Nilla’s Pondering/Farewell 2010

i often wonder why so many people are interested in my life. Essentially i’m boring. Okay, *i’m* not boring, but my life has pattern and routine and….some might call that boring. On closer inspection…i guess it’s really not.

i LOVE my life. i do. We all have our grinds, i guess. Laundry, cooking, cleaning….and yet there is so much else.

So i sit and think about this year. First, i survived Dec 1st. Always a terrible day for my heart, the day i discovered my mom was dying, and even now, 14 years later, i can recall my Father’s frantic call to me, his exact words; the panicked drive to the hospital almost 2 hours away…and then, the short 4 months that it took her to succumb to the cancer that took her, far too young.

i’m not that much away from the age she was when she died. Although i don’t dwell on it much, it does pop up in my head from time to time, usually at this time of year. If these are my last 5 years, what do i want to have accomplished?

and there my cursor sits, blinking while i ponder that.

The first thought that occurs, is the reclaimed joy of having kids come into my life, even as an older parent. None of my friends, my age, have kids as young as i. My “baby” just turned 4.  But they fill me. They tire me. They make me laugh. They make me stop. Focus. See. From the flight of an unexpected hawk in the yard, to a morning rainbow on the living room wall…they help me see. When i think of all the celebrations that my family embraces…there is a holiday *every* month, if you look not all that hard, you can find one.  There is much to celebrate all the time.

Here in this strange place called blogland, there is more family to be found. i think of the fans that cheer me on, the silent lurkers, the fellow bloggers, the sub-sisters, and a few totally close and dear friends who have changed me.

and there is Sir. The experiences of this last year have been myriad. I took the leap! Rather than just reading, just writing about D/s, about sex, and about the joy and struggles of submission, i found a Sir. I took that leap, and He was there to catch me, to teach me, to spank my ass and fuck me brainless. Having a Sir in my life…has added a dimension to this life that i never before knew i could feel.

i’ve struggled in my marriage, and came to realize that there wasn’t an easy cure for it, that it would take my own hard work, and my wifes,  to fix it. And it’s working.

i’ve gobbled down a big chunk of life this year. As it draws to a close, i have spent time thinking. Of who i am now, and how different this woman is from the naive writer of 12 months ago.

And of the many blessings i’ve been a party to. The Triad, for good, for bad, for over, and for rekindled friendships. aisha and mick and sfp, dk, and David; brooke  and Will and Monocle,  and Roze, sephani,  and, viemoira, and Dee, sin and F, K and ss, serene, Riff… Panser..Beast…..all the people who have encouraged and teased, and hugged, and those i didn’t name…you’re in my heart and mind. (the inherent “danger” in naming names…is someone invariably gets left off…feel free to leave me a huffy note in response, and i will apply many mea culpas to you…!!)

i am rich, my dears, rich beyond all imaginings…because i have you, and you and you and you you you you you….part of the circle, part of the wheel of my life.

whether i am gone in 5 years, or live to be 100…as long as i have lived every moment, savoring it and allowing it to fill me, to inspire me, to change me, and allow me to grow…then i will have accomplished something immensely important.

blessed be, my friends, and farewell to 2010…welcome 2011..

Happy New Year

The Shack

She was used to His idiosyncrasies. This time was no different really. Well, some different. The attire He’s selected this time was, in a word? Weird.

But, He had his little games and she loved them.


This time they weren’t meeting at His house. Nor at the dungeon He sometimes borrowed from his friend. When she had left her house, she’d had no idea where the fuck the GPS directions were taking her, but He had proofed them, proclaimed them “perfect”.

She was right on time. She’d brought a copy of his itinerary to be certain she was not going to fuck up. She passed the mile marker he had noted at the designated time, and ahead, sure enough, was the sign she needed to follow. Her little car made the right-turn, and she took note of the beauty around her.

Despite the absolute bone-chilling cold of a Maine mid-winter, there was beauty to be found in the sere outdoors. She noted the sparkling gleam of snow, so different from the grey slush she’d left behind in the city. She didn’t suppose that there was much traffic this far north to dirty it all that fast. The rolling “waves” of the snow-dunes, carved by the restless wind were toned with blue and gray shadows. The arching branches of an old tree, black against the perfectly azure sky reached up like a supplicant. The sun was almost blinding, dancing off the white below. She was glad He’d thought to remind her of her sunglasses, or she’d be snow-blind for certain.

The road narrowed further as she turned onto Pittston Road, and she knew she was getting closer. She’d been on the road nearly 4 hours, leaving behind the gentle urbanity of downtown Portland, and heading north into the great beyond.

Three more turns and there it was, spread before her. She’d known  since  passing Somerset Junction, that she was headed to Moosehead Lake, but she’d not expected this.

