U, The Unassuming but Busy Letter

I really like U words. They often are fun in the mouth (yeah, yeah, I know, things in the mouth, nilla, you must have an oral fixation, nilla…but I had to say it!) and they describe such a plethora of things. Take…ululate. I love that word. Yes. One can love words, trust me. I love to say it, love to use it if possible. It is often used to describe the sound of grief, this is true. However, it also nicely conveys that sound when a woman (or man, let’s not be sexist, nilla) is brought to an amazing climax…”She ululated loudly when he applied the hitachi to her clit for her seventh orgasm.” for instance.  Or “His ululating cries reverberated around the walls of the dungeon with every snap of the whip on his tender ass, and rose to a crescendo as the tip teased his balls on the reverse stroke”.  That would definitely create an ululation!

There’s also the similar word to ululation…..which is undulation, that sinuous, hopefully sexy movement I make when He has cuffed my wrists to my thighs and I am attempting to flop undulate my way across the bed, and away from whatever he’s doing to me at the time. (That was a champion, paragraph-long, run-on sentence there, wasn’t it? Un-believable!)

I am fond of unperturbed. It is a word that totally describes M. He has only been annoyed with me a very few times, because he is pretty unflappable. Things just don’t bother him (which perturbs me, btw!).

There are bunch of  “Un’s” that spring to mind.., unwelcome, unhappy, unwanted, unlovable. None of those are happy words. Un words are “not” words, and who really likes those? And it doesn’t work–where you would really want it to– as a prefix for words like fat, for instance. I’d like to be unfat, but instead I’m at an unhealthy weight, you know? Somehow it just sounds worse the latter way.

Of course, there is also Universal, which conversely doesn’t mean “not”, and instead means all encompassing. Isn’t English a confuddling mixture of rules and unrules? (I just made that last “un” word up!)

Which reminds me of another un word that does make me smile.


Which I am, whenever I am with Him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes it…but he really does seem to like making me “ruly”!

(yes, it really is a word!)


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T is Most Definitly the Tits

That was an extremely popular saying in the ’80’s. “It’s the tits!” Didn’t matter what it was that was “the tits”…a new movie, a cool car, whatever it was, if it was above and beyond the best and neatest, it was given that silly little expression! What a fascination tits are. It starts when boys are 10 or so I’ve noted with my own boys. It kind of shocks me to know that they are oogling other women’s breasts. I mean, they’re kids, right?

But they grow up, and turn into boob-fiends. I don’t know a single man who isn’t into tits. Or maybe it’s just the men I know? Haha.

Of course, women, too, are into looking at boobs. I am. I know, I’m bisexual, but even women who aren’t, look at other women’s tits. None of us can help it. We’re ALL boob fiends, aren’t we?!

But what is it about our mammories that are so enticing?


Is it that soft round curve as we lay on our sides or back? (Though at my age they’re not quite so perky when I’m standing up! Nor are they floppy bags, mind you!)

Maybe it’s that tight bud there at the tip?

Tip Top Tit Tidbits. That’s alotta T’s there!


Maybe it’s the grabbing of all that meaty, tender flesh? With things like these?


Maybe it’s just the random sneaky peaks…through hair,  or sitting, slut-patient waiting for Master to play with them, or peaking out of a shirt?

No matter what makes them attractive, they sure get a LOT of attention here!

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So…here’s what I’ve been thinking. I’m hoping it comes out sounding coherent. If not, eh, you can ask me what the fuck do I mean and I’ll answer!

I have a few blogs and tumblr posts that I follow. One in particular that I love to look at while masturbating because the pics are pretty hot. *edit per H.H. politely requesting this*

Here is the tumblr blog that always makes me hot and bothered(and sometimes more bothered than hot, but we’ll get back to that!): kindlybeatingher

And the blog: Bondageblog

Here’s the thing that gets to me sometimes.

The comments. I’m not sure if it’s the poster, or the original poster or what, but sometimes the comments strike me as seriously creepy.

I’m an emancipated woman. We fought for the right to vote, to stand up and be counted, but there are some people who say “your place is on your knees scrubbing floors, keeping your eyes down and being obedient.”



Is this relating to a 24/7 couple? If so, yes, it’s totally, TOTALLY within their right to craft their dynamic however they see fit, however it works for them.

For. Them.

