The Break-In (pt 1)

She flipped the “CLOSED” sign over the door, and flipped the lock simultaneously.

It had been a long day. She’d found the perfect washer for Ms. Mack, a lock wrench for Mr. Jonea, spray for the mystery bugs in Mz. Oleana’s tomato patch, and myriad other problems and solutions, all waiting to be found in her small-town hardware store.

Life here off the beaten path was slower, kinder than her former role as executive secretary in Boston had been. She’d gotten to know almost everyone in town, after inheriting the store from her late grandfather. She liked it.

The one, the biggest drawback to life in the rolling foothills of Vermont was the distinct lack of kink contact. Where the fuck did one find someone to bring her to the heights of ecstasy she had known while living in Beantown? She and her Dom had split months before her move. Watching him move through the Munches, collecting little subbies had been painful, and she’d found no one to really satisfy her need to be controlled.   A quick fuck here and there, no problem, maybe a satisfying spanking to assuage some of the need, but nothing like He used to deliver.

She sighed as she swept the floor, part of her nightly closing ritual.  Her mind wandered as she cleaned the counter, tidied displays, brushed up the store for morning.  She’d gone so far as to hook up with that online site. She posted a discreet picture, because in small towns, there was always someone who knew you.

She bagged up the trash, clicking off the lights, except for the one outside her small office.  It was full dark now, but the stars shone brilliantly as she stepped outside to dump the bag in the small dumpster out back.  As she turned to head back inside, she was grabbed from behind, a strong arm wrapping around her chest, and a large hand covering her mouth.

She struggled, kicked, but her sneakers had almost no impact on her assailant. She felt the hand around her shift, and heard a small click. She went still. She’d lived in the city long enough to be familiar with the sound of a switch blade engaging.

“Not one fucking sound, cunt.”

There was a pause,and the incongruous sound of chirping crickets in the tall grass in the field behind the store carried clearly. She nodded, short and sharp. She felt the blade caress her throat, pressing gently against the soft flesh. She leaned back into his chest, trying to put a measure of space between her throat and his blade.

“I’m taking my hand offa your mouth, slut, and then we’re going to go inside, got it? One fucking sound and you’re done.”

She  nodded again. His hand left her mouth but hovered for a moment, before grabbing a fistful of her hair and pushing her back inside. Inside, the small mudroom angled off in two directions. Ahead was the door to the back storage room of the store. To the left was a narrow twisting set of stairs that led to her small apartment above the store.

“You live up there?” His voice was gruff, mean.

She swallowed. She did not want him to sense her fear. What the fuck? People did NOT get robbed in Richford Vermont. It just never happened. Until today. She felt her pulse knock up a bit as the knife caressed her throat. She nodded, finally.

He pushed her up the stairs. They were narrow, twisting twice in their convoluted Yankee construction. Her hair was pulled, her shoulder ached as he held one hand behind her back. He pushed her through her tiny kitchen, and equally tiny living room, and made a pleased sound in his voice when he saw her spacious bedroom. The iron-barred four-poster was old, sturdy, and a kinkster’s dream bed.

He shoved her forward onto her bed, pushing her face hard into the mattress, choking her breath.

“Stay, slut. Don’t even think about moving. She grunted her assent, then felt his hand leave her head. A scraping noise almost had her raising her head but she decided to stay put. Her heart was racing.

Not a robbery.

Gawd, she’d fantasized, as so many women do, about being raped. Tied, helpless, forced to submit.  Gavin had tried, but it never felt real to her. He was such a dominator anyway that she was okay when he decided to stop trying to give her that fantasy. But the reality was frightening.  The knife scared her spitless. Her mouth was so dry she thought she would never swallow again.

Why then, was her pussy so fucking wet?

Strange fucking slut, she mused, then gasped as she felt something press into her legs. She was bent over the bed, legs on the floor. Her upholstered chair! He’d pushed it up behind her, pressing it into her legs. She could have pushed it back, wriggled away but it would have taken precious moments, and he’d be on her in a flash. She heard drawers opening, closing.