There was nothing there.  No hotel. No motel.  Just a large parking lot where a decidedly motley assortment of vehicles sat.  She pulled in.  In the parking lot, a bevy of trucks sat, ranging from a new 4X4 to a battered Ford so encrusted with roadsalt haze that the  base color was undetectable. Some sported metal towing trailers, the kind she knew sportsmen used to haul snowmobiles around.

Out on the ice were a few more trucks, and here, there, everywhere, a series of …houses? on the lake itself. Off in the far distance snow kicked up as a pair of snowmobiles raced across the pristine surface of the Lake.

Who the fuck built a house on the ice?

She called his cell phone and let him know she was there, and right on time.

“Look out onto the ice.” His voice was rich with amusement. She looked. Stepping out from a …a hut…a house…a what-the-fuck-ever-it-was…was a tall, portly man in a red coat, snow pants, thick boots…and he was waving at her.

She stepped out of her little car, grabbing the little bag of things from the back and looked out across the ice.

“C’mon out here, slut.”

“Sir? Is that really You? out on the ice, Sir???”

His only reply was a hearty laugh at her nerves, and a vigorous, full-armed wave, unmistakable as “come.”

She took a deep breath, and stepped down to the shore, and out onto the ice.  She felt the breath of the ice wafting around her. Out here there was no protection from the wind, and it swirled and danced with her as she made her way, cautiously, across the expanse of ice to where He waited for her.

He was a big, hearty man, his cheeks reddened from the wind, his eyes sparkling as he watched her attempt to walk daintily across the frozen surface of the lake.

She came up to him, and leaned into him.

“Scary” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her nose, then opened the door to his shack, and gestured her inside.

She was surprised. The shack was canvas, dark, she supposed, to gather any heat from the sun…but it was almost comfortable inside. A thin mat of some fibrous material kept feet off the ice, and a small heater sat on a makeshift table made from a pair of lobster traps and a 4 X6 board. A cot rested against one wall, a chair sat next to it.


She glanced over her shoulder, even as her hands lifted to her coat. He looked back at her, steadily. For a moment, the only sound in the shelter was the wind buffeting the canvas sides of the shelter, alternately belling them out, then snapping them taut again. Her breathing deepened, as her zipper rasped down, down the length of her jacket.

He took her coat, her slacks, her boots, her wool socks, her thermal pants, her black lace panties, her sweatshirt, her thermal top, and the black lace bra that matched the panties. All were carefully placed on the chair beside the cot. She felt the cold ice against her feet through the fiber mats. She shivered hard, violently, as her nipples peaked to intensely hard buds at the tips of her goose-fleshed breasts.

It was warm in the fishing shack, but not comfortably so for a naked slut.

She shivered again, then knelt, hands on her thighs, shoulders back, tits thrust forward. The cold wrapped her in a hard embrace and she continued small shivers as she waited.

“Good girl.”

That helped, some.

He crossed the short space between them and lifted her to her feet by one pinched nipple. She gasped with the painful squeeze on her cold flesh, gasped again when he twisted it hard. He pushed her back until her calves felt the cool frame of the cot.

“Turn, kneel, and bend over the bed, slut.”

She knew this position well, too. Arms up, and crossed, head nestled in the space she created. Back arched, ass thrust up and made accessible.

The first lash of the flogger on her chilled skin was staggeringly painful. Blows were repeated on her bottom, her back, her thighs until she sank into the heat He created.  Sank through the pain, into the pain, accepting, hurting, sailing off into subspace.

His hand, cold, stroked her burning flesh almost more painfully than the blows he’d landed there. His fingers slid down the split of her cheeks, and found, to neither of their surprise, her wetness.

He laughed.

“You are such a little slut, aren’t you?”

Her voice was muffled by the scratchy wool blanket on the cot. “Yessir, i am a slut. Thank You, Sir.”

Her ass, back, legs were stinging now, as his fingers continued to probe.

“You seem like you want something slut?” His tone was innocence incarnate. Yet she sensed the devil at play in Him today.

“Yes Sir,” she finally answered, “i would like You to fuck me, please.”

The fingers probing her cunt were withdrawn. She huffed out a breath of disappointment. He did that to her all the fucking time. Asked her what she wanted, then denied her.

It made her want to growl, sometimes. Now, with the heat growing between her thighs, despite the coolness seeping up through her knees, she wanted to howl her frustration. She wondered what His neighbors would think about that, having a wolf-howl sounding from inside His hut…

She felt a probing between her legs, but it was not his warm hard hot cock. Whatever it was, it was fucking cold.

Oh, wasn’t that the gospel truth, she mused as whatever it was pushed higher up inside her cunt, chilling her.  “It” was fucking her, and it was cold. She grunted when  it was buried fully inside her, then withdrawn. Again, he pressed it up inside her, and pulled out.