But it kind of scares me just a bit that this misogyny isn’t just pertaining to a playtime, or a role play or scene play, that this is what these men, and some women too,  truly, deeply believe. I guess it scares me because of that kid in California a year or two ago who killed a girl because she wouldn’t date him, because it was his right to make her do what he wanted her to. There’s websites dedicated to this mindset, and that scares the crap out of me. Not because of me, mind you. No one’s gonna go all hot and crazed over a 50+ old lady. But I worry for my daughter. And yours.

I don’t want a society that thinks it’s okay to rape girls, womenkind, because they want to.

Sure, I think rape-fantasy is something 99% of women have. Most feel guilty about it, and some want to role-play it (consensual non-consent), and some live in fear of that very fantasy.

Then there’s me (and others like me) who write about it. Because we know it’s a naughty, human, dark, dirty, terrible, terrifying, lust-inspiring thing to put our darkest fears into public forums to be absorbed by our readership and twist that fantasy button up into a tight little knot.

I’m a slut, and I fully own up to it here. I love to be beaten, fucked, ravaged. I love to be taken just however He wants me. I love to be told what to do, and how to do it, when we’re playing. But he’s taught me that it isn’t okay to live that way in my day to day. He doesn’t have time for it, and I don’t have that sort of … opportunity, I guess, with my kids being older and more clued in to what’s going on with mum.

So that’s my confession on a Friday night when I’m tired and thinking about things with my other brain. (I think it’s my no-filter brain!). I’m still going to masturbate to those wicked pics, and be turned on as fuck by them. But I’m going to remember one other serious thing.

It’s hot, except when it’s real.



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Full confession. I could not think of a good word that starts with R, or at least one that sparked any kind of writing/creativity. “Really” was one option, but really is a limited choice.

Did you know you can google “words that start with R, or any letter of your choice? A plethora of options will appear (the magic of the interweb never fails to impress me!) and there are list after list of such offerings as boggles the mind! Quickly skimming the list, I decided that I didn’t really need “rattlebrained” nor “Rastafarian” as my R word. I staunchly defend that I’m really not rattlebrained–at least most of the time! Nowadays we tend to call that disorganized (I’m not), overprogrammed (I am), or manic (maybe some days I can be frantic but not manic).

Anyway. There in the middle of the pack was Ravaged.


Ooooh. And yanno, it’s HNT day here at Casa de nilla. What better word of the day than ravaged? Because it so exactly describes what M does when we’re together. He doesn’t maul (yes he does), mangle (oh yes), or maim (mmmhmmm)…but all of them, ergo “ravage”.

I’ll include a “pristine” picture first…20170419_142355-1

soft, smooth skin. Not an M in sight, not nowhere, not no how. Safe for the nonce (though I would wish it otherwise, truth be told).

This would be an “after” photo:

20170228_131802-1 from our last playtime, my tits ravaged by his mouth and hands. Like this…


or this…

a weighty reminder

which became this after a few days “bloom” time:


Ravaged. It’s a good word, don’t you think?

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Is Quintessential Something One Calls Oneself?

No. It’s something ascribed to you. To take the “title” would be…well, embarrassingly conceited.

Ergo, I will NOT say I’m the “quintessential sex blogger”…because I’m not.  But it’s such a lovely word, isn’t it?

I can say I’m the quintessential slut for M. He’s kept me for 8+ years now, and isn’t planning to give me up, though he teases me from time to time about selling me for the $5 he needs for lunch money…*eye-roll*.

I might be able to brag that I’m the quintessential planner. I have schedules up the wazoo, all perfectly timed. (Life is what happens when you are making other plans, nilla.)


But I’m also quite adept at adjusting schedules and getting everyone where they need to be and, even more importantly, on time.

My calendar is color-coded by family member. There are charts. I shit thee not, I’m that  person. I can tell you where I’ll be 5 months from now, on Tuesday at 3 pm. Or where my kids will be. Or where the cat will be.

For reals.

Then there is Master.

We’re trying to plan a new playtime, since ours for later this month had to be bumped. Grrr. But it is what it is, and let me tell you, it was some piece of work to even get him to admit that he wasn’t going to make our end of the month beating/sexing/playtime.

“Nilla,” he says, his tone exasperated and yet mild.

“Yes M?”

“What day is it?”

“It was Tuesday when I got up this morning.”

“You’re being a smartass nilla.”

“giggle. uh-yup!”

“What is tomorrow, nilla.”

Now *I* sigh.

“Tomorrow isn’t here yet, Master,” I say, my tone dragging low, monotone.

“Good girl. Do I know what the fuck I’m doing in June, nilla?”

“No Master. ” I sigh heavily into the phone.

“Pick a day, nilla. I’ll try to make it work before July rolls around.”

“Master, you’re such a bastard.”

