In my Place

It’s 9:43 a.m. Tuesday, and my small butt plug is in place.

If you’re reading that going…WTF? yeah so? That part was for the Man.

This post is all about being put in my place, being punished, and being reminded that i am a submissive slut.

His submissive slut.

See, there’s been a great deal of vanilla blended into our relationship over these last 12 weeks. And i’ve enjoyed it, liking the times that we sit at Starbucks and talk and flirt like a “regular” couple, all the while knowing that at some point, He will demand to have my foot in His hands, that He will pull off my shoe and torment my foot, while i attempt to keep up “normal” appearances, while stiffling giggles and twitching in my chair.

Like butterfly says in her post, it is fun to have a secret in public.

But i have had a few bumps in my road to submission and both occurred on the same day, though many hours apart.

It starts, of course, with honesty.

Isn’t that the part of TTWD that you like best? Sure it’s a challenge sometimes to fess up and admit guilt…i’ve been there, done that, fucked it up real good, back in the early days, when there was a Triad.

But i learned from that, and used that learning to deepen my relationship with Master.

It really is the only thing that makes this lifestyle work. If you’re not honest with your Sir, or Madam, or Master, or Owner, bad things happen. I’m sure that runs the gamut between physical harm to the break up of the relationship.

So let’s start there.  nilla is always honest with her Master.

Several nights ago He gave me permission for an orgasm. i was dealing with a vanilla issue that gave me several almost sleepless nights (i’m a fretter…) and i missed that O because i just was too tired. It was past midnight when i went to bed, closer to 130, and that made it a new day, which meant that O was no longer viable.

The next night comes, and i once more get the instructions for an O. BTW i am not punished for not taking the O…though He may view it that perhaps  i don’t need an orgasm for a while……<gasp>….so i almost always take it when i get it.

So this time i’m more careful about the O. Again, i am up late, but i crawl into my bed at 1145 pm. Good, time for that O, i think.

Do i want it?

not so much.

But to miss two O’s back to back will be a red flag to Master and i really don’t think i want a week of ZNN to make the point to “use it or lose it”.

So i do the task- but due to technical difficulties, only can do half of what He has ordered. I can’t find the fucking cord for the second vibe, but i do everything else as He has proscribed.

And eventually i cum.

It was a long time coming, too. I had to really work to get hot, i was very stressed.

And i looked at my phone for the time.

12:13 a.m.

uh-fuck-oh.

That made it MONDAY morning, not Sunday night.

So of course i told Him, sending Him a text right away. He got it when He awoke Monday morning, normal time.

And He pondered it.

Then He sent me an email. For although we’d talked about the midnight restricition, and i had honored it, it wasn’t a total hard and fast “rule”.

It is now.

In writing.

And He decided to rebuke me, not “full-on” punish me. Because i should have known, and because i myself had set precedent for following this less-than-formal rule.

That was the first transgression.

So… we were talking Monday night, as we are wont to do during His late commute home. There we were, talking about my understanding of the newly imposed Rule,  and (oh, don’t throw tomatoes at me!)

(you won’t believe i said this)

(really, it is so fucking  newbie,  i sooooo know better!)

We were talking and and He was telling me that He understood that the O thing hadn’t been a formal rule…but now it was, as per His email of that morning.

And i agreed. And then i said it.

“Master, you must understand that….”

That was as far as i got.

There was a moment of …electrified ….silence.

He walked right over my talking.

“I don’t have to understand anything little girl.”

i went still and silent.

poised like a rabbit confronted by a hungry Lion.

i backpedaled, fast.

“Oh no, Master, not at all…i didn’t mean…i…soorry Master, so sorrrrry….”

and in my head i’m thinking “nilla you fucking idiot what the fuck were you thinking and shut the fuck UP!”

And i try to say, “But Master, if You’ll just let me explain…”

He cuts me off. Explains to me, in no uncertain terms, that He doesn’t need to let me explain. He doesn’t need to hear excuses. Because it is HIS way, always.

And no matter what *i* think, He’s in charge.

Yes, He said that. Because obviously someone needed to be reminded of it.

And there i was, sitting in my window nook;  i’m trembling a bit, not upset, but nervous. Nervous that i’d fucked up so monumentally. And …oddly…happy. Happy for the rebuke.

Happy that He takes my submission and His Dominance as seriously as that. Sometimes things are pretty casual between us; i have a very long leash.

This was the first time in a very long time that He has yanked my leash, yanked it hard enough to pull me off  of *my* course, and back in the direction He chose for me to go in.

Definitely corrected.

