Busy Little Bee

What to write about when I have no idea what to write about?

I’m coming down a bit from my UBER-high after a delightfully sadistic time with Master.

And following hot on the heels of free time with Master is the vanilla “payback” week, when I tend to get overburdened with chores, and work etc etc etc. That’s life, but it has left me little time for more creative endeavors, like writing porn.

What free time I had on Tuesday was spent reading OPB’s since I’m so behind on that.  So if I’ve not commented on YOUR blog, don’t think I’ve not dashed in, read a bit, and dashed off…just haven’t had time to say hey in most cases…but by the end of this week I should hopefully be caught up.

And I want to burble on and on and on about Master, but every time I start to?

I go off in my head again.

Seriously, it’s like a disease.

(please don’t tell me there’s a cure…don’t want it!)

His hands…gods, His hands. Strong, capable, domineering, bossy. He throws me around like a rag doll. And this time I did fight a few things, flinching and trying to break away. The arm torture was terrible. Gods. He pinched over the old bruises and it hurt like hellfire.

He even bit my belly.

It hurt so fucking much. And I loved it. Yes, I have teeth marks on my belly. I rub them through my clothing when I get stressed and…aaahhh…i remember being handcuffed and thrown on the bed, and bitten and pinched and tickled until I about pissed myself.

He played with me for a long, long time before He decided to allow me an Orgasm. And then He backed off 4 or 5 times just as I was getting to the edge.

This Man takes Orgasm control seriously. Right to the brink…and wham.


And then He touches me. And smiles that smile at me. He knows how much He is tormenting me. And when I finally  explode, everything is drenched.

There is laughter, and tears. He holds me, and He hits. The controlled power is incredible. I can see, sometimes, that He is holding back. I feel how much it hurts, and know that He is guiding me down a path. It is pain, delivered in controlled doses.

And I won’t show you all the bruises. There are many many many. I do bruise wicked easily, just bumping into the edge of a table can give me a bruise as large as my palm…so imagine a well-wielded cane? (You can go to nilla pix to see one such image, taken about 20 minutes after the first caning.) Caning, plus FSCT, plus several other things…? My tits are battered.

And I’m okay with it.

So much better than okay with it. I am high as a fucking kite about it. This was our most intense, most physical session in our years together. It was rough, and tender, brutal and sweet…each negative juxtaposed by a positive that kept us both “lit”…

When it was time to go, and we clean up, pack up, redress into vanilla skins…we tease, and kiss, He pinches or swats…try to lure each other into one more …just one more flop on the bed…but we’re both under a time crunch, and there is no other recourse.

Parting is so hard.

And when I am home in my bed, alone, I float in my head, my body throbbing. Sore from fucking, sore from His hands, and my heart heavy being apart from Him. I sleep deeply, and wake with His scent still upon me.

I wear His marks on my body as badges of love, of committment, of submission.

And to remind me, that despite all the challenges that wait for me in the days until we are together again, He is still the boss of me…He’s large and in charge.

So as I buzz around my day-to-day, I remember the sting of His hands, and the feeling of being His toy. It keeps me in my place, keeps my world ordered, makes me miss Him fiercely, and love Him deeply.

It’s really a good thing, dontcha think?

*#$ Boom !+%%^ Bash**&* Biff ~ Sunday Vignettes

Were my eyes blindfolded, or just closed in anticipation?


Hands cuffed behind me in those velcro binders, my tits thrust upward to receive each blow. The feeling of the little cane at first is a playful kiss.

I can’t see His face, but the feeling in the air around us changes…charges up and I just know things are about to take a turn for the…better? worse? both, then.

The light teasing kisses of the cane become solid whacks against my tits. He focuses for a time on slapping the clamps that are locked onto my nipples.



Then the rat-a-tat-tat on the very end of the clamp.

Left tit……………………………………Right tit………………….

moaning, groaning, fidgeting.

His arm is around me, hugging me close. Just far enough away that I keep receiving those damned tap-tap taps, and cannot pull away. Is He pinching my upper arm, holding me there?

Do not know.

Do not remember.

Just the pain of it.  The beautiful pain of being His toy, being so used.

And then pushed away, pushed back. Face to the wall, cane on my ass. My thighs. My calf. My arms. My back. Short, hard, stinging blows. I dance when He hits my calves. Hurts so fucking – fucking – fucking much.