“You will have 5 minutes to cum, slut, if you truly think you need to. ” And he began to fuck her in earnest. And suddenly, despite the painful chill inside her, she was turned on. The rasp of the rough blanket on her hard nipples, the burn of her backside, and at last, His fingers dancing lightly on her clit made her shiver this time, one of passion, not cold.

No, not cold at all.

When she came it was with seconds to spare, and he shushed her twice. Shaking, quivering, quaking, she thought she might have almost passed out.

She’d needed to cum so badly.

“Lick it.”

He pressed the dick against her cheek. The fucking thing was still cold. She raised her head and looked. It was a piece of ice shaped like a cock! That fucking bastard had fucked her with an ice cock!!?

She opened her mouth. He pulled it way, tossing it in the corner.

“Are you fucking kidding me slut? No way I want your mouth cold when I stick my cock in there!”

He laughed.

He really was a bastard some days.

The Door

Her back was pressed tight against the door, his hands holding her tits, squeezing hard, while his mouth swallowed her moans. His cock was sandwiched between their bodies; she felt the heat of Him, throbbing against her belly. She wanted it buried deep inside her, or perhaps she would kneel between his strong thick thighs, his hands in her hair as he fed that rampant tool to her hungry lips.

Then her reverie was broken.  He was twisting her tits, pushing her with His hips.

“turn.    around.”

His voice was thick with his own needs. How he kept them harnessed bemused her.  If she had a cock she’d have been fucking her by now, she thought.

Her tits were pressing into the wood of the door, so hard that she was certain that the pattern of the grain  would remain on her flesh when he finally peeled her away. Her head was turned, her left cheek pressed to the door. His body pushed her, pushed her, as if attempting to press her through it, into the very fibers of the thick oak door.

His cock was harder than before, the length of his shaft pressing against her ass, as the rest of his body mashed her into the door,  until the thick hot length of him settled into the crack of her ass, pressing deeper, ever deeper, into that darkest cleft.

She was breathing in harsh and ragged gasps, stealing breath from the heavy press of his body against her, pinning her to the door. She couldn’t move, could do nothing but accept, and breath.

And moan. She could moan for the cock missing from her cunt.

She felt Him move, his hips shifting, as he wedged his cock deeper into the space between her rounded buttocks;  she felt the pressure as he pulled down, slowly, then pressed back up.

Fuck! He was fucking her asscrack. She whimpered. His fist slipped underneath her belly, pressing against her mons.

“Grind, whore, grind on my fist.”

Ferociously, like an animal in heat, she writhed, moving as much as she could, pressed here against the cool wood. Her body on fire, she ground down on his clenched fist, trying to get pressure on her clit.

“You pant like a fucking bitch-dog in heat.” His words ground against her ear, even as she ground against his hand. “Fuck it!” His voice whipped at her, and whimpering and whining just like a she-dog, she complied. Arching her back gave her more lift, more of a chance to press tender flesh against his tight-drawn fingers.

Her tits protested the drag as He pressed her harder into the door, even as she groaned with satisfaction as she managed one brush of clit against his hand.

She tried, tried to splay her legs just a bit but he’d pinned her so tightly to the wood. His cock relentlessly slipping up and down her crack, spurring her on to greater gyrations to attempt to gain her own release.

She felt his cock pulse, his guttural tones in her ear as he came..”Gawd yesssssss, you fucking bitch, yessssssss” and the quick, hot spurt as his shaft pumped wad after wad of seed up onto her lower back.

His hand pulled away from her cunt.

He pushed off of her, yet she clung to the door, panting, moaning, needing to cum but not quite there. She felt the cooling trails of his cum running into that channel he’d now abandoned, slipping down to tease at her throbbing cunt, and sliding down her inner thighs.

His breathing slowed behind her, calming. She stayed against the door, thrumming with need.

He pulled her head back by her hair, peeling her off the wooden door.


She turned slowly and headed for the bathroom. Perhaps later she would make it through the door.

so we were going to meet, and then…


hi all.

i have several new stories brewing in my febrile imagination, but precious little time to write them while my wife is on mini-holiday.

so what works then? a slice of nilla-pie, i guess.

Holidays were hectic and joy-filled here. Having a 6-year-old in your house is just perfect. *smiles* There was a birthday to celebrate the week before Christmas, and remember fondly the adventure of bringing our daughter home just before Christmas 4 years ago, the adventure of being denied access to the flight home, the 26 hour nonstop drive from Chicago to Massachusetts, arriving home Christmas eve afternoon, and running out to do Yule shopping (well the wife did that part) and staying up until 3 in the morning wrapping everything, while caring for a 4 day old infant, and a bewildered 2-year-old whose place in the family dynamic had just undergone a rapid transition.