Definitely put in my place.

As we closed up the conversation He said to me, “nilla, you should know that we will revisit this conversation later.”

“Later, Master? When later?” Master is not a planner, He is live and in the moment. So this statement is perplexing.

“I’m thinking….” and His voice trails off for a moment, as if He’s really thinking aloud. Of course, He’s just sucking me in.

“….when I’m holding my new weapon in my hands. Then we’ll talk about it more fully.”

Thankfully, i remembered in the nick of time to not moan out “that’s not fair…”

Smart slut, finally.

It’s 10:43 on Tuesday, and i’m done writing this post, Master.

Butt plug still in place.

Thank You, Master, for the gift of Your Dominance.

You have all of me, just where i need, and want to be.

Under Your control.

Love,

nilla

River View (1)

He’d been coming up to camp for many years now. The view never failed to impress.

The silvered curve of the river cutting across the front of the property was a sight that always relaxed his mind. Work and family strife were all put away.

Up here it was fishing, hunting, ice fishing. Different seasons, different game. But some things remained the same.

No tv.

No internet.

No phone signal.

No noise but the trilling ripples of the river curling around the rocks. A raucous jay called from the stand of oak trees.  Off in the distance, a flock of ravens flapped towards the setting sun.

The sky was painted in hues of vermillion and gold, silvered slices of clouds fortelling a beautiful day tomorrow.

He fired up the small camp stove, put on a pot of water. Simple meals up here, some rice, some beans, a few hotdogs would serve for supper.

He took the battered pan out onto the front porch. Porch was a glorified city word for the tiny, rough-floored jut off the one-room cabin, but it boasted a portable camp chair, a rough-hewn table made from a deadfall a few winters back, and a kerosene lantern.

The chair had shaped itself to his butt, and the pan was comfortably warm in his lap as he spooned beans and rice.  He sure did love this time of day.

Things were quiet as this side of earth stilled for the night. Already the dark velvet night was pulling itself up from the horizon. He reached for the beer on the table, took a long pull.

With a long burp, he smiled.

Good place to be a man, he thought. He could burp or fart or both without his wife nagging at him to excuse himself.

As if he shouldn’t let it go.

Bodies came with butt holes and chimneys, and sometimes you had to let off a bit of steam, he’d told her.

“Yeah? Go steam up the bathroom then.”

Sometimes she was a right bitch about manners. But up here, it was just the stars, the trees and the river, and none of them cared a bit if he let ‘er rip.

He leaned back, putting the pan on the table. The spoon slipped inside with a metallic rasp, and the table, and more importantly, his beer, wobbled ominously.

He’d been threatening to fix that damned table for three years now. He caught the beer, took another glug, then set it on the floor next to his chair.

“Ahh, what the hell,” he said to himself. Pushing himself up out of the chair, he scratched his belly beneath his belt, belched happily, and went to the back of his truck for his toolbox.

It was close to full-on dark now, and the unexpected cut of lights against the darkness made him squint. He couldn’t see the make, color, or model of the car, but it was a tiny thing.  It stopped just behind his truck, and he heard the emergency brake screek as it was engaged.

Fuckin’ foreign cars, he thought, ton o’ money and they couldn’t get the emergency brake to pull as smoothly as his old battered 4X4.

She stepped out of the car and into the beams from her headlights.

“Forgot to turn your lights off,” he spoke to her.

“oh..uh…well, I’m going right back in,” she stammered. “I am lost.”

“No, you’re not lost. You’re right here!” and he laughed at his own joke.

Truth to tell, he couldn’t see much but she wasn’t all that tall, which was fine by him. All that height was wasted on a guy who was just a dash over 5’8″ anyway.

She stepped through the beams and closer to him.

“No, really, I’m lost. I was supposed to go to the Laramie camp. Do you know them?”

“Nope. There’s not a lot of camps up this end of the river,” he added. “Seein’ as I myself own 25 acres, you’ll not find any for quite some way.” He pointed downriver, upriver.

It was dark, no lights sparkling on the horizon.

“Gods,” she moaned. “I don’t know what to do. The road here…”

“Ah, it’s a shit-fer-road,” he said with a smile.

“I never knew New Hampshire was this….empty,” she began.

He tried to hold it back. His wife’s work on ‘mannering’ him began to evaporate, and he guffawed, holding onto the fold-down on his truck.

“Ohmygod” he laughed, coughing. “Little lady, you sure are lost…you’re in Maine…!” and he doubled over, laughing again.

*************************************************************

She tried not to fume, or fuss. But really, now, how rude! Okay, so she fucked up big time at some one of those little dinky roads.