He is amused by the little stampings of my feet as he thwacks me. Teases me about the little mincing steps, wonders if I was in a marching band as a kid. And laughs.


Cane is done for the nonce, and other toys come out to play. But the most dangerous of them all is simply Him.   He can turn *anything* into a weapon.

I got new shoes, flats. So cute. Faux snake-skin, little flat heel, and very comfortable.

Comfortable on my feet.

Master loves shoes. He picks them up and studies them.

“no. no no nononononononono…Masterrrrrrrrrrrrr”

He has this ….nasty little smile. Or maybe it’s just the Dom smirk? It was there on His face and I knew it was coming, and nothing I could say would change it…

I loved those little shoes.

but now?

I hate them. Loathe them. Despise them.

I will wear the mark of them on each upper-thigh for a long, long while. And on my ass. And I’ve not even checked to see if they left marks on my feet.

Yes, He hit me on the soles of my feet with my own damn shoes.


He not only tickled my feet, my toes, but also ran ice between them, then buried the remnants in my pussy. And then the cane came out. The bottoms of my feet were resoundingly hit with that as well.

I’d always wondered why girls in those videos from Kink.com screamed when their feet got whacked.


I was laying on my back on the bed. Still in my “street clothes” and not “dressed” for Him, though my skirt was rucked up around my waist. He’d been assaulting my ass, my legs, my toes for a long long while.

I lay there, looking up at Him. Watching this …look…cross His face. He was smiling, a little bit. His eyes on mine, He pulled his belt free from the loops of His jeans, slowly drawing it out, then folding it in half.

He tapped His palm with it, then swooshed it against my bare hip. It was a gentle blow, a caress. The feel of leather against my flesh is quite a turn on.

He was still smiling, His expression unchanged, as His arm drew back as before. Yet somehow, I knew. Maybe the set of His shoulders. I closed my eyes as the blow came.


The sound of it, the leather impacting…that comes first, I think. The pain is at first a sting that doesn’t feel too bad…for a millisecond. And then the bloom of it. It spreads out, down through the flesh, and out across the surface…not in a ripple. Way more like a tsunami of sensation.



Sharp delineations on my skin, parallel lines where the edges of the belt press indentations into my body. Ass, thigh, ass, thigh, I have no memory of how many swipes there were.

Just the memory of opening my eyes, finding His on me, and the flick of His forefinger, gesturing me to roll over, bare my other side to Him.


Between sessions, He holds me as we lie on the bed. He lets me breathe, absorb all the sensations. I was totally spaced, held in His arms tightly. His scent fills me, His body warms me, as I shiver with the afterflow of pain.

When I come back, in my head, to Him, I smile against His chest, and coo insipidly at Him that He is such a “snuggle bear”.

One wonders why I enjoy dangling the bait like that. Lions don’t just take the bait, and hook…they eat you, for fucks sake!

The backs of my upper arms were still bruised, a full week after that little pinching game from our last Starbucks meet…He’d been pinching me again and again throughout the afternoon…

it fucking hurt. 

Yet, there I was, cooing at Him. I do so love those cuddly “intersessions” that help re-center me. And snugged against Him so tight, He not only warms and soothes me, but He immobilizes me as well. Does He know, I wonder, how wonderful it is to be held that tightly? That it is the balm I need, after an intense session?

But being immobilized, it’s just not a smart move to taunt the bull, to lure the Lion. He tucks my head under His chin and begins torturing the back of my upper arm.

Already sensitive, already new bruises forming over last weeks painful markings. Already thwacked with shoes and cane and belt and hands…already so sore, so painful.

“Master is such a sweet cuddle bear…” His voice is simpering, teasing me.

I giggle.

I couldn’t help it, He was so funny. And then I’d moan and cry, and writhe.

I spent a lot of time trying to get away.




He is both implacable will AND immovable object.

So..perhaps a lesson was  learned?


*ponders* *taps bottom lip with finger*

Well, I do love teasing Him. I do love dancing at the edge of the fire. I do love stirring a reaction in Him.  And I’m a silly, giggly girl.

I’m still going to taunt the Lion. I’m still going to tease and cajole, and giggle.

And really?

I think He likes it that way.

Even better?

He likes *me* that way.

Ivy II

They stared at each other for a heartbeat, before she bolted off. Faster than a deer, she scampered through the leaf-fall, and was gone.

He shook his head, staring at the half-finished sketch on his lap, then back over his shoulder. He hadn’t. He didn’t.

