The Hunt

“Get dressed. Something sexy, but not trashy. You have 40 minutes. Be ready when I pull up. I won’t get out, so watch for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” she responded promptly, although her head was already swimming through her clothing, pausing on various options, then rejecting them. She knew better than to press for more details.

The key was in the “sexy but not trashy” comment. He wanted to show her off, but not let the world know she was a slut.

Though she was, of epic proportions.

She didn’t always love what he made her do, while she was doing it, but afterwards, she could live off the buzz for days.

Hanging up the phone she flew upstairs. She had no time for a shower; a quick swipe with a washcloth would have to suffice. She went to her make up table and refreshed her face, brushed her hair, then decided to put it up in a loose bun. He loved that look of her hair, as if it was about to fall and cascade down her back.

She smoothed his favorite lip color across her full bottom lip, traced the curves carefully. In the cinnamon tone, her lips shimmered invitingly. And just barely this side of slut-red, enough to hint, and tantalize, especially if one knew her secret identity as a kept whore.

Her lips smiled to herself as she let the word roll through her mind.


Such a dirty word. It denoted sexual degradation, and perhaps a desperation. She understood her own driving need to be used, sexually, to pleasure them both.

The dress was simple on the hanger, but once she slipped it on, the short flirty hem hinted at secret places awaiting exploration. The bodice cupped her tits like a lover’s hands, while the fall-away back left the long line of her spine bare. His hand would touch her there, mid-back, to guide her through the crowds, she knew. Perhaps his fingers would slip further around to tease the side of her breast. Or deeper, to secretly fondle her nipple as they waited in some secluded corner of a bar.

She painted a variety of scenarios in her head as she fastened her heels, then took one last glance in the mirror. Disdaining a sweater or shawl, she took her purse from the hook and went downstairs to await his arrival.


She slid into the car with grace, and she read approval on his face. His eyes traced the line of her leg as she slipped inside, then the curve of her tits as the seatbelt crossed them.

“Good girl.”

It wasn’t many words, but they spoke volumes. She’d often read how one “good girl” could replace an entire paragraph of vanilla compliments.

She wondered which restaurant they would go to this evening. Or perhaps some classy bar. Together they would look like the perfect “power couple”, and only they would know the fullness of that power dynamic.

She settled back in her seat, silent as he preferred. The radio was on low, throbbing with Adagio for Strings, which always brought a lump to her throat.

“Put this on.” He handed her a black silk blindfold, pulled from his breast pocket.

“Yes Sir,” she murmured quietly, respectfully.

Slipping it over her eyes, she felt a stirring of excitement. He wanted to surprise her. How delightful!

The car stopped after a brief time. His window went down, there was a murmur of conversation. The window wrrrrred as it went up, the puff of cooler air dancing across her bare arms, and making her regret not bringing a cover-up. There was a crunch of gravel under the tires.

“Remove your blindfold.”

She blinked. It was dark, and the sound of insects chirring came through the windows. They were not in the city.

“We walk. Get out.”

Well damn, she was wearing 5 inch heels! Reluctantly she opened her door, removing her seat belt. He waited impatiently for her to unfold herself and join him.

He took her arm and led the way down a path. There was the smell of fog, of dampness. She shivered. His hand was warm on her arm, but her back was cold. Her nipples rose to form hard peaks under her dress.

She saw him glance at her, smile, then look back at the path they followed. There were lights every so often illuminating the way. The path curved to the right, then veered sharply left. There was a clearing, and a huddle of people, the hum of conversations.

As they drew closer, she saw a few other women, but most here were men.

“Ah, welcome! So glad you could make it! And right on time, too.”

He was a middle-aged man, balding, and round-bellied. His words were genial, but his eyes made her nervous. He checked her out thoroughly, gaze lingering on her tits.

He moved to the center of the group.

“The rules are simple. The gate is being closed now. There are 20 men here, and 4 sluts. They get a 2 minute head start, and then we hunt. When we find you, we fuck you. You are sluts, property of men.  You will do as you are told. If you are told to suck cock, you suck. If you are told to bend over, bend over. If you are told nothing, then fight, if you choose. ”

He looked at the women who had been pushed away from their Master’s and stood in a small huddle together.