It was confusing as hell!

Route 2. 26. 13. Rumford. Gorham. Berlin. 302. Newry. Bethel.

How the hell she had managed to cross over state lines without noticing was …well, likely not that surprising, given her track record.

And maybe he’d sent her on a wild goose chase anyway.

They’d only met online, never in person.

She’d resisted the long drive, knowing her predilection for getting lost. Likely he was sitting in some ski cottage sipping Chablis and thinking she stood him up.

Or he wasn’t there to begin with.

And her fucking phone didn’t work up here.

“I can’t get a phone signal” she said, trying to stop the man from laughing at her.

“Oh, little girl, if you think you’re gonna get anything up here other than moose calls, you’re dang out of luck.”

Great.

There went her chance at getting outside help.

“Fine, I’ll sleep in my car.”

“oh yeah, that looks comfortable.” Taking pity on her, he offered her a beer.

“Got some beans and rice leftover if you’re hungry.”

“I’m sorry, but I am starving!” She apologized as she wolfed down the rest of the food in the tin pan.  She sucked down the beer, and scraped the bottom of the pan like a true camper.

“So, what brings you to Maine?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Bad directions,” she quipped.

They laughed together.

****************************************

The Maid (v.1) part 2

She didn’t remember taking the steps to stand before him. Her dustrag hung out of her jeans pocket, and she pulled it out and ran her damp palms over it.

He took it away from her, took each end in one of his hands, then hooked it around the back of her neck and pulled her closer.

She could count the hairs on his chest, she was that close. Her tits were almost touching him, and his belly was almost touching hers.

He was sending off waves of heat that bounced into her. Somehow that heat headed south, directly to her pussy. She tried to ignore it. She really did.

But when he yanked her dustcloth up, making her rise to her toes, when his mouth landed on hers again?

She couldn’t ignore the jungle drums beating between her thighs any longer. The moan that slid from her mouth into his was wild, untamed.

No one had ever treated her this way.

She moaned again as his teeth nibbled her bottom lip. Gods, who knew that being bitten this way could be such a turn on?

And she took a step back.

The ends of the rag pulled out of his fingertips, and fell to her chest. She grabbed it and stuffed it back in her pocket.

“No one has ever treated me that way before. I have dusting to do.”

“Perhaps this is exactly what you needed then, sugar.”

Oh, he was such a smug bastard! Why did her pussy like that?

“Go away. Go back to bed. Take a shower. Just….let me work.”

“You’d best make sure that shower is all shiny for me. I’m the guest, remember? And you dropped something.”

He pointed over her shoulder towards the bathroom. She half-turned. It was true. There lay a pair of boxers and one white sock. Well, it was likely white once upon its life. She marched over, snatching up the dropped items, and stalked down the hall to the washer.

He smiled as the lid jerked up, slapped back down. In seconds she was back, throwing him a murderous look as she sailed into the bathroom.

He laughed.

She heard the laugh. Cocky son-of-a-bitch, she fumed, whipping back the shower curtain. Who the fuck did he think he was?  How could a nice guy like Mike have a guy like this for a friend?

And why had he forgotten to tell her about this? She could have rescheduled for another day.

And despite her pique, she realized she had been the one to wake him, abruptly, from sleep. He was a bit grizzled, in that way of a man who hasn’t shaved in a day or so; maybe he got in on a late flight, and she’d disturbed his first rest in hours.

She felt guilty.

What was a piss and a few kisses in repayment for the shocking way she had awakened him, anyway.

She leaned into the stall, straightening the bottles there. She took her rag and began wiping.

He watched from the doorway, admiring her expressive face. He watched while anger and outrage were replaced by a softer, gentler expression.

Oh goodie.

Time to up the ante. Inwardly he rubbed his hands together. Quietly he slid his ratty sweats down around his ankles. Stepping free of them, he walked on silent feet into the bathroom.

She’d never even questioned why he would want the tiles wiped before his shower. Funny little thing.

He leaned into the stall and quickly flipped the water on. The sudden jet of cold water hit her on the side of her head, her torso, soaking her right arm as it reached across the stall.

Braced on that one arm, she pushed off the wall, sputtering.

“You…You… BASTARD!” she yelped. The water quickly changed from cold chill to lovely warmth.

“oops, don’t want you getting chilled,” he said, and he swooped her up and plopped her in the tub as he stepped in.

Confronted by a wall of delightfully warm water and a naked, nameless man, she stood in shock, torn between pleasure and the hottest flash of fury she’d ever felt before.

