strong incentive to not fall over, not that she would go far, hung by her wrists as she was.  In its own strange way, it stabilized her.

“Ohhhnooooo!” she yelped, her back straightening. This motion pressed the wide rumbly part of the dildo just below her g-spot as the bulbous head ground against her cervix. It hurt and felt o-so-pleasurable at the same damn time. The thickness in her ass sent quivers to all those nerve endings, adding to the pleasure mix.

The orgasm tore through her, controlling her body, raising her breasts as her entire body arced. Tight as a drawn bow, the convulsions of her climax tugged the last reins of control from her.

Sweat beaded her brow, her chest. Her nipples rose as her body shuddered through the sensation tsunami and pressed against the electrified metal plate which had been placed just so precisely. The quick hit of pain on her nipples intensified the orgasm, pressed her pussy hard upon the outer vibe. She screamed as sensation overwhelmed.

His hand pressed against her forehead, pushing hair from her cheeks.

“such a mess you are,” his voice crooned. “don’t block daddy’s view. He wants to see it all, all the suffering. Pain wrapped with passion, my whore. And we both know how much you enjoy your passions, don’t we, you greedy little bitch?”

Panting, she fell back as the tension released. The big vibe inside buzzed on, her nipples crinkled in response. She could feel the intensity building again, faster this time. Moans, which were really whimpers, escaped her lips, though she’d vowed to not make a sound as she served his punishment. He’d merely smiled at her show of bravado. He’d known she couldn’t stop the sounds of sex as the pleasure and the torment wracked her body.

Damn him for being right again.

And damn her for thinking she could trick him. She would never steal an orgasm from Him again.

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