Oh, My!

Lookit what my writing friend Will Crimson found for me on the interwebs… now I want one. LOL! Isn’t it charming? It sends creepy yet erotic shivers right up my spine…

It’s a doorstop, of all things.

You may remember that Will has my absolute favorite-of-all-time Tentacles series…if you’ve never read it, I highly recommend all of the series. Let’s see if I can find you a link…ah…here you go…

Will has several chapters to this story, so do yourself a favor, have your best vibe nearby, curl up and get comfy, and read them all at once…guaranteed, once you try one of His tentacle stories on …you’ll be hooked (yeah, pun intended)…!

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Another “oh my”…….?  While YOU are sitting and reading me here, *I* am sitting or laying or standing…being beat, fucked, head-to-the-wall, and other various and sundry tortures.

Like “piggie tickling”.

Like whallops with the fucking pink hairbrush.

Funny aside here…I got myself a *new* hairbrush. It was time. But *Master* loves the old hairbrush, so I’ve put it into my bag for work, where I wear my hair up. That way I have it accessible for brushing out, right? We met at Starbucks a week ago…remember the story of His “new best friend” that I wasn’t quite sure *who* he was?

Well, I forget why now, but I was pawing through my work tote while Master was talking to the guy…and I pulled out my pink brush, and a few other things…and then stuffed everything back in.

On MLK night, He and I were talking. He was NOT in a good mood, and I was cheering Him up, some, and then out of the blue He asks me why I had my pink brush with me.

“You saw that?” I said, astonished. I was certain that 100% of His attention had been focused on his “best buddy”…. yet obviously not.

The Man is simply amazing that way.

“Of course I saw it…” He says, almost exasperated. “That brush and I have a cosmic connection, nilla.”

I snort, then giggle.

“Of course You do,” I mutter around giggles.

“He is my favorite, and after all, nilla, you introduced us…”

Yeah. Right. My (stupid) innocent bad.

Oh my (gawd)!

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There is yet another “Oh My”…sometime today (I think, or maybe Monday?)….and …. maybe it will be YOU who did it to me…

My blog will surpass 400,000 hits!

So…. thank you…it’s truly awesome to watch those numbers go up and up…You did that…coming here, reading what I have to say, commenting…all of you have been part of this journey with me…some a long time, some new…but whomever you are…thank you. I am truly blessed to have such a loyal and horny fan-base!

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Saturday evening on my drive home from work, I was talking to the Man. Well, He was talking, I was listening. A bit of banter, a bit of whining…oh, okay, a LOT of whining.

You see, I’ve been on worse than O-restriction this last week. I had one orgasm, Tuesday. Feels like a lifetime ago.

And rather than just leave me feeling sexually “dead”, He decided to leave me sexually aware.

Very aware.

Half-way-there orgasms suck. You get almost to the brink of explosion…and pull back and stop.

It’s torture. It’s arousing. It’s incredibly frustrating.

It leaves one feeling constantly needy, constantly wanton.

Constantly wet.

He loves it, LOVES doing this to me.

Tonight (Saturday as I write this) He ramps it up even more, and ever so casually.

So tonight when you’re having your two half-o’s….

“Wha–wha–wat?? MASTER? Wha-th-huh?”

He laughs, the brute, and then continues.

Why nilla, you’re all flustered. Yes, you lucky slut you get two half o’s tonight! Six minutes apart. Have one, rest, then the next at the 6 minute mark.

He doesn’t even tell me not to fuck it up, no “oops”…because He knows I won’t. I’ve texted him after ever fucking torture session, each one worse than the last.

OMFG

And you’d best be aware of the time, slut. This needs to be done by 10. I’ll watch for your text. I won’t read it…just the time stamp.

At 10, If you are not done, you’ll need to give me a third half-orgasm.

Oh, and full chicklet outfit…including the ass plug. Capiche?

I repeat.

OMFG.

Well…it’s ten past nine already. I desperately need to get my ass upstairs and get to it. Adios mi amigo’s…(do continue reading however, as I’ve written this post all during the past week, just so you’d have some titillating (? really?? Seriously, my life just isn’t that titillating — no, it’s not –  really! But you all are curious so, …well….I try to accommodate!)

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My vanilla week was kind of crappy…no one could go out in the cold and burn off energy – ergo child wars that erupted over the least things… sigh…an angsty teen, monotonous chores…just everything seemed blah.

But it’s midweek as I write this now, and I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be with Him. Behind closed doors with Him. What it feels like to have His fist in my hair in a place where no one can see Him push me across the room with it, or bend me over His knee. Where no one is there to witness Him slapping my cheek, or pinching me, or putting clamps on my nipples.

What does that feel like, again?

At home, I can put the pegs on so that they cause pain–but I control it. Too tight? Oh, move it here. Too loose? Oh, just fix it there. Sure I’ll do it to the best of my ability…and there are many nights that I’ve sat with tears in my eyes as that fucking chicklet outfit hangs down between my legs, weights pulling my nipples to the floor (or so it seems) because it hurts so much, because I swear my tits are on fire from the searing pain of it.

But for Him to do it means His way. Too far up the nipple so it bites a ton? Too frikkin bad, slut.

Oh, don’t want my finger in your asshole?

Suck it up sunshine. They’re His holes and He will do as He chooses.

Yeah.

My choices are not merely mitigated, but abrogated. Gone. *poof* dust in the wind. My choice is to go into that room with Him, and remember what it feels like to be a fully submissive pain slut.

Is there dread?

Maybe a little. The oh-my-gawd stinging, deep pain of that fucking pink hairbrush is a remembered pain. It takes my breath away. It leaves one hell of a mark. It hurts. 

It sure as fuck-all hurts.

Mr. Belt might show up…and if he does, it will be after FPH has thwapped me a bit…so rather than being a lovely stingy pain…it will hurt like holy fuck-all.

Who knows what else will happen? Not me. Not even  Him, I would bet. He’s had a shit week, a really shit week…and while He wouldn’t make me bear the full brunt of it…I’m sure I’ll get some of it.

That pleases me, btw.

To be His tool of release? Yeah, there’s a pleasure for me in that.

In the end, I’ll be bruised, and achy, and sore, and tired, and well-fucked and orgasmed out…until then, a long rest-of-the-week of partial orgasms lays ahead…(if I had any doubt the Man was a sadist…He has well and truly laid that to rest!)

So as you sit with your Sunday coffee, that week of partial o’s lays behind me, and He lays ahead of me.

What a lovely “Oh, My!”  that is to anticipate.