And then he kissed her.

Life Stuff aka Good Thing?Bad Thing?

It’s Friday as i write this.

Black Friday.

Which pretty much sums  up my mood for the last several days.

Thanksgiving…ah. Well, glad it’s over this year.

So …the afternoon before Thanksgiving i find out that Master and i can’t meet today.  And i’m bummed, and how the hell can i show it?

And then my sister showed up, early. Not to help, nope. She just sat. And talked. And talked. And talked.  i try to stuff the annoyance down, and then…well…you know how that goes. Not really” stuffed away”, and when people finally got under my skin, i became a snarky bitch.

But i knew a great deal of it came from the frustration of not getting to be with Master. And honestly? My family drives me nuts at times. Everyone talks nonstop. No quiet. No recharge time. It makes me insane. I like a bit of quiet now and again. And if i leave the room, they fucking follow me.

If it was important stuff, fine. But why the fuck do i care about a funny facebook story about people i don’t know? Or about tv stars. My sis is obsessed with tv, and quotes lines from shows from our youth; an avid reader of People Magazine, and all the rest of those holly wood rags.

Sorry if that sounds elitist, and i’ve nothing against them per se. But for gosh sakes, be able to carry on a conversation about more than who is dating whom in Hollywood.

Again…why the fuck to do i care?

So i was cranky. And yoga helped, though i was accused of being snarky when i got home…because they (wife, sis) started yakking the second i came in the house.

Like..Oh. My. Fucking. GAWD…do you people ever shut the fuck up??

So i texted Master through the afternoon, easing out of snarky bitch mode, and into sub mode from time to time. And we had a nice long chat on my drive back home from yoga.

And i got a “freestyle” orgasm from Master because He’s not happy about the change in date either.

We eased into Thanksgiving, and the day itself was okay. Once i give up voicing opinions, and just do what wife wants, things flow (has a familiar ring to it, doesn’t it?) a bit smoother. Got the food prepped and the rest of the family shows up and the meal is happy and funny and good.

We eat early as my dad likes to hit the road before full dark falls. So by early evening, everyone is gone, things calm down, and the kids and wife and i sit and watch a Christmas special (ice age) together. They were thrilled to stay up late, and i was happy to just sit and not have anyone needing me for 30 minutes!

And now my family is off to visit the MIL today, and wife suggested i stay home. It was a nice gesture (at last), since i’ve been dealing with a sinus/ear infection all week. And that way she and my MIL can talk about me without my being there. *smiles* Such is life.

The house is blessedly quiet.

I’ve gotten vanilla chores done which is a great feeling, and it’s almost time for lunch.

OH, i forgot the part about the text last night. The Man had gone to bed, and i was up and angsty and SENT him a text …sigh. I guess He needs the bad with the good, and He replied this morning that we needed to talk about my latest round of insecurity.

And really, after a good nights sleep, i was feeling much better.

And he texted me this morning and said He was free to talk, and to call Him.

What a delightful treat. And we chatted for a few minutes, and He got the feel of me, digging into the heart of my upset (which wasn’t about Him at all), and pushing it out of me.

And then He  had me laughing.

“Good, you’re better now, aren’t you, slut?”

And of course, i was. Hadn’t realized how much i needed Him, just that touch in my ear of Him.

He asked about the rest of my day, joking about “cindernilla” chore, as He references my life sometimes. And i did have one ‘cn’ chore to get done, but it was almost done when we talked.

And i told Him that i was going to spend a big chunk of the afternoon writing in the peace of my house.

“Oh, good.” He says.

“Get your small buttplug and wear it while you write.”

*silence*

And then i giggle. In what other place and time could i be so totally “healed” and loved and cared for than this one? Where wearing an ass-plug reconnects me to my submission, allows me to fall into that still, quiet place inside, and serve?

And really, isn’t this the best place to be?

*smiles*

**addendum**

i never did get to write. The cindernilla chore took waaay longer than anticipated, and then that led to another project, and another. You know how that goes sometimes.

But it was quiet and nice.

Talking to the Man later that night, He asked if i’d written at all during the day.

“no, Master, i didn’t.”

“So, no ass plug.” (This is a statement, spoken in that true deadpan way He has at times.  i can almost hear Him thinking.)

“no Master, no plug”

“Ah.”

Long pause.

“Are you writing tonight?”

“yes Master. Do i still need the plug?” i ask hopefully.

“Did you think you were going to avoid it by writing later in the evening?”

“no, not at all Master. You said to wear the plug if i wrote during the day.”

“Is it still today, nilla?”