Weight pulled the mattress down across from her. One wrist was seized, and she realized then that she was not going to fight this. He tied something soft around her left wrist, and then her right wrist.  The bed rose as he left it. She heard his footfalls come around the bed again, back to her. He pushed the chair away and stood between her slightly parted legs. She felt his heat, and the corresponding heat between her thighs.

He lifted her head with a fistful of hair, then forced a silky wad into her mouth. Pushing and prodding, she was effectively silenced with her own panties.  Something slid over her head, and was tied around her neck. Pillowcase.  His hands lifted her effortlessly up to the bed and he began tying her wrists to the headboard. His hand caressed her through her clothing, roughly, demanding. His fingers found the center of her tits, already peaked and  hard.

“What a slut!” He laughed, and she tried to yell through her gag. Nothing came out louder than a squeak. She tried kicking, but he quickly brought her legs under control. Before she knew it she was spread-eagled, tied tightly to her bed.

“I smell wet pussy.” His voice crooned in her ear.

“So many clothes in my way, though. I think we need to dispense with some, don’t you little slut?  Before I can fuck you good and hard, you need some…” He paused, and she shivered, waiting for what would come next.

“preparation. Back in a few…” and she heard his footsteps recede through her kitchen, and clatter down the stairs.

Down into a hardware store…

Nilla and the GPS Lady

i have a philosophy about getting lost.

i don’t believe in it.   (shakes head)   One finds a new way to get someplace. My wife, otoh, gets lost chronically. I always thought it was because she believes it.  Unfortunately, some people are just genetically predisposed to not finding their way. I might not have believed that before, but then i met Sir, and he has the same issue. Hence my new theory of genetic predisposition.

Anyway,  you all came this close )*( to never seeing nilla again. i almost got lost…in Boston.

If you’re familiar with Boston, it’s a rabbit warren of inner city streets laid out in disordered fashion. All the immediate suburbs are “part’ of Boston, and i was headed to the soutwest part of  Beantowne.

i googled and mapquested and fiddled and fixed until i created a direct Route into Town.  The words “Mass Pike” make me cringe. I’ve driven many places, including Chicago’s Loop, which is no place for the faint of heart, btw, but the section of the Mass Pike that heads directly into mid-city? Nope. Nada. Won’t. Do. It. You. Can’t. Make. Me.

Now, i need to backtrack a bit here. I have  this ….funky talent….i can go some place once and recall how to get there years later. Including alternate routes. I have mapquest in my head i guess.  My brother took pity on my wife and got us a GPS for Yule. I figured it was kinda useless but i have played with it. Yesterday i used it as backup for my printed directions.

I’m traveling on the route i’ve chosen. GPS lady is working hard to get me to use the Pike. Nope. Nada. Won’t.

(insert metallic voice here:) In one mile, take exit  33.

nilla sails past exit 33. GPS lady sighs.

(insert metallic voice here:) In 3 miles take exit 34.

nilla sails past exit 34. 35. 36. 40. 43. That fucking persistant lady tried her best to make me comply but she wasn’t using Dom-voice so i ignored her.

By the time we made it to the outskirts of Boston, the GPS lady was really pissed.

(insert metallic voice here:) are you going to take the next fucking exit you bitch or should i just drive you right into the fucking Atlantic? Well? Are you? TAKE THE FUCKING EXIT!! OH! gggggRRRRRRRRRR!!!

Yeah. So i finally take the turn that will take me to my destination.

The GPS lady cheered.

She did still try to send me onto the PIKE on the way home…

nope nada. She made me cross the Charles River twice before i figured out her destination…but i found my way out before i wound up in downtown.

GPS Lady was pouting, nilla was pumping her fist in the air…WOO HOO! One for da nilla.

Give me the Chicago Loop any day.


“Come here slut.”

It was the first time he had spoken to her in 4 hours. Praises be, perhaps her punishment would finally be lifted. She had been silent all fucking day, 12 hours with nothing except long, yearning looks.