“You can fight if you choose,” he repeated. “It won’t do you a damn bit of good, for you will be fucked. If someone else finds you while you’re being used, they may jump in and join the party, or they may wait their turn. Twenty men, four women. Good fucking odds. Game ends at dawn.”

He looked at the men.

“No snuff. Other than that, no holds barred. Beat them, fuck them, pinch them, bite them. Tonight, they are prey.”

He clapped his hands.

“Attention everyone. When you hear the bell, your time begins. Run well, little vixens.”

The sound of the horn blasting from some unseen place shattered the night. Bright lights kicked on, casting long shadows of trees from the woods, the shrubs. The women looked at one another, and the group of men eyeing them salaciously.

They ran.


Felicitations 10

The party carried on behind the walled city of Saint-Malo, but Caraline was glad to be away from the bustle and noise. Her gown billowed around her as she walked from the imposing walls of the Chateau City to the edge of the sea.

The tide lay quiescent, the moon dancing in and out of the clouds. It painted the ocean waters deep pewter. The rich scent of salt and the less pleasant one of fish was a relief to her nose, after the cloying of scent upon scent within.  Did those people never bathe? She smiled. Her Grammere would have rolled over in her grave.  Such human stink. She may had been a virago, but she wise as well. She’d taught Caraline to think, and to be an independent spirit, and to bathe regularly! 

Those lessons had stayed. At twenty, she was still, to the horror of her friends, unmarried. Perhaps if her parents had not died when she was young, and been raised from birth to be wedded and bedded by her mid-teens, her life would have been more predictable. Her Grammere had been a different sort of woman, labeled an “eccentric” by many. Yet as a respectable widow, she had many more freedoms than other woman of her age and era. It was she who had give Caraline the freedoms that so many of her peers had never imagined. 

Boring. That’s what a “typical” life felt like to her. She, why, she was free as the gulls that hung in the sky at dawn and dusk.  She wouldn’t settle, would not be a slave to any man’s whim. 

She found her horse where she had left him tethered. Not for her the press of horseflesh found in the crowded stables of the Chateau, never knowing who would seek to “borrow” her impressive mount. Nimbly, she stepped up on the rock outcropping, and slid onto his chestnut back. He whinnied at her familiar touch, tossing his head. With a pat and rub of his silky neck, she trotted him down to the firm sand at the ocean’s edge and rode him towards home.

The small cove was the last one before she would turn inland to her own small house. Once she’d wanted to continue to live in the main Lodge, but it was far too costly to maintain; she was too frugal to maintain that kind of wasteful life. After her Grammere had passed, she’d taken the Dowager house as her own little home, and removed herself from most of the folly of playing with the ton. Still, even she felt the occasional need to mingle, thus her journey to the city for tonight’s fete.  She was jarred from her thoughts as a group of men erupted from the edge of the forest, heading straight for her.

“Do not harm her, but bring her to me.” The voice carried on the wind, even as strong hands pulled her off of the horse. Her dancing slippers were too soft to do any damage, but on the ground she whirled, punching like a street fighter. Surprised cries came from the men as she attacked them ferociously. Savoy had taught her well. Two were down before the largest, their apparent leader,  took her  to the sand.  He landed atop her, knocking breath from her, causing her breasts to nearly spill out of her low-cut top.

Though she pushed, kneed, and wriggled, he would not be budged. He lay nestled neatly between her spread thighs, pinning her with his weight, and her own stupid skirt.  She kicked her feet helplessly, succeeding only at pressing him tighter against her. At long last, seeing the futility, she lay still, drawing rapid, ragged breaths. His teeth flashed in the darkness. 

“Ma petit, you are certainly a bold wench. Stealing a fine pony, and then attacking men twice your size?”

“I did NOT steal him. . . he’s mine. Don’t you dare touch him.” She tried again to push him away. She felt the rise of his cock against her secret triangle as he lay straddling her, and instantly lay still.