“um. yes Master, it’s still today.”

“Then what do you think? Of course you need the ass plug. If you write now. Or, since I’m thinking of it, if you write at midnight, or wake up with a good story at 2 a.m., or up to 7 a.m. Does that cover it for you, little girl?”

“Yes Master.”

And indeed it did. Wrote my novel, and the bulk of this post with that plug firmly entrenched.

And just for the record…i was NOT trying to avoid the plug.

Actually, i kinda like it.

But don’t tell Him i said that!

The Maid (v.1)

She unlocked the door, juggling her vacuum, her bucket, her purse, and prayed something wouldn’t slither out of her grasp before she could get inside.

It took a bit of finangling to do it, but she did, and  she couldn’t resist the little cha-cha-cha as she made her way inside. She set the vac just inside the living room, her keys on the table in the foyer beside her purse, and took the bucket, full of her rags and cleaning fluids into the kitchen.

Slipping her ear buds in, and turning up her “Cleaning List One”, she filled her bucket with suds, and prepared to mop up the kitchen counter, then the floor.

For a guy who lived alone, Michael sure lived like a saint, she mused. And while she was thrilled by the job, it always amazed her that he paid her to come by each week, when clearly he didn’t really need that much help.

Once the floor was mopped, she jogged upstairs to start his laundry, scooping up her dustrag and polish. While the first load began to agitate, she would wipe down his bedroom furniture, and his study.

Other than a light coat of dust, things up here were just as below stairs; neat and tidy.

She  went into his bedroom, noting the covers on his bed were skewed, pooling on the floor. The shades were drawn. Yet his car was gone, the house clearly locked up tight. His coffee mug had been in the strainer where he always put it after his one cup, rinsed and awaiting his evening tea.

She crossed to the window and pulled up the shade. Light flooded the room.

“HOLY FUCK!”

The sound of a very pissed man came from behind her,through her earbuds,  from within the twisted tangle of covers. She turned to stare in shock at the man, who was not Michael, sitting there and glaring at her.

She pulled the earphones from her ears, glaring at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” They asked each other in unison.

“I’m Mattie,”

“I’m Evan.”

Again, simultaneous. She pointed at him to go first.

“I’m the houseguest. Guessing Mike didn’t tell you I was going to be here this week.”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry to have woken you. I… come here every Tuesday, and every other Saturday. I was just getting his laundry…” she trailed off as he stretched. His chest hair arrowed down to his hips, which were lost below the covers.

He had big hands.

He wasn’t an Adonis, to be sure. There was a bit of a pot belly there, and a bit of silver at his temples, but there was certainly a goodly dose of “sexah man” in there.

At least, she felt the hit of it. That stretch did wonderful things along his body, and made her mouth water.

“Bad girl,” she admonished herself.

She turned towards the bathroom. She dug down to the bottom of the hamper, struggling to reach the one black sock down there. She hated his hamper! She looked up, arm buried to the shoulder as her fingers crabbed along the bottom seeking it.

He came to stand in the doorway, watching her. His eyes were honey-golden. And hungry.

He was wearing boxers, the front tented out. With a sly smile, he came into the bathroom, and began taking a piss. She stared at his back, openmouthed, still bent over the hamper, sock forgotten.

“I….I…” she stammered.

“Never saw a guy piss before?” he asked, a laugh in his voice.

“Of course i have,” she snapped. “But you’re a stranger.”

“a stranger who really needed to pee.” He shook off the last drops of urine, then put his shaft away. He moved to the sink after flushing, and washed his hands thoroughly.

She watched him in openmouthed fascination.

“never see a guy wash his hands before?” he asked, openly laughing at her face.

She blinked. Geeze. Snap out of it, woman, she chided herself.

“Well, i’ve never seen one put the seat down when they were done,” she zinged back at him.

He threw back his head with a guffaw. Taking another step, he lifted her out of the way with his hand at her nape. Reaching easily into the hamper, he took out the sock, laying it on top of the pile in her arms.

Cupping her nape again, he softly licked her bottom lip, then took it in a tender kiss. A kiss that became hotter, deeper. In moments, his tongue was exploring hers. She was moaning, her arms still wrapped around a pile of dirty laundry.

He stepped away.

“Take care of that, will you?”

Turning he went back into the bedroom. He watched in the mirror as she left the bathroom, bemused. In a moment, he heard the lid of the washer clank up. Mike had done him a huge favor, letting him bunk here during his conference.

And who knew he had a cleaning lady that was quietly attractive? Not beautiful by modelesque standards, but just about what he liked in a woman.

