In That Way of Masters

Of course for the first time in ever, He came and read my blog. Sent me a text telling me that He had, and that I sounded…whiney.

WHINEY?

Well the fuck ! I AM …not exactly…not really…okay maybe a wee bit…WHINEY???

*frowns*

I wasn’t *whining* per se. I was explaining that I’ve found a place of contentment in my head because I’m tired of driving myself crazy with wanting more than I can get.

Whiney, He says.

Well, and if HE says, it must be so, right? (Though I still vehemently deny I was whining……)

I read the post again before sitting to write *this* response to His texts (that He’ll likely never read, but whatever.) and the only part that made me cringe a wee bit was when I said that it wasn’t really exciting except for 2% of the time….

because it isn’t that I meant that having Him for a Master isn’t exciting, but that 98% of my life is vanilla-swamped, and that 2%  represented the wee small percentage of my time to be with Him…which is woefully too short and definitely NOT enough time.

So Master, if You ever read *this* post, I hope You understand this:

1. I wasn’t whining.

2. I wish I had more time with you. Two percent of my time is NOT enough time even for someone who is…(progress to number 3, please…)

3. a greedy little slut who wants You, wants to be with You, wants to suck your cock, and rub your man nips (sorry but You know I do!), and be beaten resoundingly.  Except we could lose the fucking pink brush and I’d be a very happy submissive.

4. I wasn’t whining.

:D

 

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D/s and Real Life

I’m at that point where I can’t quite find the time, nor the energy for writing. I DO have tales to spin, and yet…it’s a dreary day here in the northeast and I find all I really want to do is curl up and read. And not naughty stuff, though I can have an O today (should I be inspired enough to want one. I know…I’m really that sleepy just now!)

What’s new to tell you of?

nada.

zero.

zilch.

Which I know, is the epitome of boring…aka…—

yeah. Snooze-ville.

He was away this weekend past so no face time. My bruises have faded. (Pout) We *might* get some time this weekend upcoming but that’s forever away. And I’m tired. Did I mention that? It’s not subdrop, for I’m not depressed, not at all. I’m quietly happy. There just isn’t a ‘zing’ to energize me. Master is not a Dominant given to tasking me (or not often, anyway).   He mostly gets off on being in the same room and reaping the Dom-benefits of hands on work. He did give me a wee task last week and asked me to send pictures. I went one step further and videoed it which He *loved*.  He was glad that I’d thought to go a step beyond, and send Him something that would be sure to make Him smile (even as it made me wince.). It’s always nice to please the Dom, you know?

Oh, you want to know? About the task?  About the video…well, sorry, you can’t–at least about the pix…as it has too much face in it, so He could see the painful grimaces I made.

However–I’ll share what He had me do, how’s that? Since you asked, and so nicely too! :D

I had to put on those thick clamps. Do you remember them? They look like this:

clampsThe chain is pretty weighty by itself, but He had me add the clamp in the middle that holds the magnetic weights…and i had to add 3 of the weights. Ouch.

Now, if you’ve been reading here for a long while, you’d perhaps remember that He gave me the clamps long ago, early in our relationship. And I had to wear them whenever I wrote my dirty tales. I won’t go so far as to say that I got “used” to them–but they didn’t kill me either. Back then I wrote every night before bed, sometimes for long periods of time. Obviously I wasn’t to keep them on for hours, lest I damage the poor nilla nips, but it was enough of a sensation to keep me constantly horny, always wet. Back then we also saw each other monthly, which was awesome. These days’ we’re more like an old married couple–the heat is still there, but it’s muted by distance. When we’re together it’s BOOM! and we’re back in heat…but apart, we just sort of roll along.

Anyway.

I had to wear the clamps.

and the weights.

And then I had to lean forward so my tits were hanging free, and smack the weight with the fucking pink hairbrush.

SMACK! JOLT! (swing, swing, swing, moan, groan)

Three times. Each harder than the last.

It was very painful. It was extremely thrilling. It was hawt. It was…really awesome.

:D

I’m such a painslut.

And yanno what else?

It wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I got hungry and horny and lust-filled–and He left me hanging there (literally and metaphorically), having me pack up the toys and put ‘em away, and “by the way, nilla–no O”.

I forget the why of it.

And it doesn’t *matter* the why of it.