“By all means, mon petit voleur, continue with your struggles. I am finding them rather…delightful.”

“I. Am. Not. A. Thief!” She growled at him. “Stop calling me that.   I…” She decided at the last second to not divulge her identity. After all there were those that knew she was titled, that she was very wealthy, and that she was single. She had no protector to save her. She had only her wits to get out of this predicament. 

“You? You what, petit? You liked the pretty horsey and snuck him away from your mistress while she was at a party? Or are you even now late for a rendez-vous with your lover? Some sad eyed poet perhaps? Or a stinking stable boy who let you ride the masters pride and joy in exchange for a tumble in the hay, eh?”

“Ohhhh you…..” she growled, and heedless of the size of the beast pressing against her intimate places, she twisted and growled. When he put his laughing face near hers, she reared up, clocking his forehead with hers, and grabbed his bottom lip in her tiny white teeth.

She bit hard,  tasting the salty tang of his blood.

He grunted, then grabbed  her tits, found her nipples and pinched. The unexpected pain  made her shriek, releasing his lip. He scowled down at her, his  fingers still holding her.  The throb in his groin was matched by the throb in his swelling lip. The vixen! He was equally angered, and charmed by her brave daring.  Still, with his crew watching, and he was sure they were watching this interesting turn of events, he needed to regain control of this situation.

“You have lovely tits, petit. Sweet round succulent buns. Perhaps I should call my men over and we will all have a sample of your wares, eh?”  A single drop of blood fell from his lip to land, unnoticed in the darkness,  upon her pale chest, directly over her heart. 

She shook her head. Strange feelings swept through her. The pain was a dull ache, but so too was there an ache between her legs. What was he doing to her?


Their intimate tableau was broken by a lad of perhaps 15. He pointed over his shoulder where a small skiff was being held by the men who had taken her. One stood to the side, still holding her horse. 

“It appears that my  time here is over, ma petit. My cock is very unhappy with the idea of leaving you.  Yet bringing you along would only cause dissent and envy with my lads. Ergo…I will ask you to remember me.”

Quickly he bent his head and kissed her deeply. His tongue slashed into her unsuspecting mouth, swirling and tasting her, leaving the copper taste of his own blood behind. For a moment he was tempted, deeply tempted to bring her with him. His cock knocked against his knickers, reminding him of how long he had gone without slipping between the silken folds of a woman.  Roughly, he pulled her up with a fistful of  hair, and dragged her along the beach. For a moment he paused by the boat.  He turned with reluctance, to her horse, and lifted her to sit upon its back. 

“Go back to your stable lad, petit. But dream of me.” He slapped the flank of the horse, sending it jolting forward. The reins dangled uselessly from the halter, and she fought to stay on his back. It was a desperate struggle to recapture the leads, and by the time she had the panicked horse back under control, and pulled him round, the boat was out into the harbor. In the faint moonlight, she could almost make out the shape of a ship. 

He must be a privateer. The batard! As if she would remember him.  Turning the horses head around, she dug her heels in and spurred him towards home. 

Felicitations 8

The tableau lasted for several seconds. She read the look on his face as frustration and not anger. He always had been even-tempered, she thought.


How the fuck had she known that? Just as those fragmented images had swirled through her mind, so too now did feelings. Love, lust, joy, sorrow. The anger was hers.  And as suddenly as the feelings blew through her, that one flared.

She stalked over to him, and, surprising them both, pounded her fists on his chest.

“Why? Why? You fucking bastard!”

“Ma petit,” His hand was on the back of her head, pulling her into his chest. She could hear his heart beating just under her ear, while she cried softly.

“Why what, mon doux amour? Tell me.”

Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Why did you leave me?”

His lips compressed, the line of them hard. He lay his cheek against the soft dishabille of her hair, breathing in the scent of her.  “Tell me more, petit.”

“I can’t. Don’t you get it? This is now, and …I don’t know you. I don’t remember you. I only know that I’m so angry that you…you left me.”

Anthony touched her shoulder. “We can find out. Francois and I can research the dress more thoroughly. We had just enough of the history to make an interesting sale, sweetie. But …we are history detectives.”