“Thank you nilla. One tries.”

I laugh, I can’t help it.

He is the quintessential Bastard, truly.

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P is Fun. (But is Pee better?)

Yes. I was. I was going to write a blogpost about pee. Because for a long time (and perhaps sometimes still) I had a fantasy/fetish about being peed upon. It’s gross, and it’s hot. It’s nasty, and it’s degrading…and it’s hot.

But I can’t truly get past the whole “piss in the mouth” thing. That, my friends, is a fetish killer for me. It’s not for others, so this is NOT a judgement, it just hits my own “squick factor” button. If I am watching a clip of piss play it turns me on. If it develops into piss drinking or piss in the mouth, *click*, I’m done. Maybe it’s because I’m the mom of boys, but whatever is the baseline, it’s just so not my thing.

So today’s P word can’t be piss, no matter how hot it is (clever double-entendre notwithstanding!).

I ponder some more, throwing P-words through my head like flash cards. Putrid. (uhm. No.) Pink. Labia. Still, no.) Push. Pull. Pucker. n…ow wait a second.

There’s  a word I can get behind. Pucker.

Pucker up for a kiss.

And yanno what else?

Your butt has a pucker too.

*laughs naughtily*

Yeah, yeah, so does mine but we’re talking about your butt here, not mine. That funny little puckery target. The dark-ringed tunnel of depravity. The bung-hole of unearthly delights. The perverted dipping well.

Oh baby fuck that ass!

Yes. I’m not a fan of anal. I know, it sounds like plausible deniability, doesn’t it?

She hates it unless she’s gettin’ it.

Yes. It’s true. I do.

But we’re talking about your asshole.  Remember? How vulnerable does it feel just now, now that I’ve drawn your attention to the susceptibility of that tight sphincter? Are you tightening up your thighs, your cheeks? Shifting a little bit in your chair? You are, aren’t you?!  I’m sure you’re sitting there feeling all protected. Your butt cheeks tightly clenched, protecting that dark rosebud of nefarious pleasures. But you know how easily accessed that spot is when you’ve been grabbed by a hunk of hair, thrown over a chair arm, the back of the couch, a bed, your pants yanked down roughly. No, your tightly clenched muscles are no match for the one who is planning on taking that ass, on lubing that passage with a quick spit of saliva, and a satisfying hard thrust to plunge, bowels deep, into your gut.

It’s not all that different from needing to take a dump, is it? (I told you. I live with boys!)

Oh, nothing really can match the feeling you have when you take a really satisfying poop, right? That fullness, semi-painful, followed by that sensual pleasure as it slips out of you, as your anus closes tight after stretching so far. So far.

It felt good.

It does feel good.

The in and out of fucking that tight hole? Well, it too feels good. There are so many sensitivity points along that quivery, muscular tube. Tied up in the physical feeling is the emotional: that feeling of being violated, of being forces, taken and filled in a dark and perverted way. The feeling of being obscenely stretched, of being used, fully. Then too, there are his groans, ones of pleasure. He has captured and taken his victory over you. His groans are the culmination of the pleasure of the hunt, and the pleasure of your hot, tight asshole. You know that while you’re struggling, your rectal ring is milking his cock, a tight band like a small fist around his shaft as he pumps into your so-very-tight hole. It’s an amazing sensation. It hurts, and yet when the rubbing gets intense, as he’s raping your asshole frantically, the spark ignites within your yearning pussy. It’s weeping for his cock, wanting to be full of him, waiting to be pounded into oblivion, but that thick man-meat is not thinking wet cunt, it’s thinking hot, tight ass.

As you come, as your empty, wanton pussy tightens and juices flow, so too does your ass tighten. He’ll groan louder, pound you harder. Your rectum will begin to burn and hurt, yet your empty cunt will weep even more to be the one he fucks.

You crave it.

Crave the pain. Crave the yearning for your cunt to be used as he’s using and destroying your ass. Crave the thick strands of his come to be filling your aching, empty pussy, instead of the deep abyss of your bowels.

He’ll make you hold it. No shitting this gift out, he’ll say. He’ll want to watch it ooze out of your now-stretched hole in it’s own time. You’ll fart from all the air he thrust inside of you, and you’ll be embarrassed when he teases you about it. If you’re lucky he’ll like your sopping cunt enough to finger you, or lick your throbbing clit until you come apart one last time.


*pauses, takes long breaths*

Pucker up, pussycat.







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….ohhhh…that moment. That funny tickle deep inside. The tremors in the belly, the rising of goosebumps along arms, neck or legs. That feeling of impending something.