So many good memories there. Including said 2-y.o. knocking down the Christmas tree the moment we got home.

It’s a memory our newly 4-year-old daughter decided to repeat this year, including breaking the tree stand (we use artificial trees as nilla has a wicked pine allergy…_) …thankfully we had a spare tree in the attic but for a bit there it was pretty dicey.

Having to console someone who was heartbroken that she’d “hurt Christmas” because “i bwoke da Cwistmas twee”…when for a few minutes there—those critical minutes when i was quite grumpily unstringing the fucking lights (after having just put them up the day before)…i really wanted to wring her neck…i get the Mom of the Year award for consoling and not wrapping even one cord of lights around her wee neck!!  (you know i’m kidding, right?)

it’s a funny tale now. And a family memory maker. Three of the four of them have knocked over a Christmas tree in their lifetime. Hopefully the last one won’t since he’s 14…

Plans were made for me to have a ‘day off’, which included seeing Sir, today (Sunday)…but the best laid plans and all…. “so we were going to meet and then… decided to snow.

Not just *any* snow. oh, HELL no.

The northeast is having a BLIZZARD!!!!!!!

if you’re going to fuck nilla over, i guess its gotta happen in spectacular fashion. No simple snowstorm, folks, but a bona fide blizzard. Complete with howling winds (even now curling around outside my window as i write to you all..) and two fucking feet of snow.

We’ve not had any snow until 2 days ago, when we got a scant 1/2 inch, just enough to coat the ground and give us a “white” Christmas. (it’s still a white Christmas even if you can see the blades of grass sticking up in it. Srsly. It’s like a rule.)

i LOVE big snowstorms. Howling winds. Whipping snow…trees lashing about, the cold air whipping your breath into tiny whirlpools when you speak.   The energy charges me up, excites me, gets me all het up.

But yanno…it had to be *today*??????

We were going to Maine on Monday to do the Christmas thing with granny. i was going to see Sir on Sunday.

We shuffled plans to visit family, from Monday (today) to yesterday (Sunday) (are you confused yet? i’m writing this Sunday night so i’m trying to keep my days straight here!!) which bumped my plans to be with Sir.

So, instead of being inspected, instead of being made to cum a hundred thousand times, instead of being fucked like the bitch in heat i am, instead of being spanked and poked and prodded, and assfucked…..the family and i made a “flying visit” to Maine, did Christmas with grandparents, and flew back home trying to outrace the storm.

We did it, too. Got home an hour before the storm hit (and got to watch the rest of the Patriots game on the tv…Yay Patriots!!).

So, plans with Sir have been pushed back for another week. Hopefully there will be no blizzards next Sunday, no catastrophes, no natural disasters…earthquakes, heat waves, volcanic eruptions…coz i want the only eruptions to be from my mouth as he turns me over his knee, or over the bed, and….well, yanno….fucks  me waaay better than Mother Nature did this week!


The Power of Touch

This was a story i wrote for sin’s birthday last week. She has graciously granted me permission to post it here…~n~

She stood quietly while he tied the blindfold around her head. He led her carefully out the door, down the walk and into the car. Blindfolds were exciting, remember, she told herself, feeling a bit nervous about this whole deal.

It was so out of the norm for Him.

He bundled her into the car, securing her seatbelt, kissing her chin. The door slammed shut and she counted to nine before his opened, and she heard the leather seat creak as he sat,  then the thud as He  shut His door. In moments, the engine roared to life, and she felt the car begin to move.

He’d promised her an amazingly different birthday celebration. She wondered if He’d decided to take her to a munch. She’d been asking and asking but He had been reticent.  He’d not loaded anything into the trunk, nor, she thought had He moved the toybag out of the closet. She wasn’t dressed for a munch. Or a play party. At least, she didn’t think she was.

She wondered if he was taking her to a strip club. He’d threatened that from time to time, telling her he would send her out on the stage. Gawd, that would be the most fucking terrifying birthday gift. One she couldn’t give back.

It was hard to tell how long they drove. He didn’t speak, he kept the radio off, and there was nothing but the steady drone of tires on asphalt.

Finally the car slowed, and rolled to a stop. She sat and waited while He got out of the car. And sat. And sat. Where the hell was he? At long last her door opened, and her belt was released.

It wasn’t Master. The smell was different, and she thought she’d felt the brush of hair against her cheek.  A hand took her arm and gently, but silently, pulled her from it.

Oh. Gawd.

She was lead up a long walk, the cool air of evening rushing up under her coat, up under her dress, making her shiver.

Or perhaps it was the uncertain circumstances.

A door was opened, and her heels, and those of her companion, who she now was fairly certain was a woman, clicked across a wooden floor. The sound echoed a bit, sounding like it was either cathedral-ceilinged or a cavernous room. Their steps were the only sounds, echoing back to her hyper-sensitive ears.