She couldn’t help but giggle a bit, as Anthony puffed out his chest, struck a pose with his hand on his hip, and wiggled his eyebrows.  She would have pulled away from Gabriel, yet he continued to hold her, his large hand cupping her head, as his fingers played in her hair, across her cheek.

“Come with me, doux amour, let us have a bit of time. Let me touch you…”

She pulled away, struggling with the emotions. Anger, fear, and desire swam through her.  Overcome, she stared at him.


He stood watching as she ran from him, again.

Felicitations 9

(you didn’t really think i’d leave you hanging? You *did* watch the video, oui?)

She struggled with the key, jabbing it at the lock. Her eyes were blinded by tears. The crying had started halfway home, nearly suffocating her with the ferocity. At last the key slid home, and she wrenched the lock open, flinging open her front door. She all but fell inside, before slamming the door behind her and re-locking it.

Her keys and purse fell to the floor, as she almost tore herself out of the dress. The heels were flung, one after the other, down the hallway to her kitchen, the stockings and panties and bra all scattered as she flung them away. Naked, she ran upstairs, shivering with the surfeit of emotions, and slid under her blankets to cry herself to sleep.

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

“I  need…” He paused, a strange look crossing his face.

He was talking with Francois and Anthony. They had watched Cara run from him again, yet when Anthony would have gone after her, Gabriel had stopped him.

“Let her go, my friend.” His voice was rough with emotion.

“What can you tell us?” Francois, always the more sensible of the pair, turned to Gabriel.

“Only bits, pieces. I…” He blinked, and swayed a bit.  “MERDE!”

One moment he was there, the next, he was gone. The lights were dim, the music loud, the crowd busy.

Francois looked at his lover. “Well, wasn’t that …” For once he was at a total loss for words. He felt gooseflesh pop out all over his body. He wondered if anyone else in the club had noticed the sudden departure.

Anthony shivered. “I’m never going to get used to that, and he’s done it to me several times already. You know….come to think of it, i’ve always seen him when someone has tried on the dress!”

He was on to something here, he was certain of it. “I’ll bet Cara just took off the gown!” He clasped his hands together gleefully. “That must be it, darling!” Throwing his arms wide, he embraced Francois, who rolled his eyes at his partners antics. “Boy, contain yourself. Are we done here? I believe we have some sleuthing to attend to.”

Arm in arm, they left the hubbub of noise and activity behind, and slid into their Beemer. With a smooth flick of the gears, they were off.

***                 ***                       ***

She woke in the wee hours of the morning. Her eyes felt raw, her nose was stuffy, her pillow, damp. She didn’t remember arriving at home, only the driving need to get away. She lay on her back, rubbing between her breasts.

It hurt.

It hurt so fucking much. She’d never felt this way before. She was a logical person. All she’d wanted to do was go and get a tattoo on her other tit, forchrissakes. And suddenly she had a ghost of a lover. Or something. Whatever Gabe was to her. Gabe. It sounded funny to think of him in modern terms. Back in their past, she would never have dreamt of calling him anything but ‘m’lord’.

She closed her eyes.

No. More. Memories.

It had to stop, somewhere. This whole deal was freaking her out. Perhaps she should just take the gown back to Felicitations. Ball the fucking thing up, stuff it in a garbage bag and be done with it.  She could almost feel it, down there at the bottom of the stairs, laying in a heap.

Really not the way one should treat an antique gown. She didn’t want to go down and get it. She closed her eyes, pulling the blankets up to her throat. It was warm and comfortable here. She wanted to just doze off.

She flung the covers off in a huff. Grabbing her robe, she stomped her way downstairs. She glared at the dress as she deliberately walked past it. She scooped up her panties, her bra, the stockings. Walking down the hall, she collected her shoes. She went back upstairs and put her shoes away in her closet, then the lingerie went into her bathroom sink.  She turned the water on, barely warm, while squirting a bit of Tender Care detergent into the bowl, and filled it. She swirled the bits of lace, her stockings,  with her finger.