Doing it, making it happen at His behest—was super-freaking-hot.

(just writing about it made me all hot n bothered again. :D

But that was a week ago, and since then–well, you know how it goes. Life. He’s busy, I’m busy and I don’t think either of us is in our D/s role. He’d be the first to jump in here and say that He is always in Dom mode–which is true enough. I just don’t get enough time with Him to reap the benefits of it.

Hmm…re-reading that sounds like I’m pouting about it. I’m not, not really. Regretful, to be sure, but (glances over at ironing pile, thinks about the next laundry load, the sick kiddo on the couch in the next room, and the making of lunch and dinner…) you know how we ALL have to walk the line of vanilla and submission.

And I don’t know but perhaps–having such an intense vanilla life–if it doesn’t make those times when there IS submission special. I read of blogs where the day-to-day life of a slave is…hum drum. “Do your chores. Cook dinner. ” etcetera. Hell…that sounds like my vanilla life! As a submissive I *always* want more of His dominance. But I’m not a child at a cookie jar whining for more, more, more (mostly because the person holding the cookie jar away from my begging hand is not my Master, but myself {and wouldn’t Freud have a field day with that image?! LOL!})

Part of submission in my world is acceptance. I knew when I took that leap off the cliff that it would never be my full-time thing. I have a vanilla life that is precious and good. The fact that I wanted more…wanted something darker, meaner, rougher doesn’t preclude my responsibilities to that other life. And believe me, I struggled with that idea. For years. I wanted dominance full-time. I almost left my family. I wanted it so bad. But –I guess I grew up, with His help. I couldn’t leave my kids. I just couldn’t. I could not justify wanting to be spanked/fucked/beaten (aka my desires) versus fucking up their little lives. I’m not one of those who was in a dire situation and needed to get out and make a new start. And I’m not a person who will say “I gotta find my own bliss, sorry peeps, I’m outta here…” It is just not in me to do that.

Learning to be moderate about my D/s doesn’t quell the needs. Not by a long shot. But thankfully I’ve got a Master who understands both sides of my life, and who has His own busy life. And while I know He cares deeply for me, He is not looking for a full-time sub/slut. What we have here works for us. And yeah, it’s not exciting 98% of the time.

But that 2%?

Oh yeah. I love that time.

 

 

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Matter-of-Fact

Face in the mattress, butt up across His lap, His hand lazily beats a steady rhythm against my ass. There is deep and intense pleasure in an over the knee spanking–for both of us. I’m in the zone, really way out in subspace, yet also deeply connected to Him by that thudding hand, and my rosy fanny.

I would be the first to tell you that I’m not a huge fan of anal. And the first to blushingly admit that I come like a bitch in heat when He does it.

There is no prelude. No time to prepare. He just matter-of-factly squirts a bit of lube against my asshole and sticks in His finger, loosening it. My head comes up and I gasp (every time).

“What?” He says, His voice laced with humor. “I’m using lube aren’t I?”

My  head plops down onto the bed. I feel  my pussy clench and — His finger is gone before I ever crest that wave.

(Maybe I even moan about it a little bit.)

But it’s all under His control. I don’t get a say in it–He doesn’t ask, or discuss, He just does. I am His to play with, howsoever He chooses.

That’s totally freaking hawt, y’all.

He’s not my boyfriend who might beg, whine, cajole me to try anal with him. He’s not my husband who might do the same.

He’s my Dom, my Master, and He’s totally and completely in charge. He’s not a huge man, but His attitude is imposing. He has a quiet firmness, and I respond to that. (Okay, I’m easy, what can I say?!) He doesn’t have to make nice-nice to get up my ass. He just takes. Quietly, firmly, expecting me to just take it. I do. I take it even when I think I doanwanna. Doanwanna have *anything* up my tender bottom.

Ha.

It’s a quiet force that plays deeply into my obsession with rape fantasy. It’s not violent, mind you…but it *feels* like a violation (right up until the actual “violation” and then I’m cumming and cumming…if He doesn’t stop as He did this time, the Bastard!)

He checks my pussy, which is, naturally enough, saturated. Between the spanking and His fingers playing in my bumhole, I’m more than eager to be fucked.

“You’re so fucking wet,” He chuckles, smacking my already throbbing right asscheek once more.