They stopped for a moment, but she had no way of knowing where they were or what was coming next. She felt gentle hands on her shoulders, pressing her back and down. She felt a chair under her, behind her, and she sat.

The hands slipped from her shoulders, and  grasped her ankle, slid down to cradle her foot, and she felt  the strap to her shoe loosened, then it was slipped off, and the other removed as well.

She didn’t protest. He had brought her here, for whatever purpose. Her purpose was to serve. He could be standing, even now, watching her. Her attention returned to the woman at her feet.

For the slim hands didn’t stop at removing her shoes. She felt the skirt of her dress being raised, and though she barely felt the brush of fingers against her she shivered.  The fingers, tips only, brushed more firmly against her upper leg, and then her thigh highs were being rolled down her legs, one at a time.  Barefoot, she was once more pulled to her feet. She couldn’t hear her guides steps either so she knew they were both barefoot. The floor was surprisingly warm underfoot.

A door opened. There was a rush of warmth against her face, and she was pushed through. Her companion did not come through with her.

New hands took her forward by her wrists. At some predetermined spot, she was halted. She was shivering with nerves now, wondering where her Master was in all of this. Was he watching her? Assessing her compliance? Preparing to fuck her head as surely as he fucked her body?

She felt the belt of her coat being loosened, then pulled away from her shoulders and arms. Those busy hands unbuttoned her simple coat-dress, and this too was pulled away from her shoulders, down her arms, leaving her in her nearly transparent bra and panties.

They were His favorites.

There were still hands in front of her, tracing the edge of the cup along her skin. And hands behind her, pulling apart the clasp of her bra. And hands at her hips, lowering the elastic lace of her panties.

She was nude.

Hands pulled her gently to the right, and she felt the edge of some kind of mattress.  She was pulled, very firmly, to the center of the bed. Man hands, that time.

There were hands at each wrist, each ankle, and she heard the soft slither of rope just before she was wrapped, pulled taut, open, and laid vulnerable.

Gawd, what had He planned?

And then it began…hands, different sizes, textures, running up and down her body. Fingers probing and tickling between her toes, in her ears, under her neck, around her tits, on her nipples, and finally, sliding up and around her cunt.

She shivered when the first digit traced that thin line from the top of her mons, disappearing into the wider cleft that hid her holes. She knew that questing hand would find her wet.

It probed along her cleft, pinching, even as her nipples were being pinched, and pulling apart the swelling lower lips of her pussy.  Sliding up and down that slick and sodden pathway, it was only a moment later that she felt the first intrusive stab of a finger in her pussy, up inside her fuckhole.

And not much longer for a finger up her ass.

And not much longer after that for fingers to pry open her mouth and set her to sucking them.

There were hands covering her, touching her, squeezing her, pinching her, fucking all her holes.

The first orgasm came with almost no warning, up and over the edge of that cliff as if she’d driven over it blind.

Which, she supposed, she had.

Quaking, quivering, the hands gave her no rest, no surcease in their attention. If anything, they became more demanding, more intrusive. More fingers in her holes, more driving thrusts into cunt and asshole, harder pinches on her tits, making her cry out and allowing the fingers in her mouth to gag her with their ferocious attempts to mouth-fuck her.

And she came again.

And still they drove her on, up, through. A third orgasm followed, and a fourth.

They continued to touch even as she passed out, fainted from overuse. When she came too, she was cresting again, her body shaking and quivering and cumming and drained.

She could hardly bear more.

And yet, she could not protest around the myriad of fingers in her mouth, her restrained body. She didn’t want to cum again, yet again they forced her up, up, up to the brink and over.

Time had no meaning. There was only the torment of stroking, touching, fucking of the voracious hands.

She felt the sodden sheet under her, wet from her cum. She felt the quivery rubber of her legs, her arms, her body drained, empty.

And then they stopped.

She didn’t hear them leave, didn’t feel anything. She lay, spread upon the wet bed, an empty, drained vessel, shaped like a woman.

She may have drifted to sleep, but roused at the prodding between her thighs.

She knew the instant the cock filled her, who it was.


Making her His, once again.

“Happy Birthday, slut,” He drawled, and He filled her.

He always filled her.

The Gift

aisha asked some good questions about BDSM on her blogpost here, which inspired the following little story. a big round of thanks to her, she asks the big questions, she thinks aloud and gets me thinking too…and her fantasies are rich and lush and decadent treasures…~n~

He takes me by my hair, pulling me down to my knees. He is not gentle.

i don’t want gentle.

His fist stays wrapped in my tresses, pulling me to His cock.

i want His cock. i want His touch. i want the gift of Him.