Fucking dress could wait a few damn minutes. She popped a few bubbles, swirled her panties through the water. Fucking dress. Drying her hands, she growled as she went downstairs.

Once more she stepped over the pile of chiffon on the floor, and headed into the kitchen. She drew a glass of water, and sipped at it, glaring down the length of the hallway at the heap of black fluff by the front door.

A cool current of air swirled around her ankles, skittered up under her robe to tease at her knees, rose higher to tickle the triangle between her thighs.

She jumped back, water sloshing from her glass.

“STOP THAT!” she yelped. The tiny puddle of water on the floor began to move, separating into tiny letters.

A  M O U  R.

Love, she translated in her head.

She dumped the last of the water into the sink, jumped over the puddle and stalked down the hall. She stood, staring at the dress for a moment. Damn, she’d forgotten the trash bag. Turning she walked back to the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder, half-expecting the dress to rise up and follow her, yet it lay quiescently on the floor.

She glanced down at the puddle on the floor.



Shaking her head, she grabbed a towel and mopped it up, ignoring the tingle that ran up her arm. She left the towel on the floor, and opened the drawer for the trash bag.

“Fucking bastard, keep trying.” She growled. She didn’t mean it as a challenge, but derisively. As if trying would accomplish anything. Slamming shut the drawer, she wheeled on her heel, and stormed down the hallway.

The dress was gone.

She stood, trash bag in her hands, knowing, knowing that it was once again hanging in her closet.

Knocked Up

A tale of two extremes. Circa mid-2013.  ~n~

Ch. 1

Alynn loved sex.

The slide of body against body, the heat, the rush of fluids, the feelings that stirred in the heart and head, if only for a night.  She wasn’t in “a relationship”  but enjoyed every encounter, every man she felt attracted to. Sex and love and love and sex were all entwined; there was plenty of both to share.

Her friends called her wild, fun, abandoned. Her family called her reckless. She was just living her life, free spirited.

Ch. 2

She threw up at work. Her workmate Carol was in the bathroom and heard the sick retching sounds. When she came out, pale and shaking, they were there.

The Greencoats.

“You must come with us.”

“No!” Alynn protested. Yet it was the law of the land, and despite pushing them away, she was swiftly, firmly, gently wrapped in Struggle Bubbles. This would safely contain her, while restraining her. She was shepharded from her work, tears blurring her vision.

They took her to the Family Life Center. Still wrapped in Struggle Bubbles, the two orderlies who had picked her up from work lifted her to the exam table, and fastened her legs to the stirrups.  A female doctor came into the room, and wordlessly sat between her legs, and examined her.

She felt the probing of tools and fingers into her body, the hum of a machine pressing against her vagina.

“Three weeks.” The doctor said to the orderlies, tugging off her gloves and tossing them into the trash. She left the room without speaking a word to Alynn.

There was a press of a hypo against her upper arm, and she slept.

Ch. 3

She woke at The Farm. She stayed with four other women. Their bellies grew, their friendship deepened. They were fed nourishing, if uninspired food. They worked at various tasks until their pregnancies became too burdensome for bending to do even light fieldwork.

Alynn knew her time was close. Callie, her best friend had felt ripples of Braxton-Hicks off and on for the last week. It was a bit early, but the doctor told her not to worry, she’d told Alynn.  This was the first child for them both, yet they still remembered what had happened to Aubrey, and they were frightened.

Aubrey had been part of their group. Yet, instead of gaining weight, she grew thinner, her face became sallow, and she didn’t look well. It was apparent that there was something not quite right, but the doctors would not intervene.

“The law is the law. We cannot remove the fetus,” they had told her. Aubrey told the women that she was going to die, she felt it. The day she collapsed on the ground, breathing shallowly, was the last that they had seen of her.

Ch. 4

Alynn lay back, exhausted. The labor had been long and intense.  Her daughter lay in the crook of her arm, sleeping. The nurse returned to the room with a sheaf of papers.

“We’ll be discharging you in the morning, and here are the rules you must follow now.” She thrust the papers at her.

“Tomorrow?” Alynn asked, wearily.