She was shorter than most of his other girls had been, but she was softly round. Her tits weren’t huge, but proportionate to her body. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail that fell to the middle of her back. Her ears were small, her mouth a bit generous.

Oh, that mouth.

He watched for her to come back from the laundry room. She stopped and looked into the bedroom. He crooked a finger at her.

She shook her head.

He nodded, pointing at his feet.

He watched the shiver run through her.

That was a very good sign.

Contractual Obligations, part three, fini

He looked at the subject, strung up in the middle of the room. The high vaulted ceilings had once heard a more heavenly chorus, but this chorus was one that he loved.

He’d bought the old chapel several years ago. Long in the past it had become disassociated from the campus he sometimes worked for.

His work would be groundbreaking, he knew. He could remain objective, not having a connection with any of the sluts who passed through the doors during his research.

He knew that someday he would be recognized for his theories about The Pleasure/Pain Continuum.

It was the thrill of research that stirred his blood as he raised the crop and slashed down upon her exposed bottom. Her groan of pain thrilled the statistician in him, not the man. The bright red welt, and later the blue and purple bruises were only marks of data to be woven into the theory he was creating.

A flurry of blows rained down upon those sweetly rounded cheeks, making her twitch and struggle.

“It’s far to early into this session for such histrionics,” he told her peevishly. He slagged the crop between her thighs and smacked her pussy smartly.

She jolted and cried out a that shocking pain. He put the earbuds into his ears, and began listening to his favorite composer, Bach. The dark and sonorous tones drowned out most but the strongest of her yelps.

He played the crop up one leg and down the other, admiring the welts that appeared on her flesh. He ran his hand down her leg, enjoying the hot raised bumps on once-smooth flesh.

Then he cupped her pussy, sliding his fingers around the swollen lips there.

There was heat here, no doubt. And wet. His finger slid into her hole. It was pulsing and unbelievably hot. He’d learned to enjoy fingering his subjects holes, often making them cum 5 or 6 times without surcease.

There was great power in the orgasm, he learned.

He could make them do just about anything he wanted, just by withholding one, keeping them on the edge. Or by giving them so many they couldn’t cope with just one more.

Either way, with just a bit of time, precision and a bit of fucking…he fucking owned them. He thought about that from time to time, the power in owning an army of women.

Why, he could change the world. With an army of women just dying for release, or more appropriately, lusting for it?

He slipped his fingers from her before she could cum.

oh yes, the power was all in his hands.

***********************************************************

i have no idea where this story came from. it just appeared in my head one day after a nap. it doesn’t have a true beginning or end, and that is why i scrambled the order up a bit. Will this be the forever end? dunno. This sort of dragon is very unpredictable, you know! ~n~

Sad…

Sunday

was to have been O/our day…

so anticipated, so needed, so yearned for…

for Him, for me.

And something has come up

~life can be like that~

and

we’re postponing.

It’s only a week.

7

long

days.

It has been 11 weeks since we were

together

behind closed doors.

So today,

forgive me

for being a little

sad.

Contractual Obligations, part Two

She was tied to the mattress, but for the first time in hours, he wasn’t touching her, or tormenting her into yet another orgasm. She lay thinking for a moment or two, wondering how the fuck she had gotten into this position in the first place.

She’d seen the ad on the message board on campus.

 VOLUNTEERS NEEDED

MUST BE FEMALE, AND WILLING TO HAVE ORGASMS FOR SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH STUDY.

PAY DATA RELEASED AFTER INITIAL INTERVIEW.

INQUIRE TO: M. PROF. 555-5252

Well, who was she to turn down something that had to do with sex? She was constantly horny, and the boys on campus just didn’t seem to measure up.

And it wasn’t about size, but about finesse. How many times had a guy shot off and then pissed off? He was there, in her pants, and gone.

Who gave a fuck these days if a girl got an orgasm?

A fucking scientist.

She’d called that number after her last class for the day. The interview was set up on Wednesday.

He was a fussy man, wearing a long lab coat. He looked like a scientist, all kinda nerdy. But nerdy was cute.

He told her very little about the nature of his experiment, only about her role. She would be required to get undressed. She would be required to let him touch her intimately. She would be brought to orgasm multiple times.

Additionally, she would need to be here from Friday night until Monday morning, when she would be released, and given her paycheck.

“How much?” she’d asked. She’d expected the standard $100 a day.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

She had stared at him, open-mouthed. That was serious cash, and she could ditch her landlord, get a nicer place, and not have to work for a week or two while she moved.

“I’ll do it!” she said immediately.