There was no denying it.

It was her. 

She was stunning.

She was tall, slender, and naked.

He didn’t know if it was appropriate to get a hard-on from a fey creature, yet his cock had risen. He shifted a bit, seeking comfort from the dull throb. His mind recalled her willowy frame. Her breasts, though small, were perfectly formed. Her flat belly had met at the junction of thighs, and he recalled that she was hairless. Yet she was not a child. Her eyes were old with secrets.

Much as he wanted to bolt after her, he knew somehow that she would evade him. Had he tried that as a child of the woods? He didn’t remember, really. But within him was a fleeting sense of recognition.


Her heart raced like a squirrel being chased by a fox. She had stopped running, and lay against the bark of an old oak. Pressing her face against the rough bark, she caressed each fold, comforting herself.

He didn’t chase her.

She could see him from her vantage point. He still sat, a stunned look upon his face. His kind were bad. This she had known for so many suns.  She had seen hunters with their noisy weapons, seeking the deer that roamed here. She had seen hikers, throwing trash to the ground, all pretty smells that lured creatures to them, yet once consumed, sickened them. Yet, she had seen this one before, and he had never lifted a hand against anything. She had watched when he hit another of his kind, then contained him and pulled him from the forest. She had watched him move through the woods like one of her kind, silent and respectful.

She wondered why she had run from him. He haunted her dreams sometimes. He was tall, but not much moreso than she. He was gentle, yet she had seen his strength. Sometimes she wondered other things, when she watched the deer rutting in the spring. When she heard the skunks screeching during their mating. When the throb between her own thighs was nearly unbearable.

She was old enough to mate. Yet there were none of her kind near, and none that she was interested in.

Seeing him here, so deeply into her part of the woods had disturbed her. Had disturbed the flow of nature. She should shoo him away. She stood behind the tree and watched.


He felt her.

He couldn’t explain it more than that, but he knew it. He felt her eyes taking stock. He continued with the sketch, adding details. The flowing ripple of her hair, the wave that ran from her forehead to curl below her breast.

He paused as he debated a moment about adding details to that area. He spoke softly to the trees, to her.

“I know you are there. I’ve seen you now, or I should say, I’ve now seen you again. I’ve missed you. I dream of you.”

The words hung in the dappled light, in the green swale. The scent of pine was everywhere, that and the scent of decaying moulder that spoke eloquently of deep woods, of echoes of autumns come and gone, and new life sprouting deep roots.

“You do?”

His heart tripped a beat, but he kept his attention on his sketchbook. He drew in the backdrop of trees, the alderberry, the birch,  the hemlock. His pencil flew across the paper, adding details and dimension.

“I do. I have for a long time. Since I saw you as a boy.”

“I remember.”

Her voice was soft like the wind through the treetops. He knew she was closer now, but he dared not look up and frighten her.

“It was long ago, but I’ve never forgotten you.”

“And what do you dream of, man?”

He smiled. He hadn’t been called “man” like that before.

“Nash. My name is Nash.”

Master’s Good Girl

Waiting for this morning to pass quickly. Will do things around the house until it is time to go. Will spend time at the museum before we meet. Will be thinking of His hands on my body. Will be thinking of the bliss and pain of being with Him once more.

Will be with Him, soon, today.

Forty-nine days, seven weeks, since the last Wall. Since the last spanking. Since the last biting. Since i was taken, used, fucked by Him.

Tomorrow will be lost for me, a haze of pain and bliss too deep to comprehend unless you’ve been in it.  I’ll write for you, later, of our sexploits…but for now you’ll have to use your imagination…

and for now…i will wait, Master’s good girl, ready to serve.

Well Seasoned.



His order was kindly terse. I couldn’t say he was mean, nor could i say he was nice. But his voice was kind, if firm. I sat the way a woman always moves to sit, curling my hands under my ass, smoothing my skirt as my butt hit the seat.

no. lift it up.

I looked at him for a moment. I wasn’t wearing panties, they were in his pants pocket. It was an old Dom trick, meeting a sub for the first time in public. Go into the restroom, remove your panties, bring them to me in your hand. An old Dom trick, indeed, but an effective one. It never failed to stir a coil of lust in my lower belly, pool saliva in my mouth.  Now he wanted me to sit my naked ass on a public chair? How disgusting.