Which He had largely ignored. Occasionally He would raise one eyebrow in that sardonic expression that she both loved and hated.  He was so fucking cute when He was mean. Damn the Man!

She came to where He sat in the overstuffed chair He favored when He was home, knelt at His feet like a good subbie.

“Stand up.” She complied instantly.

“Take off your shirt.” She pulled the tee-shirt up over her head. She was naked but for her thong panties.

“Spread that shirt over the arm of My chair,”  He directed. Again she complied.

“Give Me  your slutty little panties.”  She slid them down, then handed them to Him in a little wadded bundle. He took them, sniffing the crotch deeply, then put it into his breast pocket. Why this embarrassed her after all this time was incomprehensible to her. And fuck-all, how wet it made her! 

“Straddle the arm of the chair. Snug that pussy right over it.”  He watched as she sat on the tee-shirt covered arm of the chair.  It was an ungainly position, one leg extended to the floor, the other bent and pressed between his thigh and the inside arm of the chair.

“Wider. I want that slutty cunt of yours pressed hard down on that arm.” She shifted, adjusting her position.  She flushed when He leaned back, peering at her pussy, then more heat as His finger probed between her splayed legs, pulling her pussy lips apart and spreading them wide. Her inner lips were now pressed tight to the cotton of her tee-shirt.

“Fuck it.”  She stared at Him a moment. He sighed. That little sigh that meant He was enjoying her confusion.

“Fuck the arm of the chair, slut. Hump it hard. Slide that wet pussy of yours back and forth. But no cumming. Not yet.”

She nodded, and began undulating her hips. At first it was good, so good to have the friction on her pussy.  She began to get into it. Grinding a bit, skidding her wetness across and back, and rolling her hips to occasionally get her clit into the action.

He rose from the chair, came behind her. He grasped her hips and increased her tempo. Pleasure turned to pain as the fabric rubbed and rubbed on her sensitive inner flesh.

“You like humping things when I’m away at work, do you slut?  Love pressing that little honeybox against the washer to circumvent my “no vibe this week” rule? ” 

She opened her mouth to speak, but remembered in the nick of time to keep silent. She did moan as his hands pressed her deeper into the chair arm, building a friction-heat that was unrelated to sexual release. It fucking HURT!

“Fuck it like that slut. HARD!”  His hands released her hips, but she continued to grind down, take her punishment. He started slapping at her hips, her bucking ass, and she took it, built on it, and felt the climb begin.

Her head was soaring when He pulled her off the arm of the chair, bent her over it and fucked her hard from behind. When He was done, when He had allowed her  to cum with Him, He pulled her upright,  and gruffly ordered her to redress in the tee-shirt.

Front and center was a long, wet smear that would dry to a white, crusty mark. 

He collapsed into His chair, smiling that wicked smile that told her He wasn’t quite done yet.

He gestured to the shirt with one finger.

“Tomorrow? Wear that.”

He grinned at the look of shock  on her face. 

Tomorrow was marketing day.

Strange Week Ahead

Greetings Horny Readers! Just to let you know, my computer access will be limited for the next 10 days. i hope you will take a moment to comment, to let me know you’re enjoying my stories; just know there may be a delay before i respond to you…but respond i shall! I appreciate every comment i receive. Happy Reading!  ~nilla~

ps…this post will be “sticky” so scroll down for todays story!

All Tied Up

His cock slid into her with amazing ease.

She grunted a bit, around the blue ball gag pressed behind her teeth.

“Shut the fuck up. No noise!”  He barked as he slapped her hip.

Her right leg was stretched out, as she  lay sideways in the air. Her left leg was on floor. Her arms were bound behind her back, her tits coiled and swollen thickly against the bindings.

Her head was bent back uncomfortably, the ass hook seated deeply up her rectum tied off to her ponytail and holding her in this uncomfortable position. He continued to slide in and out of her pussy, and the embarrassment of her position was magnified by the wetness she heard slurping with each thrust in and out of her.