“You must be approved first.” He didn’t smile, flirt or fool around. There was no setting her at ease. He was a true geek, apparently.

“Strip.”

“Here? Now?” she’d asked. The office was private, and she’d seen no one else here, but still. He had begun to testily write on her papers, and she was afraid she’d pissed him off.

She leapt to her feet and peeled off her sweater, bra, and jeans. She wasn’t wearing panties today.

“Better.”

He’d walked over to her, pinched her nipples to hardness, and she tried not to gasp. It kind of hurt, how hard he’d done that.

“Hands on the desk, bend over, and spread your legs.”

She tried to move quickly but she was blushing now. This was pretty fucking fast to get to know someone, she thought to herself. She’d never even done this on  a first date.

“Remember that if I approve you, you will be paid handsomely for a brief period of embarrassment,” he spoke as he prodded her ass, felt along her pussy folds.

The sharp slap against her ass jolted her.

“HEY!” she said, rubbing her butt.

“Hands on the desk.”

His fingers had come back to her pussy and felt around. There was a hmmm of satisfaction from the man.

“I am going to make you cum now. You can try to resist if it makes you feel better, but trust me, you will cum.”

“Please keep your hands on the desk.”

She didn’t cum all that often. This would be interesting!

She jolted when he rammed three fingers into her pussy. There was no preparation, no introduction, just *BAM* and he was inside. His fingers began to twitch and move inside of her, and she was pressing back against them, and moaning.

He slapped her ass with his free hand, hard and painful swats, not gentle play slaps.

Somehow the two sensations blended, and it wasn’t more than a minute, or two, before she felt the twitching tingle deep inside. Her mouth opened wide and she began to pant. Her hips moved with an age-old rhythm, fucking against those invasive fingers. When she came, she felt the fluid spray out of her.

It was shocking!

It was intense. She felt her legs trembling. He removed his fingers, and wiped them on a tissue he took from his pocket.

“You may re-dress.” He informed her blandly.

Talk about  a cold fish, she thought, still shaking with the after-affects.

When she finally got her clothing together, she sat in the chair he indicated.

He passed her a packet of papers, explaining each one, and having her sign or initial the bottom of each.

She signed quickly and efficiently. He looked at her, studying her, she felt. He’d made her so fucking wet, the geeky nerd! She wanted to cum again. Even if she’d not been offered ten grand she would have signed, just to be fucked like that again!

He tapped the signed papers together, fussily tidying all the edges into alignment before attaching the clip.

“Very well, all signatures are in place. You are absolutely certain that you are doing this with sound mind and body, my dear? No regrets, no last-minute ‘oh my, what was i thinking’?” He placed his fingers on his lips, mimed laughing like a nervous girl.

“i said i was ready. i signed the same statement.”

“Tell me dear, are you in this for the science…or the money?”

“The money,” she answered quickly, not really caring what the strange little man thought of that. It was the not the whole truth of it, not after that intense, finger-fucking orgasm. The orgasm itself was pretty fucking neat…the money was a nice touch, too.

And really, getting paid ten grand for having orgasms?

duh.

She could give up one weekend of her life for that! She couldn’t think of single job where she would earn that kind of dough in such a short time. Her landlord was pissing and moaning for her late (again) rent; moving her meager belongings into storage would save her a bundle…and she would be here, rent free, having orgasms, for gosh sake.

She hated to say it, but this seemed too good to be true.

Contractual Obligations, part One

She lay gasping on the mattress.

A vibrator was pressed deep inside her pussy, while her ass was being fucked, very slowly, with a dildo.

Her nipples were compressed by a pair of clamps, mated by a chain, which was pulled up through a pulley, and down again, attached to a matching pair of clamps on her pussy lips.

Every fucking rise of her hips tugged the pussy clamps, every lowering, her nipples were pulled.  Laying still was impossible; the assault on her senses was too great.

She’d cum at least a dozen times.

It hadn’t sounded so bad, hours before, getting paid to cum. Not in a whore-like way, but for research.

Cumming for science, and being paid to be a sexual guinea pig sounded better in her mind, than being a whore for a weekend.

“More pleasure to drown out the pain…” she barely registered what he was saying anymore. Periodically he offered her sips of water through a straw, or a mouthful of energy sap.

A strong vibe was placed against both nipples, which were beginning to scream with the pain of being clamped.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot. Far from being relaxing, the vibe added another depth to the pain. A larger vibe was placed against her clit and she almost arched to the ceiling.

“ogod ogod ogod..” she moaned, cumming hard. Her clit was so fucking sensitive.