I lifted my skirt, trying to prevent my wet pussy from making contact with the seat. I wasn’t certain if I was glad the chair wasn’t upholstered, or not. Any juicy stuff from my pussy would be visible by anyone once I stood up.

I know that bothers you. We spoke of this before. While you were in the bathroom, I did have the seat wiped with a sterile cloth.  I told the waiter you were a germaphobe.

It was considerate. And embarrassing. At that moment, the waiter returned bearing a bread platter, and menu’s. I knew that Sir would order for me. We’d discussed that earlier.

He never opened the menu.

I’ll have the steak, medium please, with the potato and vegetable medley. The young woman will have the chicken breast, roasted, with carrots. No potato.  No wine for her, but I’ll have the Greico Champagne. She will have water. With lots of ice.

He leaned back in his chair, nodding as the waiter took the menu’s away. He saw me watching the bread, my hunger obvious. I’d not had an orgasm for 5 days, and had not eaten anything more than one egg for breakfast, with a thin slice of toast.

Spread your thighs. I want to see if I can smell your pussy. It’s wet, isn’t it?

I nodded, my eyes now on his face. My thighs shifted, opened. I watched his nose flare as he breathed deeply. He nodded a bit to himself, and the blush rose on my cheeks at that very subtle confirmation that I was a slut for him.

He moved closer to me, and slid his middle finger into my steamy cleft. The roughness of a man’s hand, so unlike a woman’s, was stimulating against my clit. It rose at his gentle touches, like a kitten arching for a stroke upon its head. My eyes half-closed in bliss, I worked to keep my breath even.

You will cum for me. Here, and soon.

He moved his hand from my pussy, and took a roll from the platter before us. He broke it in half, and popped half in his mouth, chewing it carefully. The second half went under the table, and he nestled it up against me.  He pushed it down until it was under my pussy hole.

His smile was one of pure Dom pleasure.

Once you cum, you may eat that roll.

His finger was back at my clit, rubbing a bit more insistently. There was some fluttering in my belly, but I wanted to fuck so much. My pussy was clenching and unclenching. I had never cum just from having my clit rubbed; frankly I thought it was something beyond me, something more accomplished sluts could do.

He’d promised to train me to his standards. This, our first meal in public, was promising to follow along with his teach-as-we-go methods.

The roll was soft and warm pressing against my pussy. I squirmed a bit against it, against his finger. There was a tingle building up. It was different from when he fucked with my pussy. It was…outside my pussy, yet curiously inside me too. I felt quivery, shivery, yearning.

And I was so damned hungry. I wasn’t sure I could just eat my own cum. Not the same as licking it off his cock. Not the same as tasting it on his mouth, his tongue. It made me feel embarrassed. It made me feel slutty. It turned me the hell on. He was playing with me in this classy restaurant, and no one knew that I had a roll pressed against my cunt, while he, in his suit and tie, was fingering my clit.

you must be silent when you cum.

Or I will eat the roll.

My tummy gurgled and he laughed. I was so loud when I came. He was trying to tame that out of me, but it wasn’t going so well, really. Silent cumming? I hadn’t thought that far ahead, really. And suddenly it was there. Hammering against my clit, a sudden surging upwelling of feelings and I knew it was going to happen. I was going to have my very first clit-gasm!

“Sir…I…..” My eyeballs about rolled in my head, and my fingers gripped the table so hard I may have left indentations.  I hissed softly, then, a soft, tiny, little moan, quickly stifled, emerged from my mouth. My eyes flew open in shock. Horror. I didn’t. I couldn’t have.

I felt the liquid oozing from me, and his hand pulling the roll from under me. It glistened with moisture, and he lifted it to his nose, smelling it. He took a large bite, his eyes looking into mine. My mouth filled with saliva, my tummy growled hungrily. I hadn’t noticed that the sommelier was standing there with Sir’s champagne before. I only had eyes for Sir consuming my roll.

An excellent vintage, Sir?





prisoner 639…step forward to the blue squares

Lacey took a step. Another. The pauses between steps were barely tolerated, she could feel the anxious need to prod her forward just before she took a step. At last each foot rested on a blue square. A translucent panel glowed softly between the blue tiles. She stood proudly, defiant despite her nakedness.

There was a faint whoosh of an airlock, and a grav-cuff descended from the ceiling.

prisoner 639, place your hands into the opening.

The portal swirled open. She didn’t want to put her hands in there. She surely didn’t. Waiting until the guardian was ready to strike her with the baffle, she placed her hands into the opening, and watched as the lock engaged. She felt the shimmer and pressure as the grav applied force to her. There was no way to remove her wrists from the unit until they released her.