“You fucking love this, you cunt!”  He slapped her left asscheek this time, and she jumped with the suddenness of it, pulling on her hair and increasing both her frustration and her lust.

“You will not cum, slut.  Understand me?”

She tried to move the ball around in her mouth to respond. Though mostly unintelligible, he understood her compliance. He picked up the pace of his fucking.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were his grunts, the soft creak of rope as he fucked her hard in the harness, and the wet sounds of her cunt. Into that stillness, the theme from Jaws was both incongruous, and a foreshadowing of things to come.

He answered his phone calmly, the caller perhaps not even knowing that he was fucking his subslut. She was feeling spacey, but caught the end of his conversation. He was giving the address to his loft.

“Okay, see you soon. Yup. Should take you about 10 minutes.”

She mumbled around the gag. He ignored her. She screamed against the gag. He smiled, although she could not see it.

“Slut, I can’t understand a word you say, but you’ll have a few minutes after the guys get here to say whatever the fuck you wanted to say so bad after we take out the gag….and before we re-fill your mouth with a nice thick stick of man-meat.”

She shook her head, tried to, but it pulled so badly she subsided.

So, he had  been reading her fantasy blog.


He put her on a diet.

In all fairness, she’d asked for His help. Her cholesterol was high, her blood pressure was creeping up, and after her work shift she was exhausted.

Now here she was, 30 pounds lighter, just 10 more to go on her goal.

There were no excuses on His plan. The beauty of being His slave was that she had her choices removed. His word was law.

So what if she was an independent, capable woman at work? At home, He was the lord and Master. It made her shiver just to say it in her head.


Who knew such comfort would be found in those 6 letters. In being owned. In being cared for so completely.

He’d cleaned out her cupboards, her fridge. Gone were the little sneaky treats that bit her in the ass over and over again. No more cereal bars, now she ate fruit.  No more bakery cupcakes, now she ate fruit. NO more chocolate bars…well, two outta three ain’t bad.

It was her daughter’s birthday. The rule was no “bakery” cakes. So, she made one at home.  Tasted a bit of batter. Oh. Yum.

The taste of sugar and chocolate, removed for so long now, exploded on her tongue.  It was almost a mouth orgasm, she mused, licking the stirring spoon as she set the stove timer.

Several hours later, her house still smelling of chocolate, two cake rounds cooled on her counter, she grabbed the tub of frosting.  She spread the cake beautifully, the sprinkles looking like fireworks against the rich brown icing.

There was a bit of frosting left over. She put it into the fridge. She was never a waster and surely it could be used for something.


They cammed that night. She reported that her daughters’ party had gone well, but the ex hadn’t shown.

“Part of why he’s the ex,”  He responded, picking up on her dejection.

“I just hate when he does that to her, you know, Master? Gets her all psyched for him coming by…then drops her. Fucking Bastard!”

He let her vent a bit more, then calmed her.

He always left her in a better head space, her Master. And she could happily report that she’d only eaten the wee sliver of cake she was allowed for family celebrations.


Midnight. Light spills from the open fridge. A hand sneaks into it, finding without effort, the small white cylinder. A cylinder that spells her doom….


She woke, blinking against the sun streaming in through her bedroom windows. It was her day off, her daughter was back at her home, how the fuck did her window blinds get open?

She  heard a tapping. Focusing against the glare, she saw Him. Holding the nearly empty container of frosting, spoon silently pointing out her guilt. In the other, the lexan rod that controled the blinds. The lexan rod he was tap, tap, tapping against the side of the frosting jar. Now, it seemed, that lexan rod would be controlling….her.

“UP.” His tone was controlled too. Cool, crisp. His no-bullshit tone.

She rose from the bed, nerves making her belly quiver unhappily. Or maybe it was the frosting. Or maybe it was both.

“Hands up and linked behind your head, slave.”  Now the quivers had become full-on backflips. She watched him, still tapping the lexan wand. He looked calm, but looks could be oh-so-deceiving.