Those threatening, terrifying, yet strangely erotic twisting, twining arms. The suck of the cups along each twirling tentacle. The shimmery feeling of cold slick wetness as it forces itself slips inside of you, one orifice at a time, as the clever and brutally strong unfeeling arms hold you immobile, open, available for plundering.

Who doesn’t love a good octopus story?

Between you and I? Octopus Vulgaris is the number one story on my blog. I wrote it years ago, a short little piece, but boy, that one is read multiple times every week. EVERY WEEK!

Octopus stories are one of the most sought after via search engines to my blog as well. Please. We know that these stories are disgusting. Vulgar. Horrifying.  They’re also incredibly erotic, to be forced at the hand(tentacles) of some unyielding force of nature and made to submit to its craven desires. Is it fucking purely for the joy of fucking a human? Is it forcing it’s seed inside you, procreating? Does it merely want to be sucking up human sex juices?

We don’t know.

But we’re certainly turned on by it!

You know that any story that starts with:

She swam along the shoreline, close enough from the beach to feel the rise of the forming waves, but far enough to not be tugged sand-ward. Her arms made long, lazy arcs in and out of the water, her long legs kicking gently in the cool ocean water. She didn’t see the form following beneath her, matching her stroke for stroke.

Has to end like this:

It was impossible to scream when her mouth was filled with a cold, thick tentacle. Horror shivered along her spine as she felt it slip towards the back of her throat. The shove of yet another probing digit between her thighs made a scream rise past the tentacle in her mouth, and her eyes rolled wildly as it slipped between her lower lips as easily as a lover’s cock.  It was big, slippery. The suction cups caused a curious sensation and rubbed against her g-spot, making her arch and wiggle for more, deeper, even as her brain screamed ‘noooo’. By the time another roving tentacle had pierced her rectum, she was orgasming.

Let’s face it, “alien” invasion is hawt.

Thank goodness! (can you imagine all those stories suddenly becoming pointless?! No, me either!)

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Naughty or Nice Nilla ~ N

How is it that we’re up to “N” already?  I tell you, this month is really flying past at a nearly traumatic speed!

I’m naughty. I’m also (as many people will say) nice. It’s an interesting dichotomy, and I think it is endemic of this “Naughty” lifestyle that we can be both, simultaneously, whether you’re the “Big D” or the “small s” type.

Where else can we be sweet to the person ringing up our purchases, full-on knowing that the rope, the piece of wood, the cable ties we’ve just bought will be used for naughty (I was going to write ‘nefarious’ but restrained myself!) purposes?

It’s good to be nice. The world, the interwebs, is a cesspool of meanness. Where being virtually anyone online takes away all societal niceties, and you can say anything to anyone, no matter how cutting, no care how cruel, no matter how much reading such vituperative commentary could wound a gentle spirit.

Nice is good. The world is hard, rough, full of pitfalls. It harms no one to be kind, least of all yourself. And don’t worry, I’m FAR from perfect and nice and wonderful all the time!! I’ve had my share of speaking without thinking, or responding in anger and really hurting someone’s feelings. It’s happening less now that I’m really intentional about being nice to people. Yes, even the dildo who cuts me off in traffic. *laughs* Because they’re a person in their own world. Maybe they’re rushing to the hospital because they got a call that their grandmother was found unconscious in her house. Maybe they’re unemployed and late for a meeting with a potential new employer (it happens!). Anyway, I’d rather take a moment, take a breath, and understand that they weren’t out to “get” me. And it isn’t merely altruistic of me. It’s for me, not them.  It makes me more understanding, and a better person.

I’m also naughty. Verrrry naughty. I like dastardly deeds to happen to me. Like when He surprises me by having a “visitor” at a playdate. Or when I finally am “allowed” to come to the room, only to find the second bed covered in carefully laid out devices of torture. (He’s very precise like that!) It’s fear inducing (one of my turn-ons) and it’s thrilling. Being naughty in this way is part and parcel of me. The Naughty Yin to my Nice Yang, you might say.

Before I knew that it was ‘normal’ to be a deviant (oh. What an oxymoronic statement that is!) I used to worry about watching those little tidbits of porn that sprinkled the interwebs. When I would read some truly bad porn stories online, I’d think “this is almost what I like, but I really think I could write better than this”. That’s when I discovered that not only could I, but that other people enjoyed it too. That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t the only “normal” person who had these strange fetishes. Who liked to be spanked, or at least thinking about it. About being “caught” and used, about being treated like an object to be fucked and stepped over, left lying there leaking his juices while he got up and went about his business.