A hiss emitted from the unit as it raised up and over her head, pulling her arms taut. At the same moment, the blue tiles softened and her feet sank into the now viscous fluid. Another hiss hardened it. She was stretched almost to the point of discomfort.

For a moment there was silence; then the blue panels holding her feet began to slide further apart. The pull on her shoulders and groin was intense. She winced as her legs were splayed wide. The translucent panel between her legs began to glow brighter, the protective cover pulled back, revealing what lay in wait.

She shook her head vehemently. She hadn’t known this was to be her punishment. The collar around her throat took her voice, capturing all her words and screams before they could escape and upset the jury sitting in judgement. They were unseen, hidden behind the blue glass. Only the Bot-Judge was visible.  It would interpret the law fairly, unbiased by human  emotion.

you must answer each question. veracity is mandatory. biorhythms will determine falsehoods. punishment will be swift.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. The swift jolt of current running down her arms from the cuffs reminded her to speak her verbal ‘yes’, although only the ‘Bot would register it. The Jurors would  see the print out on their screens. At least, that was what she had been told would happen.

you are 33 orbits


you have failed to register at the Center


you have not yet gestated


you are non-compliant because of religious freedom acts of choice


There was a series of clicks, whirrs, and other sounds as the machine assimilated the data. The same information was supplied to the Jury.

There was a whoosh from between her feet. She could barely bend her head forward, the pull in her arms overhead made such movement difficult at best. No! “NO” she screamed. Yet not a sound was heard in the room but those coming from the floor between her opened thighs.

judgement has been rendered. your religious affiliation is one of dubious veracity. there is reason to believe that this congregation is gathered solely to attempt to circumscribe the Law of Procreation. Therefore, since no suitable mate is listed on your manifest, you will be treated as a Detached Citizen.

She screamed as she watched the vile tube rise from the floor. Grotesquely larger than any human penis, it roughly resembled one. A slick film coated it, making it shimmer in the half-light.

She shivered at the touch of it against the warm folds of her lower body. It moved implacably upwards by whatever unseen controls guided it into her body.

She moaned as it speared through her lower lips and into her hole, pressing the fat thickness of it up into her belly.

you understand the procedure you are about to be sentenced to.

It didn’t sound like a question. In fact, she barely registered the ‘Bot speaking to her at all. Her attention was concentrated on the thing invading her vagina. It was so big. It stretched her uncomfortably. It was unyielding, unlike a real penis. There was no heat here, no veined ridges, no flaring head. She released a breath as it slid back down towards the floor. And cried out as it rose to fill her again.

The machine began to move with more rapidity, building up force and velocity in equal measure. It wasn’t long before her insides began to feel battered by the thing raping her.

She tried to pull her feet, her hands free, tried twisting her hips, but to no avail. She was stuck, impaled on the silver rod stroking into her. Had the thing had gotten bigger around as it fucked her?  Perhaps she was swelling inside from the endless thrusts.

pain stimulation will be applied. readings indicate your body is not responsive for the sowing.

A whoosh sounded and two clear cups fell from the ceiling. The guardian behind her moved forward to press first one, then the other against her tits. He made certain all of her flesh was pressed into the cone, before depressing a button on his wrist unit. Looking into her face, he smirked at as her head fell back and lips parted.  He drank in her silent gasps of pain as the cups began to suction her breasts, pulling them deeply into the base of the cone.  Tiny electric jolts were applied to her nipples as they were sucked into the little slot for them. Tears slipped down her cheeks at the shocking pain. He leaned forward and licked one from her cheek. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered one word, ‘soon’.

readings indicate that the breast binders are appropriately stimulating your gestational juices. Fertilization will commence.

The beast buried in her pussy began pumping fast and deep. The pain in her tits made her clit throb. She was moaning constantly now, though no sound carried in the room other than the wet sucking sounds from her pussy, and the hiss of the machine sucking on her breasts.

She cried out when she felt a probing at her asshole. The guardian hissed into her ear “the ‘Bot doesn’t monitor me or your asshole, you fucking reb”.

His finger poked into her body, then two, then three. She felt the pull and tug of his fingers, another in the cacophony of sensations flooding her. She screamed as she felt his cock forcing its way up her undefended butthole.

readings indicate full readiness for sowing. you will now be inseminated.