“This is not sexual.”  He met her eyes, wide with worry, with His implacable ones.

“This is a punishment. Third strike, you might say.”

She stuttered. “T-third…s-s-strike? What..”  He cut her off.

“Last week at work. Peanut butter cookies that Diane made for your shift. You had two. I let that one slide, as you recall. This past weekend. I said you could have eggs when you went to brunch with your friend Pat. You chose Eggs Benedict. Need I say more? You’ve slid, slave, down a very slippery slope. Now it’s time for me to pull you back up.”

He began striking her tits. First one, for 5 strokes. The fifth one was always the hardest, as if He’d built up tempo for it. Then the other tit. Same thing. She thought that was it. And although the fucking lexan hurt like all fucking get out, she considered it acceptable penance, not that HE was asking her.

He pushed the tub of frosting to her mouth.

“Hold this between your teeth.”

He whacked her tits again. This time it was for 10 stripes of the wand.  She was moaning, teeth clenched on the lip of the tub, the smell of chocolate nearly overwhelming her as she began panting through her nose. 
Her arms were aching from being held up for so long, her jaw was sore from gripping the fucking frosting tub, and the smell of the chocolate, now linked to her pain, was nauseating.

A third round made her begin to passionately hate the wand, the Man, the chocolate.

He tossed the cane onto the bed when he was done. Reaching up, he took the can from between her teeth, then unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock,  and pissed into it.  Looking into the pissy, sludgy mess in the container had him wrinkling his nose. He took the spoon and gave it an experimental stir. He scooped up a spoonful of the disgusting goop, offered it to her.

She knew better than to refuse. She opened her mouth to the pissy concoction.  She wanted to vomit, she wanted to spit. His gaze held hers. Solemn dark eyes took in her mutinous ones. She swallowed.  He offered her a second serving. And a third.

He handed her the container.

“Next time, you’ll drink it all down, understand? Should there ever be a next time. Cheaters never prosper, slave.”

She knew then she’d have no trouble losing  those last 10 pounds…she didn’t think she’d ever, ever cheat again.

Flash Fiction Friday Beauty and the Beast(One)

She might have been a study in chiaroscuro. He might have been Rembrandt.

The thick dildo spearing up from the block dismissed that idea, although one only saw it when they passed behind her. The base of it, anyway, the balance of  the bronze dick  buried deeply in her rectum.

Balance of light and dark, movement and stillness, art and artist.

Some had called the Marquis de Sade an artist as well. Some believed his soul had been reborn in Rene’ Lambeau, who went by the affectation, The Beast.

Yet every Summer he held a show,  just one show, to pose his muse for an evening of artistic torment.

The doors opened, and in they came. The rich, the famous, the curious. They came to sketch, to photograph, to oogle or just to scratch the curiosity itch.

“why would she…”

“how could he…”

“did you see the fucking size of that thing?”

Champagne, conversation, flashing lightbulbs, fame.


IN the loft that served as studio and apartment was a new tableau.

“If they only knew your inspiration, my little beast,” she cooed. She adjusted the strap on her harness, then rubbed her fingernail across his anus.

His reply was muffled by the ball gag stuffed deeply in his mouth. She smiled as muffled words turned to muted screams as she began to impale her beast with the giant dildo, one thick inch at a time.

Thanks to Panserbajorn for the great pic this week!  I was so inspired by this particular pic to write 2 versions…scroll down for Beauty and the Beast, two!

(Nilla is WAYYYY over the word count this week…295!)

Want to join the Flash Fiction Challenge? C’mon it’s fun! Think of it as a collective word orgy! know, the more the merrier! Go see Panser (in the box to ther right…go!) for a complete list of everyone who wrote their short piece to this same pic! 

FFF…Beauty and the Beast (two)

How long he stood there, watching, lost in the perfection of her being, he did not know. He was unaware that others watched, considered them a pair, a study in polar opposites, as he stood transfixed.