For a moment, all that existed was the intense thrumming of her pussy.

********************************

He checked the settings on the fucking machine, increasing the pace of the dildo entering the subjects asshole.

The orgasm and subtle relaxing of her lower body loosened her sphincter just a bit, and he wondered if she’d even notice the increased pace. He made meticulous notes in his laptop.

Later he would measure the wet spot on the collection mat…she seemed to be a very explosive cummer. He wondered if it was her, or the new configurations he was working on that made the difference.

With the push of a button he lowered the pulley fractionally, giving her nipples a bit of surcease.  His assistant was fitting the second fucking machine.

In a moment it would replace the vibe in her pussy. This dildo was much larger than the one in her asshole, and would be pumping quite a bit faster. The rhythm would be uneven, as would the internal pressure.

He also noted the hard tent in the front of this weekends lab tech with a touch of envy. An accident in his youth had stolen his manhood, and he had never had an erection in his life.

The mechanics of it fascinated him, as did the complex relationship between pleasure and pain.

He tried to contain his excitement, thinking about the beating sequence which was scheduled for tomorrow.

It was his favorite part.

 

The Assistant pt 6

There you go, now. Time to wake up, little one.”

The voice pierced the darkness around her. Wha? She sat up, or tried to. Someone was pressing her back down onto a bench or something. And wasn’t that just the most annoying? Little one? She was not a little one. She was average. She was middle-aged. She was plump. She wasn’t a little anything. Unless it was under-sexed, she amended.

Yet, somehow, every time HE said ‘little one’…she had this…feeling. A warm, tender feeling. A warm, tender, wet feeling, to be perfectly honest. And as a reporter, that was her first responsibility…honesty.

“You’ve not had an orgasm in a long time, have you, little one?”

How rude.

How unspeakably rude, she thought. To say that out in the open like that. Really. All the warm tender feelings evaporated under her immediate outrage.

She opened her eyes, prepared to give Him, whoever He was, a piece of her mind. And when she focused, fully, on his face, his eyes, the half-smiling mouth, it all came flooding back to her.

“Experiences on the cross can be intense anyway, and when we factor in that you’ve not had that kind of release in some time, as you body told me…well, it’s not at all unusual for  a submissive to faint.”

His hand slicked across her cheek, cupping her chin for a moment. He looked at her eyes, just…absorbing her, it felt like.

“Better. Come, let’s go get a snack and we can talk while you sort things out. We really need to talk about this newfound submission and pain slut, don’t you think?”

She blinked.

Never in a million, trillion years would she consider herself a “Pain Slut” though she had heard the term since starting her research on BDSM.

It was another word for a masochist.

Which she wasn’t.

Wasn’t.

No.

Nope.

Not her.

She was shaking her head even as he helped her to rise, and walked with her through the dungeon. The door even closed like a dungeon door should, with a thick and heavy thunk.

How the fuck was she going to write about this in a “G” rated way? She pondered that, and tried to ignore the wetness seeping down her thighs, and the trembling of her limbs.

*****************************************

She sipped her coffee and ate one of the cookies that he had put out for her. Slowly the tremble eased from her legs, her hands.

Her breathing leveled out, and she felt herself again.

Herself….only better.

Gods she’d needed that orgasm.

Hard to deny the intensity of the pleasure. Harder to admit that a great deal of that pleasure came with a prequel of pain, judiciously applied.

For a long while they didn’t speak. It was as if he totally understood that she needed to process what had happened to her.

She glanced at her watch, forgetting that she’d removed it in the first room.

“How much time do you feel has passed here, little one,” he asked. There was a smile in his voice.

“hmm, I have a pretty good sense of time…so about 90 minutes?”

He smiled, and a small snort of humor puffed through his nose. She looked at him, wondering what was so funny.

She wanted to ask, knew that he wanted her to ask. She waited. He waited. She wasn’t sure when it became a contest of wills, but it progressed. She should have asked. She didn’t want to now.

“How long?” she blurted at last.

“Three hours and 20 minutes. That includes these last five minutes while you tried to prove you aren’t really a submissive.”

She stared at him.

Three.

Fucking.

HOURS?

“And twenty-two minutes now,” he said with a smile.

She hadn’t realized that she had spoken aloud. She shook her head.

“Many subs say that time stops, shuts down, folds up, little one. You wouldn’t be the first, and not the last, to lose track of time. Scenes play out as they will, and when you are immersed in it…time becomes irrelevant.”

“It’s everything else that becomes terribly, wonderfully relevant,” he finished, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

‘Wasn’t that the truth,’ she thought.