She felt the fat tip of the machine pressed painfully hard against her cervix; the sudden rush of fluids into her body. The phallus was thick enough that no fluids escaped; her belly was filled. She felt bloated, almost sick at the painful dumping of fluids into her womb. The cock in her ass sawed steadily in and out of her asshole. She was stretched to the brink and her silent screams went unheeded except for the titillated Jury members.

The metal probe was released from her body after two hours. Every guardian had dumped a load of cum into her asshole. She was nauseous; her lower body was one throbbing ache.

you will be escorted to the preparation rooms until gestation is confirmed. if there is no gestation, you will return here in 48 hours to repeat the procedure.

Her hands were released from the grav-cuffs, shoulders screaming with the shock of movement after being held so long.  Her feet were unmolded from the Secure-Blox. The Judge-‘bot issued one last order as she was led out of the court room by a guardian.

Go forth, be fruitful, and multiply.


this was inspired by a few of my favorite writers, Will Crimson, and Monocle over at Erotic Writers. They often write of forced insemination, and i wanted to try my hand at it. I’m certain my recent evolution (revolution??)  into reproductive rights  played a role as well. 

And…….If you have been reading Felicitations, there is a new chapter up there now, and another one will be added later this afternoon.  ~n~

The Craving

“I can do anything I want to you.”

There was a pause while she took in those words. She could hear the steady tic tic tic  from the clock in the kitchen as it counted the seconds.


It was almost a whisper. Behind the whisper lay a threat. And a promise. Life had simply gotten in the way of their playtime. She’d seen the need in him grow. Felt it curling and tangling under her fingers as they’d slept spooned to one another at the end of yet another busy day.

Parents, work, house, bills, soccer, swim, piano, dance. Extended family, birthday parties, church. The weeks flicked past, one after the next; rarely did they even think of this other, darker shadow life.

But the need was there.

The craving.

She longed to be hard-used.

He longed to use her.

There was fucking, and lovemaking aplenty, but the other need lay coiled in their bellies, unspoken.

Until the craven need clawed free and fell out into the still and silent room one midnight.

The sex had been particularly spectacular. Her orgasm had come before his, and even as his ripped through his cock to pour his thick and sticky semen into her belly, she clenched and grabbed at his pulsing hardness with another orgasm. Her pussy milked his cock, in that way that nature had designed.

Later, breath smooth and even, she had sighed.

“So good. I wish you would beat me.”

The beast had freed itself.

“I want to beat you. I want to hit you until you crawl across the floor begging me to stop, to fuck your ears off. I want to see your flesh wearing my marks, to poke you and watch you wince days later as we stand with those soccer moms and dads, and laugh inside because I know you want to scream with how much it hurts.”

She’d groaned, then. Turning to face him in the darkness, she bit his shoulder, while he pinched her nipple.

“Next week. Kids. My mom and dad,” she’d gasped as she came yet again, from the pain of his fingers on her breast. So good. So very good.

Now she lay, bound on their dining room table. Legs folded up and tied, and didn’t she feel like a chicken with her legs  splayed open to his view.  Her wrists tied over her head, bound together with rough hemp rope that scratched and irritated. He could turn her to her belly, or leave her here on her back.

She watched at he slid a second rope through the bindings on her legs, tying them off to the opposite legs, keeping her open.  Her ass was poised right at the edge of the table, her pussy open, gaping.

“So useable. All your slut holes ready for my cock.”  He paced out of her vantage, and she wondered what he would do next. He came back, jangling the clovers.

Ohboy she hated those fucking things!

He dropped them onto her belly, placing his palms on her inner thighs. Bending, he stabbed his tongue against her clit, making her groan. He fastened his lips around the sensitive bud, and sucked.

She arched up, moaning loudly. He sucked so hard it was just this side of painful. His hands moved from her thighs to her ass, cupping her, lifting her.

And he began to feast.

Sucking, licking, biting, he worked his mouth around her folds, into her hole, around her swelling clit. She was humping his mouth, desperate.

He kept her on the edge, always pulling away before she could fall over. She would beg, writhe, hump the air seeking him. He would blow a breath across heated, wet, flesh making her shiver, until his mouth would descend once again.

“Orgasms are always better with pain.” His face was glossy with her juices, as he rose from his half-crouch, and flicked her nipples with his fingers. Powerful flicks, sending a jolt of sensation to her aching clitoris. And then the sharp stab of pain as the rubber heads pinched down upon her tender nipples.