It’s a sickness. But wait. No.

No. No it’s not “sickness”…it’s just me. 

Being naughty. And nice.

Yin to the Yang, peeps.




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M is for all the many lovely things I adore.

Men. I mean, penises. Muscles. Strength. Kindness and meanness in one package. Plus, they kill mice when your cat lets them go. Alive. In your living room.

(wo)men. Yeah, bisexual here. I think women are lovely. All of them. It’s not just about the body, it’s the mind, the compassion, the spirit. It’s the hugs and the sharing and the stuff women just like to do together, whether it’s make-up at Sephora, or clothes shopping at a discount house, or sitting sipping tea in the yard.

Muscle-y guys. This hardly needs explanation, right? Muscles. Guys. Rawr! But not Mr. Universe type. No, this gal prefers the muscles of guys who work in garages, or as lumberjacks, or cops or…(ahem, I might just be drooling now…so many potential stories, so little time..)…real-life hard working guys. This is not to denigrate body builders, they’re just not my “thing”.

Mammories. I think women are beautiful. And our boobs, while they do NOT define us, are something special and fun and beautiful. The shapes, the tones, the roundness, the perky ones or the saggy ones. Our mammories are something pretty damned awesome.

Masturbation. Much like my fascination with muscle men, this barely needs an explanation. And while I love what He does to me when we play, let’s face it. I spend way more time making myself cum than he does. I know my body well now, and the feel of the toys and the pics or whatever I’m daydreaming to get myself off…it never takes all that long for me to go from “I guess I’ll masturbate, it’s Tuesday after all” to “Oooh ohooohhhh ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Then again, I am pretty consistently horny so there ya go.

Milky Way Bars. (What, you didn’t think it would be allll sexy stuff…though yanno, chocolate is sexy!)

Michelangelo. The painter not the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. His art, with the materials at hand, rather than all the options one has these days (just walk into an art store or a michaels if you don’t believe me). He didn’t go to the store to buy paints. He made them. Made them.  And the places he used them on almost defy the imagination. The ceiling. The ceiling of a huge chapel. Inconceivable! And yet, he did it. Oh, there are so many other things to be in awe about Michelangelo, but the Sistine is my biggest bucket list item.


Master. I know this list is kind of short, but really, my Master should be at the start AND the end of my list, for he’s a constant thread running through my day, morning and night. He’s on my mind, in my heart, and my body sure appreciates him, too. His sadistic nature is quite nasty. But his kindesses are every bit as big. I wish we had more time, but such is life. We make it work for us as best we can and make it count when we do get together.



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L is for Lookie Here

Okay, yeah, L is for a LOT of things. Those times when you’re hanging with friends and horsing around and someone says something that is both sincerely funny, and honestly stupid and you lift your pointer finger and extend your thumb and slap it up to your forehead in that universal “L” for Loser. Yeah, that’s a silly “L”.

And L is also for libido, something that comes, hangs awhile, leaves, lets me get all busy doing life and then comes back with a vengence. You know, just when I think I’m over all this kink stuff and my pussy is taking an extended leave of absence. And isn’t. I swear sometimes my libido is riding some kind of pendulum (isn’t all life, really?), and that I’ll never find a true sexual equilibrium, someplace nicely in the middle there between desperate want and disregard.

L is for love. For the love of my family, my M, my life. (L is also for life, and I’m so very blessed in mine.) Extend that into lover, and there is that deeper part of love, the action of love. (And the interesting dichotomy of NOT having a lover in my spouse for more than a dozen years–and yet having a pretty strong long-term D/srelationship. (weird, but true))

And L’s sadder side is loss. Friends who no longer are friends, or aren’t as close (physically or emotionally). Family and friends who are no longer walking the earth, a phone call away. The warm hug of my favorite dog, the soft purr of the sweetest kitty I’ve ever been loved by.

L is also, conversely to how I brought you down to a somewhat sad place there, for laughter.

OH, laughter! I laugh a lot. My son told me a joke the other day which made me laugh so hard I cried. M makes me giggle, and in the midst of playtime, I’m oft beset by wild laughter in the pure and absolute joy of being with him, of being abused and loved and sexed so well by him. The sheer absurdity of life makes me laugh more often than not these days. Life is really shorter than one thinks, and it’s simply too precious to not enjoy all the moments that make us giggle or grin or snort tea out of our noses!

And finally, L, as noted in the title, is also for Look. Since it IS Thursday and I DO have that rule of M’s…


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