And then I feel it. The press of this really big thing against my pussy, AND my ass. OMG. It’s that fucking double dildo (with a wider girth than any of my toys)…both sides are the same thickness, and He pushes with a steady hand, filling me. I moan, maybe try to get away a little bit. But His hand holds me still upon His lap. Once it’s fully inside, He smacks my ass with one hand, while fucking me in both holes at the same time.

I came so hard I pushed the dildo out of me. He shoves it back in, laughing.

I’m hot and sweaty and soaking the bed and His lap.

Because He takes without asking.

And gives me tons in return.

Please Master, may I have another?

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“Painterly” Bruises HNT

He really nailed my tits with His wicked little cane. It’s so thin, so innocuous looking. But the way He flicks it across, over, and around my breasts is wicked and painful and, of course, wonderful. I love it, even when I suck in a sharp breath when He’s hitting the same spot over and over again. The throb that’s left behind–days later–when I touch or accidentally bang it makes me horny all over again.

painterly boobsI love the way the “painterly” effect on my phone app makes it look like He painted me with purple and blue smudges. Who knew that my beloved Master was an artist? :D

 

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Catching my Breath

It’s been  a hectic two weeks since Master and I played. It’s amazing the things that float to the surface even now. Little things, some big things. I remember (now) that He’d forgotten Sir Wolf’s bag of wicked whips (aaawww…*giggle*). It didn’t matter–He was wielding my infamous pink hairbrush as well as one HE has that is for grooming pets…it has wire teeth. He uses it by slapping some portion of my anatomy with some implement, then “scrubbing the welt down”. (insert eyeroll here)

I know. It’s wicked mean, isn’t it?

There was the fist-grab of hair when He kissed me, pinching my arm wickedly. His big hands grabbing my tits and holding me on my toes as I whimper. My shirt half off, and His teeth biting along my shoulder before He slaps my ass, encouraging me to get changed into the sexy stuff.

He popped me a good one on my ass as I’m trying to get dressed. (This after He’d messed me up proper before I even got out of my vanilla stuff.) And another while I’m trying to put on my lipstick. That one got a chuckle out of Him…He’s harassing me with slaps and pinches and saying “hurry up, nilla” and “you’ll never get that on before I–“

and I interrupt Him and throw a dirty look over my shoulder.

“Master.” (I was a tad indignant.) “I’m a girl. I can put lipstick on in a car going 65 miles per hour on a four lane highway, driving with one hand.” (please note I’m not *advocating* doing this! It’s not SAFE (but if you’re a person who wears make-up, you grok!)

He pauses a moment and says “Oh. Right. Forgot about that.”

And without missing a beat, He pops me again. (Not a smudge, peeps, not a smear. Perfect red lips. *buffs nails on chest*)

So those are the little vignettes that are floating to the surface now. We’ve had some face time this weekend past–it’s always nice to have that after a playdate, a check in, which we both need. Afterwards, when we talked Monday evening, He said “It was good to see you on Sunday, nilla.”

(He never says anything like that; it was wicked awesome!)

We’re happy, and talking about our next playtime later in the fall. I will juggle my schedule to make that work. We talked too about pushing the envelope on my behavior. I love to do that.

“I think, nilla,” He says as we talked Monday evening, “that I may wait even longer before I blow on you. See what naughty little things you think you can get away with when you think I’m out of the room.”

Well, that set me back a bit.

“You–you–why, that’s horrible, Master!”

He laughs. We talk some more about how He stalks around me (and I’m oblivious). How He waits, and watches for my little smirky smile to appear. That’s when, in prior play times, He has done the poke, or blow in my ear thing that makes me jump a mile because I think He’s left the room. (He even leaves the water running in the bathroom sink so I think He’s still in there.)

His thought is to stand there, waiting and watching for me be naughty. It is sadism at its best, perhaps. (I love the anticipation, the idea of Him catching me being “bad” (not, mind you, disobedient. If He says “stay” in the Dom voice–I know He fully means it. He leaves room for my mischief, which we BOTH enjoy.) Sometimes I rub my pussy with the hand furthest from the bathroom, to get a little relief (I never, ever cum without Him allowing it while I’m on the wall, however!) Or I might step away from the wall that He’s put me on, or drop my hands, or wiggle my butt, or any of those sort of things. I’m sure He’s seen some of them. (Boy did I get a wicked smack the time He caught me rubbing my pussy last year, as well as a “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”)

There’s a curious thrill there. Pushing His buttons is dangerous. I’m never sure where the point is that I’ll cross His line in the sand and get nailed for it. I’m never sure where He even IS in the fucking room. Is He right behind me getting His jollies over making me jolt and jump with shock when He blows on my ear or cheek? Or is He really in the bathroom this time?