So long, it had been so very long since she had felt pain like this. Since she had served as His paintoy.

He stood looking at her, as an artist observes his work. He pulled his belt from his pant loops slowly, enjoying the look on her face as it came free, inch by slow inch. A striptease with a promise of pain.  He folded the leather in half, and began slapping her thigh. Short little strokes that stung, that sang with a staccato rhythm.

slap gasp

slap gasp

slap gasp


She cried out at the sharpness of the last blow, just at the juncture of her thighs. The belt hit pussylip and thigh just there.  Bending, his lips encircled her aching clit, and sucked it hard between his teeth.

She arched and cried as he pulled her over the precipice, as his fingers jabbed into her clenching pussy, finger fucking her roughly. Juice leaked around his fingers, as he continued to suck, as he continued to fuck.

She lay, gasping from the force of her orgasm.

“That was just the appetizer.” He smiled at her, and picked up his belt once more.

TMI Tuesday

Last week there was a lot of drama in nillaville. Rough times, my friends. And nilla? Well….I’m a VERY emotional woman. Slut. Wife. Mother. I cry at Kleenex commercials, right? And things pile up and I tried  to “suck it up”. Actually i *did* suck it up. And then…

Guess what?

There comes a point when there is no more room for suckage to fit.  Master happened to be the one who hit the jackpot, and reaped the emotional firestorm.  I didn’t do something He had wanted me to do, and didn’t realize it was a Rule. Now I have been educated. And I reacted by crying my eyeballs out, and … saying hyper-emotional things like “if you don’t like me then take back my collar…”

To which He responds, in an altogether normal way…”so, you’re in one of your nilla moods, eh?”

He allowed me space to roll through the emotions, and supported me, and …  helped me through it. By not reacting to my breakdown, he got  me through it. I’d not shared my week from hell with Him. My bad. He had no idea where “it” (the mood) had begun. It didn’t change the fact that I’d fucked up on a task He expected of me, but it helped Him understand my reaction.  And i understood, after we talked some, where He was coming from. And i (ahem…) told Him it wasn’t fair.

*pregnant pause here*

Did your mouth just fall open in shock upon reading that? I know, I can barely believe I said it. And not just once, either.

(insert whiney voice here)

“But Master, that’s not fair. You didn’t make it a rule. You can’t say I fucked up if it’s not a rule. It’s just not fair.”

Do you know what He did?

Can you guess?

He laughed, the fucker.


He knows *exactly* how to diffuse me. “Fair? There is no fair here, little girl. It’s My way. I promised you several things…and fair was not one of them.”

And then He laughed again, “Fair!” He scoffed. And yanno?

He’s full-on right.

He’s the boss. Capital B Boss. Boss of me.

So now I have two new rules. Always  a picture on HNT Thursday. Always. Without exception.

And never, ever, let my pique with Him spill over into not sending Him a morning text.  I can text Him that I’m still mad, or sad, or call Him a prick. (Though I’ll pay for that if I do!)…but staying in communication is mandatory.

Yes, Master. *smiling*


We had face time on Sunday morning. It’s never very long, these little meetings, perhaps an hour or so. I have my tea, He has His coffee. He hugged me and kissed me, all the while,  grabbing my soft waist with his fingers, and pinching hard. As I climb to my tiptoes with the sudden surprising (and hurty) pain, He jokes about my going from 5’1″ to 5’6″ instantly.

ha ha.

It hurt, coz, yanno? I’m out of pain practice. Oh, sure, I’ve pegged my nipples plenty in these last 6 weeks, but real pain?

Master pain?

Nah. Not much…maybe a pinch here or there, a hand grab, a finger pinch. This was “full on” Master. Later He said that He was holding back. Way back. Um. Um. Really?

If that’s the case, then pray for me next Sunday, ya’ll!!

Left under arm…and the photo is a bit over-exposed, those are really darker. Yes, I took this photo about 5 hours after our visit.  (I bruise wicked easily).  ON the right arm there are even darker bruises, and the bonus of the imprint of his fingers. They’re  from “walking nilla to her car” as He grasped  the top of my arm in His vise-grip…they are pale purple and don’t photograph well. I Love, LOVE wearing His marks on my skin.