He pulls me close, closer, until, suddenly, i am inhaling the unique scent of Him. It’s a smell that is uniquely male. The traces of sweat, urine, cologne. A hint of his sex, and i know that what transpired moments ago affected Him too, as i inhale the smell of pre-cum in His boxers.

Moments ago, His hand was against my flesh, and i wear that heat even now across my swollen buttocks. Waves of lust and pain at war with each other, each vying for my attention. Who will win, the needy cunt, or the aching ass?

He wins. He has my attention, all of it, every iota, as He brings my head closer, closer to the crux of his legs.

Saliva pools in my mouth as my need to taste, to suckle Him, succor Him, serve Him rises along with my desire. OH, how i want Him to let me taste, OH how i want Him to fuck me with the swollen shaft i see beneath his trousers.

He holds my face away from his crotch as His free hand rises from my chin to unfasten His belt. Raising my eyes up to watch, i swallow hungrily as his fingers slow, taunting me.

i hunger for Him, and He holds back that which i desire most. He looks into my eyes, and can read my need clearly. He releases his zipper pull, puts a finger under my chin, and gazes down at me. i meet that gaze, letting all the longing that i feel rise in me, shining out of my baby blues.

He smiles that smile at me. The smile of a sadist is not always a foretelling of my pleasure, fulfilled, but His.

His hand returns to his pants, withdraws his cock and he strokes it, there in front of me.

Denial is so frustrating.

i watch as his cock grows harder, gleaming wetly with the flow of his juices, watch the head flare, redden with his own lust. There is beauty here, and the interest i feel when i get to watch Him masturbate.

Although i would give all for a taste of him, to swallow his cock, to swirl my tongue into that weeping hole.

The first spurt comes as He gasps, drawing a deep breath, then spurt after spurt lands upon my upturned face. It stings in my eyes, at first a hot surge of cream, but it cools quickly, and runs down my cheek, to drip slowly onto my breast.

His hand smooths his sex seed onto my flesh.

“Today,” He says, his head cocked to the side, surveying his handiwork, “you will wear my gift to you as you journey out into the world.”

i think of the banking, the grocery store, the people who will see, and perhaps wonder, at the daubs of white upon my chin, my cheek.

I will know that i am wrapped in Him, carrying my Master’s gift with me openly, fearlessly marked as His. Even as the embarrassment wells within me that someone, surely someone will know, i can be certain that it will be balanced in equal measure with the lust that serving Him in this way brings to me.

It is indeed, a precious gift.


The Symbol (1)



For months and months she had pestered. Well, not pestered. He hated pestering.


Yes, that was better. Reminded Him that her birthday was coming, soon. Five months is soon when you have to remind someone all the fucking time, right?


So, she’d reminded him. Left pictures of it around his desk. Sent him the link to check it out for himself.

Okay, she was pestering…or so HE’d said when he took her over his knee in exasperation.


The day was here, the first day of her third decade. She’d gotten her birthday spankings when she awoke,  and he’d put a rosebud in a little vase next to her bowl of cereal at the kitchen table. Awww.

Then he fucked with her head a bit and put the bowl on the floor between his feet and wouldn’t let her use her spoon.

Sometimes she resented that it made her wet when he did that. She should be able to eat breakfast beside him on her birthday, right?Yet she knew that protesting would do no good. He’d say she was still at the table with him, was even closer to him now. He’d say, shut the fuck up slut, or you can skip breakfast. He’d point out that complainers earned punishment.

So, rather than complain, she’d crawled under the table, and slurped down her soggy cornflakes. She’d even remaining silent when he put his right foot in the middle of her back like she was a fucking footrest.

Okay, so she had sputtered a bit when his left foot pushed her face into her bowl.  He’d laughed to see the soggy concoction dripping from her chin and nose.  She’d glared up at him as he bent down to peer under the table see his handwork. He brushed aside her glare as if it were a gnat, reminding her to hurry the fuck up if she wanted her present.

The way he treated her sometimes.

Gawd it so fucking turned her on.

His kinks dovetailed with hers. What they had together worked for them. He wasn’t an insanely cruel Master, unless you counted the blowjob she’d been forced to perform when she had that cold last month. Hell, if he didn’t mind snot on his cock, who was she to complain?

Still, they’d made it work, the subbie slave and her Master. This 24/7 shit wasn’t for weenies, that was for fucking sure, she mused. Always on call, always fucking there when he needed to fuck (not that she minded that at all, horny bitch that she was), or spank. Not that she minded that either.

She smiled as he buckled her into the car. She loved being his. However he chose to use her.

She didn’t even mind the occasional loan of her mouth to one of his friends. His kink, her kink…they blended. She got off on it, he got off on it, it worked.

But she wanted to be fully, totally his.

He said the marriage certificate in the safe deposit box pretty much took care of that. The pretty collar she wore pretty much took care of that.