He was as dark as she was light. He was thick, muscular from heavy work, while she was petite perfection. His hair had gone snowy, the years marking him with timestamps. Her hair was dark with the luster of youth, body smooth and sleek.

He yearned for her. The exquisite lines of her, perfectly folded, perfectly balanced on the pedestal. She was a study in chiaroscuro, the play of shadow washing her skin, casting an air of mystery, of other-worldness upon  her.

Though used to the gawking crowd, the living statue raised her head, sensing Him and  his  unblinking regard. Eyes locked, the click of souls connecting nearly audible.

He was here. At last.

My goodness this pic inspired two offerings this week! Thanks Panser. This one is “legal” at 150 words!)

The Test

She paced the room, nervous. She was glad to be here, finally. Really glad. It didn’t stop the butterflies that were hatching apace in her belly.

Today she would meet Him!

They’d talked so long through emails, then chats, then phone calls. She knew every resonant tone of his voice, from amusement, to annoyance. Flighty as she was, she’d pissed him off a few times. Always, always unintentional, but she knew it, and was corrected for it. He was strict, but he was fun.

She crossed to the desk, looked at her watch. She was naked as He had required.  Her hair was loose, her make up light. Gods! It was hard enough to meet someone for the first time, let alone in your birthday suit!  A knock on the door had her head rising, her heart rate soaring.

Quickly she went to the bed, climbing up so she was positioned kitty-corner on the mattress. She knew she had 90 seconds to get her position correct before he would enter and begin his inspection. This was a test of her understanding, as well as her ability to  follow His commands.

She knelt in the bed, then dropped to all fours. Her head lowered, and her hair screened her face. Her ass was pointed to the door. . She trembled. Parted her legs just a bit more…and heard the click of the lock yielding to His keycard.

He said nothing when He entered the room.  He had told her that she would be inspected first, that she would be thoroughly examined.  Still, the inspection was …unnerving.  She could not see his reactions. She wanted to squirm when she heard him squat to peer up at her pussy.  She began to flush with embarrassment when his  hands parted her ass, poked at her rectum. He pinched her pussy lips, pulling them away, patting them, pinched her clit.

His finger slid into her fuckhole, then a second and after a moment, a third.  She wanted to die of the humiliation, and push back onto his hand, fucking herself on him. But she had been forbidden to speak, to move. Just kneel here and accept.

His hand smoothed up her back, a finger trailing up her spine, drawing a faint shiver from her. A hand reached under her, pulling and tugging at her tit like a calf suckling at its mothers teat. A small sound escaped her lips when He pinched her nipple and pulled it hard downward, almost causing her to break posture. He held it there a moment longer, until finally releasing it. He came around to her head, stroking at her hair, her lips as she remained with her head down, looking at the mattress between her hands. He slipped his fingers down her eyes, bidding her silently to close them.

Grabbing a rough handful of hair, he pulled her upright, then latched his mouth onto hers, eating her gasp. His mouth sucked at hers hard, then bit her lips. She moaned, and he consumed that as well.

He kept her up on her knees, eyes closed, while he lifted each tit by the nipple. She felt the stretch, the burn as they were pulled so high so hard. His fingers were hard on her nipples, pincering the nubbins of her breasts as he wiggled them a bit.

Her breath shortened, hitched as she dealt with the pain, tiny stars dancing behind her closed lids as she absorbed His need.  She did gasp as he dropped her left tit, poking her nipple inward with his finger. She was no more prepared when he did the same to her right breast. Gawd it hurt! And yet, she swore she could feel her pussy leaking.

She heard him walk behind her, but kept her eyes closed. The only sound in the room was that of her breathing. She heard a noise , from the direction of the door. Oh gawd! It was  the distinctive click of the door latch releasing.

She quivered. She knew she was blushing but this had to be another test.  The door opened and shut. She heard new footsteps advancing into the room, approaching her where she knelt still as a statue on the bed, eyes shut  tight, as much  from embarrassment as from His order.

A hand reached out and caressed her tit.

“Hello, slut.”   It was His familiar voice.