There is something about feeling His pain…I really don’t have words for it. If you’ve been there, done this, then perhaps you understand how…head-clearing it is. Knowing He loves me despite my occasional emotional breakdowns.  That He knows what to do to nurture me back to my happy place, and how often that nurturing is pain.

Perhaps that feeds us both.

His face, in the parking lot, was gleeful. The Sadist was having a blast. He was making me yip and wriggle and even, pull away to evade his pinching grip. It fucking hurt!  I *NEVER* try to pull away when He is hurting me.

Yet Sunday I did. And He laughed, and got this gleam in His eye…it made me smile to see Him so gleeful, and it did my heart and spirit a world of good to be transformed back from sad nilla, to happy sub/slut once more.

You’ll be happy to know we played “heart war” yet again. He found every one and returned them to me in painfilled ways…gripping my fingers, pressing one into my palm so hard I’m kind of amazed it didn’t embed in my skin…and even now I am wearing one on *my* chest. He put in on my shoulder, and I found it on my way home, and giggled, then stuck it on my tit, over my heart.

That’s almost exactly what it looks like, since I stuck it on while driving, not seeing which way it went. To me, they look like boobage, yanno? I know the shape has also been used for a woman’s ass, but to me, they are tits and cleavage.

Maybe that’s why I keep pressing them on Master, symbolically pressing my tits on him? Hmmm…where’s JM the amazing analyst when you need him, eh?


So, I’m in a good head space, all things being what they are, accepting the place I am in. And ….. today plus 4 more days…..Master and nilla will  have a “whomping” good time behind closed doors.

After 7 weeks, I’d say we were ready, eh!?

Hanging by a Thread

Her eyes were closed. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had been open; the blindfold was snug against her face. In her head she was in a dark, warm place.

Currents of air brushed past her nude body.

She felt intimately connected with every pore of her skin, with every pulse pounding through her veins, with every smooth intake of breath.

The rope around her wrists was tight, but not painfully so. The wood under her hands was smooth, almost velvety to the touch.  She caressed the cross with her forefinger, grounding herself in the sensations.

A quick hiss escaped her lips as she felt the tug of her nipple, then the bite of the clamp. He tugged, drawing another hiss from her, then applied its mate. The gasp became a groan as she adjusted to the weight, the clench of the rubber grips.

He pushed her back into the arms of the cross, and she winced as her clamped nipples were pressed against the unyielding timber.  She took an unsteady breath, held it, then released it, and her discomfort, out to the room.

She allowed herself a moment to wallow with the fullness of the feelings, to inspect them, to feel them. Oh, to feel the glory of the pain, the richness of blood pumping through her heart, the essence of life filling her, pulsing through her.

She felt the press of the ropes around her ankles, holding her tight. She felt the movement of Him around her. His scent carried to her, that unique smell of her Master. It quickened her breath, made her want.

There was no warning before the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the cane began slapping down her shoulders. He moved leisurely down her body. Barely could she absorb one blow before the next one landed.  He popped her out of comfort and straight into the hell of not being in control.

She’d told Him that yoga had helped her to learn to cope with His play. He’d raised His brow at her in that superior way of His, and smiled.

It was the smile that slayed her. It bloomed across His face like a rose, taking its time moving from one corner of his mouth to the other.

And it was a challenge, too. A week and more had passed since she had pronounced that she could handle it this time, that she’d be able to breathe and be one with the universe, no matter how hard He chose to play with her.

Now here she was, hanging by a thin wrap of hemp rope on a cross, in a room full of people. He’d promised to break her, she’d promised to stay the course, and breathe.  He’d turned that raised brow and crooked smile to the crowd gathered around them,  drawing more than a few laughs at her recklessness.

She took a breath, another. The heat from her tortured flesh and  the pain swirled together, a blending of sensations that was nearly overwhelming. She flinched, snapping away and back from the cross as He hit that so-tender spot at the base of her back just before the padding of her ass.

His crop moved faster now, over the curve of her asscheek, and then the next senstive spot just under the curve, on the very top of her thigh.

She arched to her toes on the cross, yowling. His chuckle filled her ears, even over the roaring of her own throbbing pulse.  He didn’t pause until He had covered one entire side. She felt the roaring heat from the welts. He leaned against her, His sweater irritating the smarting flesh.

“Half done, little one.”

She moaned, taking a deep breath to try to steady the hammering of her heartbeat in her head. It sounded like a roar in the darkness.

Or was it Him?

“Oooohhhhhhmmmm” He purred, his lips against her temple.