“There could be a tornado that would rip the bank apart and destroy the certificate,” she countered.

“i could get into a terrible accident and they could need to cut off the collar with  the Jaws of Life fer crissakes” she muttered.

He just looked at her, sighing.

“You’re a whack job, you know that? How often is there a tornado here? How often do you drive?”

She pouted. She wanted a tattoo. The sting of needles piercing her flesh, marking her unequivocally as His.  Finding the website with the “BDSM Symbol” was like finding the keys to the Hostess Bakery! She devoured the information about the symbolism of the design as if it were a twinkie. She loved the yin-yang balance of the piece. That the raised rim and arms were metallic-hued to symbolize the chains of servitude made her sigh in happiness.  She oohed about the inner blackness symbolic of the “dark side” of BDSM sexuality. She aaahhed about the three holes  that symbolized the incompleteness of this lifestyle, the life of a slaveless Master, or a Masterless sub. Or the lonely switch with no prospects at either side of the controls.  The symbol fulfilled every fantasy of being marked by Him.

He’d agreed to have her marked for her birthday, and now here they were, pulling up to his friend Malique’s house. The studio was in the back, she knew. Like she also knew Mal’s services were in high demand. Like she also knew that Master had gotten a special appointment on Mal’s day off. She did a little groove wiggle in her seat, but managed to hold back the ‘WOOT’ of joy as He came around the car and released her.

He pulled her out of the car, leading her around the back walkway towards the studio.

“You be a good girl and do exactly what Mal tells you, understand?” She nodded, almost dancing her way up the walkway. His hand gripped her upper arm tightly.

“Will you calm the fuck down? geeze…what are you? 12?” He shook his head ruefully.

He opened the door of the shop, and there was Mal, all six feet nine inches of him. She looked up and up and up, offering a huge smile.

“Hi slut,” he beamed, gap-toothed down at her.  His ebony-hued, bald head shone under the light. “You’re getting the full-back dragon today, right?”

“nonononono…Mal…!” she giggled up at him, realizing he was teasing her shamelessly.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands, Mal,” said Master, pressing her head to his chest, and warning her quietly, to represent him appropriately to his friend, and to follow her directions.

“Right-on, man,” drawled Mal, taking her arm and pulling her through the curtains. She didn’t see the silent signal, the head nod between the two men.


She’d been to a tat parlor before, but this one was pristine. Small, intimate, really. She fell silent after her Master left, suddenly a bit nervous. It was her first tattoo, despite watching Master, and when she was younger, her sister, getting tat’s.

“This is gonna take a while.” He pointed her to the changing room. “Take off your drawers and leave ’em in there.”

She wondered, as she slid out of her jeans and panties, if getting a tat on the very top her ass had been a wise location.

“So, gonna get this where the good Lord split ya, eh?” She blushed a bit as he watched her walk, naked from the waist down, from the little closet. Silly. She was a slut, after all.

She added a little wiggle to her walk, just to boost her confidence a bit. Malique’s eyes gleamed as he watched the sassy bitch. He wondered if Sam had told her the full extent of his gift to her on her birthday.


The BDSM Emblem is copyright 1995 by
who maintains the copyright in order to protect the symbol. It is
freely available for all educational and non-commercial use
within the BDSM community without charge.

Arty-Farty HNT 12/23/10


*insert big shiver here*

Yup, it scares the poop outta me. i’ve told y’all how hard i shook when i took my first cell phone out of it’s wrappings last December? Yeah, almost dropped it. That wouldn’t have been too good for my first, cheap-o, $10 phone, now would it?

And on the blog? Switching formats? Adding pictures? Changing the layout? Not to mention…figuring out what a “header” or a “widget” was? Almost enough to make me break out into a cold sweat.

shush, you….i hear you laughing.

Then late this fall, i got a laptop as an early Christmas gift from the wifey. This, now did not frighten me. Surprised? (yeah, me too!)

And just a week ago i discovered something kewl about my cam.

It takes wacky pictures.

Case in point:

It’s wacky and yet…kinda kewl. So i played with the same photo again and got this:

isn’t that just tre’ wild? Ask me why i’m so enchanted with this sillyness.


i have no freaking idea. Seriously. i just like it. (that’s how i explain about why i like being spanked, too!)

Okay here’s another from the same series….

Since i’m feeling all shivery cold today (really, it’s not that cold, it’s just knowing it’s really Winter at last, i think) i love this version, too!

Happy First HNT of Winter! The wacky, wild, arty-farty …nilla!

Assistant (1)

So much of what she’ d heard about the D/s lifestyle was “darkness”. Yet the room in which she met Him for the first time was the antithesis of that. Brilliant sun shone through wide skylights, illuminating the room below. Light danced across the wide oak planking, giving the entire open space a golden glow.