It’s all part of the thrill. I was going to say game, but it’s not a game is it? It’s fantasy and reality. It’s pain and passion. It’s a thrill ride and a reality check.  It’s fucking awesome, and awesomely painful.

 

 

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“Master, I’d Like You to Meet….

….Mr. Hitachi.”

That’s how I rehearsed how I was going to introduce them, at least. My imaginings never quite match up to His reality. (Imagine that!)

I left it out on the back of the bed (which is against the wall so it couldn’t roll off). It was plugged in and ready to rumble. He started on me the second we got into the room (after having a leisurely and lovely dinner together)–pulling my head back to His shoulder by my hair. Kissing me hard, while squeezing my tit. I think I screamed into His mouth then. I thank the goddess every time we play that He didn’t go into mammography! He throws me onto the bed and is pinching me everywhere. I’m squirming and trying to keep my whimpers down so it doesn’t sound like He is murdering me, but oh! How it hurts (and OH, how good that is, too) as His hands roam over me.

He attacks my toes. I try to curl my toes so that He can’t take the socks off the last bit there, and He laughs.

“Yeah, like that’s going to stop me, nilla,” He chortles.

One hard flick and my sock sails across the room, and His dastardly fingers are tickling my toes…between, underneath, over the sole of my foot…even now that makes my toes curl. I laughed and laughed, the damnedest torture, ever. I’m gasping for breath, and He looks up at me.

“Oh, too much?” He says sweetly. (Don’t you go on immediate alert when that Dom voice gets all sugary?) His hands move, fast as lightning in midsummer, pinching my soft and tender belly, tugging and twisting my nipples (how did He get His hands into my bra that fast?? Years of practice, He says, grinning smugly.) Suddenly giggles are transformed to moans of pain. Back and forth between the two tortures He moves, until my head is spinning.

From far away I hear His voice but in truth I am already half-way gone.

“Whoa ho…well well well, and what is this, nilla?  His voice is filled with glee. “I’d forgotten you said you’d gotten this…”

His voice fades away as He flicks the button on, presses it against His hand. He grunts as He dismisses “low” (the ONLY setting I use, mind you), and flicks it to “HIGH”. And presses it against my pussy.

My pussy was wet and swollen and wanting some action after all the torment from tickling and pinching…but having Mr. H land on her in “HIGH” mode almost made my clit explode.

I yelped (He laughed), and squirmed–but He was laying on my arm and hair and His leg hooked over mine. My other leg dangled off the bed, at such an angle that I couldn’t touch the floor with my toes, nor get good contact to brace my leg enough to cross it over my crotch.

In other words, I was fucked.

He laughed as my first orgasm spurted out of me, shutting off the vibe to feel how wet I was, then immediately flicking it back on. On “HIGH”.

And laughing.

 

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HNT-Caned Boobs

The cane was a fucking bastard. Or HE was. Thwapping and slapping that fucking thing on the tops of my tits. Smacking the clamps He’d snapped onto my nipples, alternating with flicking the chain that joined my two tits together. Oh my gawd!  It hurt like fuck-all.

And…..

It was erotic as hell. The burn…oh the throbbing burn of the pain…

It was as fiery as hell.

I was a wet, limpid, wanton slut (with very sore tits) when He was done.

OUCH!

 

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“Put That Leg Down!!”

I want to tell you every detail. I want to hold it all close to me and keep it private. Such is the quandary of a sex blogger! We have a good fucking time and want to brag about share it, yet it is also SUCH an intense experience that sharing it seems too personal, too private. 

Yet this IS what I do. (You know, since I hadn’t had much inspiration for writing fiction lately!) So here’s another snapshot of our time together. 

I was blindfolded. I have a love hate relationship with it, that blindfold. I want to see what’s coming at me…yet I love the “fear-turn-on” of not knowing. He taps my thighs, my calves with the fucking cane. I sincerely hate that fucking thing. Yet when it hits my tits?  It makes me fly…so deep into subspace that I can’t think. And here I was, worried that I couldn’t handle the pain, that I’d “fail”…right. There is no “I can handle it”–That’s just not how this D/s dynamic works.  Rather, it’s “you must take this, slut”.  Such a silly thing for me to worry about (yet worry and fret about it I did…)  Not only did I “take it”…oh now..I took it, and  it was good. And it was right.Aand it was….orgasmic. (That’s the braggy part. Sorry for boorishly bragging. . . . Okay. Not really.) :D

I even survived that fucking pink brush. Geezuz but I DOUBLE-HATE that thing. Yes, it is even worse than the cane. The pain is…it’s a thin, hot envelope that circles my entire body, then centers deep right where He has just smacked. It throbs. It burns. Hot licks of “fire” swirl around the blow-landing-site. The pain of it steals my breath. It spun me around in a circle as I took that first blow, made a silent “O” of my lips, made Him laugh as I reacted silently but physically to that first blow.

Fucking sadist!

OH, how it hurt.

“Oh, nilla, I know how to help that,” He says…and before I can say no, no…He starts whacking that same spot with the cane. I feel Him bent over behind me, whaling on that same fucking place.

“Gotta.”

“Knock.”

“Down.”

I’m moaning, whimpering. His hand holds me still, not letting me teeter away (blindfolds and 6.5 inch stiletto’s …oh maaan…do not make for a good “getaway” pairing!) from the blows landing one after the other after the other. Short, hard raps against my already screaming flesh.

“The.”

His hand moves quicker, I can hear the ‘swoosh’ of the cane behind me and start keening.

‘owwwwwwwwww!!!!’

“Welts.”

Finally He lets me go and I stand, quivering and near-to tears.

“That helped, right?”

I shake my head, my hand caressing my butt.

“Oh, stop your whining,’ He says, smacking it with His palm…

*lost in a space-time continuum*

And somehow I’m laying over His lap, my ass already throbbing. He sits on the edge of the bed, palm stroking the hot flesh there. The first slap is gentle, nearly a caress, as are the next few, before the hand gets harder, heavier, thuddier. He hits the same. fucking. place.

Again. Repeat. Until I’m pulled out of my reverie and start to squirm.

My back arches as I cum, even as I cry out against the steady thwacking on my butt.

“Put that fucking leg down,” He barks at me, and I’m shifting in my head between pleasure and pain, and the sudden shocking sound of His voice, stern. He stops spanking and I feel the hard kiss of the cane on my calf.

My head pops up from the bed as I wail. OH! Such a different pain. HURTS! Sharp stings, like a line of wasps across the muscle on the back of my leg.

“I said,” He says, His voice stern and firm, “Put your fucking leg down.”

My toes come in contact with the floor and the cane stops. Once more there is the steady thud of His palm on my ass…

butt

 

Much later, days later, He explains. I barely remembered the incident, but he mentions it and it floods back…

“So there I am spanking you, nilla, and I see your heel coming up at me. Not that I mind seeing the heels–not by a long shot–but heading for my head? Not so much.”

oh.

*silent giggles* 

 

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Spaced

from our phone call tonight….

“you know, nilla, I could tell it’s been a long while since we played…you went out of your head really fast.” (this after I told Him that I didn’t remember something that He made mention of)

“I know, Master. I hit the zone when You started hitting me. It was ….so good.”

“Nothing like a good old-fashioned OTK spanking…especially with a dildo up your ass, eh?”

*blush*

 

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“Beg Me”

first snapshot of our day…

“You know that saying…the one from that old movie? The one that says … please may i? Say it. Say it now.”

He’s holding me by the hair, pinching my tit with the other. In a flash his hand lashes up and out, slapping me soundly on the cheek.

I stutter. The shock of it takes my breath away really, and I’m feeling intense arousal. His words, the action, trying to think…I’m whirling away in my head. His hand tightens. Shaking my head with that hair-wrapped fist, he growls…

“Beg me. Beg me….”

“P-pl-please Sir…may I have another?”

SMACK!

Another growl…..”again…”

“Please Sir, may I have another?”

SMACK! This one harder than its predecessor.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until I’m dizzy with it.

His hand reaches up under my skirt, and he laughs that sadists laugh…

“My god you’re fucking soaked. You little pain slut!”

and so our time together began…

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