She’d asked question after question. About submission. About bondage, about the “lifestyle”.

He’d answered her fairly. She was reporting for one of the larger newrags, after all, and she was offering Him a chance to counteract the popular presses perceptions of the evil side of sex.

To say she was intrigued was an understatement. Not turned on. She was here to learn, to garner some information, but not to be sexually stimulated. She’d been a reporter for ages; she wasn’t some green newbie still wet behind the ears.

He wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, she thought, looking at him surreptitiously, not “tall dark handsome” nor “dark, looming, frightening” either. He looked like a nice, middle-aged man.

Hair gently receding, a bit overweight, glasses, and a nice friendly smile.

But His eyes.


Intrusive, almost.

She felt like he was reading her like a book. Truth to tell, He made her a little bit nervous. She wasn’t a spring chicken herself. Experience, expertise in interviewing. Here she was, late 40’s, divorced, a wee bit rounded herself.

This was not intriguing.

So what if she’d not had sex in a month.

Okay, six months.

Really, no more than a year, but who was keeping track?

She realized she’d fallen silent again, as had He. He was looking at her with that knowing expression. She’d seen it on Him a few times already.

“Want to try?” His words were soft-spoken, yet a definite challenge. As if He knew she would say ‘no’.

She really wanted to say ‘no’. Didn’t she?

“Sure.” She rose, acting with an enthusiasm she didn’t really feel. She didn’t. Not even in her pussy. She was sure she was moist only because he was an interesting guy and they’d been talking frankly about sex, which is something she’d not had in a while.

A totally normal physiological response.


She wondered if she was really fooling herself.

She doubted it.

He handed her a soft white tee-shirt. “Why don’t you go into the bathroom and change into this. Then I won’t worry about the rope damaging your pretty blouse.”

She hurried off. She left the plum-colored silk shirt on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. The silk slacks were fine, although she wondered if the damp spot between her thighs would leak through. This white shirt he’d given her was cropped, much shorter than the tunic-style top she’d been wearing.

She tugged the shorter-than-she-liked shirt down, ruthlessly. It pulled taut around her tits, hugging them like a second skin. They showed every large inch of them, rather than the disguising of the loose silk that had hidden them before. She looked in the mirror, sighed.

She came out of the bathroom, walking confidently towards where He waited in the center of the room, a coil of rope at his feet, with a folded length of it in his hands. He smiled at her as she crossed to Him.

“For this you are my…assistant,” He paused a moment, drawing out the word. “You are the foundation for my art. My art is the rope, and you, it’s setting.”

He began to position her, hands behind her back grasping each forearm with the opposite hand, not quite to her elbows. She felt the first kiss of the rope as He pulled it around the center where her arms crossed, just above each wrist. With a quick movement she felt the first tie secure her arms together.

Well the die was cast, it seemed, and for good or worse, she would experience this. She didn’t expect much would come of it, but while he moved her, wrapped her, he spoke softly, his voice caressing her as much as his hands as he spun his web of rope and words around her.

She ceased to worry about time, about much of anything. For this moment there was only His voice, His rope, and her body. The ropes crisscrossed her breasts, her hips, and she couldn’t help the small gasp as the doubled rope passed between her legs, over her pants, but pressing tightly against her cleft.

When had she ever been this turned on before? Was there a wet spot on her pants? And who the fuck cared?

The rope followed the curve of her body, rising through the cleft of her ass and up to her lower back. He threaded it through the loop that encircled her waist, then pulled.




The pressure built against her pussy, she could *feel* the rope rubbing against her clit, burying itself into her asscrack, and tightening all along her body as he pulled. When it was taut, so snug she wanted to moan with the sensory overload, she felt him tug and twist and tie it off. The knot rested at the very top of the crack in her ass.

She stood there, panting. A curious sound overhead made her look up. He’d grabbed a hanging hook that she’d not noticed before, and before she could say yes or no, he’d hooked that into the rope around her arms.

He crossed the room and winched that rope tight. She felt the strain in shoulders, wrists. On her toes it was better, the pull ceased, but it pulled harder against her clit.

She could feel her nipples hardening in her bra. She was so turned on. How, how had that happened?

“This is predicament bondage, my dear. Just a small taste. On your toes, as you’ve already discovered, less stress on your arms, but more stress against your lower body. Stand flat-footed, and that lower stress is gone but the arms will begin to ache.”

She nodded.

He leaned into her, spoke into her ear, softly.

“I think you will find this to be quite…stimulating, my dear.”

Then he walked across the floor,  headed out of the room.  Just before He opened  the door,  he turned back to her for a moment.

“By the way, little one.  You have lovely tits.”

She stared at the door he’d closed behind him.

What the fuck happened now?