“There is nothing wrong with you or your baby, you both did fine, and your insurance will only pay for delivery and 24 hours after. You did good, sweetie.

Alynn was shocked at some of the rules here, as she read through the list. Breastfeeding in public was considered offensive. Childcare would  cost half her salary.  She would be expected to return to work the following month as her semi-paid maternity leave only covered her for that long.

She wondered what the fuck kind of world she’d delivered her daughter into.


Story 2

Alynn paced back and forth in the small room. It smelled of stale tobacco and piss. There were two other girls in the room, one with a scarey looking older man sitting beside her, frowning, the other was staring blankly into space.

She’d heard about this place from a friend of a friend. She shuddered. It all seemed …so covert. And yet, what other option did she have? She was 20 and pregnant. She didn’t want a child, didn’t want to be pregnant. Didn’t want to do the adoption route, didn’t want to be a mommy yet.

But here she was. Twenty and pregnant. And Matt off running off the next chicka in thigh highs.

“Takes two to tango, girl” he’d said to her. “You shoulda been on the pill.”

The thing was, she had been on the pill but a giant batch of them had wound up being recalled because of some fucking manufacturing glitch. Turns out that the fucking things didn’t work…and she was, full, living  proof of that corporate fuck-job. It wasn’t like she could go sue the bastards…then she’d have to admit publicly that she was preggers, and then she’d be screwed. If the Greenies heard that she had a baby on board, she’d be whisked off to some Farm to have the kiddo.

No, abortion was the only route for her. There was no way she could afford to care for a child. She worked a part-time job while going to school full time. How could she juggle a kid, school, and a job? It wasn’t as though Matt would be around to help. Fucking bastard that he was.

The door opened and a woman emerged. She was middle aged and shopworn. She looked at the people in the waiting area, then pointed at Alynn.

“You.” Her voice was rough, definitely a two-pack-a-day voice. “C’mon, we don’t got all night, let’s go, girl.” She scooted Alynn out of the waiting area and down a long, dimly lit hallway. It smelled of musty plaster, and mold. She stopped outside a scarred wooden door. “I’ll take your payment. $800.00 cash.”

She opened her purse, took out a wad of money. Her roommate, a few friends had all pitched in. She’d even gotten Matt to throw a $50 her way. Not without a comment about the high cost of cunt these days, of course. The prick. The nurse took the cash, counted it carefully, before tucking it into her front pocket.

The door opened after she rapped on it twice. Shoving Alynn inside, she tugged the door closed with a whomp. 

Alynn looked at the doctor. He was old, his eyes keen, with a bit of a pot belly. He looked at her, as well. His eyes lingered on her large breasts.

“Take off your pants and undies. Up on the table, girl.”

She swallowed. She looked around for a jonny or something to cover herself with. He sat and watched her, implacably. After a frozen moment, she fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans. She had to slip off her sneakers to get the jeans off.

“On second thought, leave the panties on.”

She stared at him. Her black lace thong would offer scant protection but…whatever.

“okay,” she said, her voice husky with fear. She had no idea how this worked. Didn’t know how much it would hurt. Didn’t know anything about an abortion, except that one day you were pregnant and the next, you weren’t.

She scooted back on the table. He lifted her legs to the stirrups, binding them in. Coming around to the side, he flopped one fat leather strap around her waist, and leaned across her, his body almost laying on her, to reach the other side of the strap. In moments  he had buckled her in.  Her heart was racing with nerves.

She felt probing along her vagina, a finger stroking over the swatch of lace over her slit. Then the crotch was pushed to one, side, replaced with the feeling of something pressing inside of her. Not his fingers. Surely not.

“You gotta tight one here,” said the doctor. She could feel his fingers moving around inside of her, not a good feeling. She felt his hand began pushing into her. Grunting with the pressure, she whimpered as the thick part of his hand pushed harder against her.

“So, you like to fuck around eh?”

“’s …I was on the pill…”

“Aaah, the pill.”

She felt the hand in her pussy withdraw. He rose to stand between her splayed legs. She watched, helpless, as he unzipped his pants and a thick cock sprang out. Shaking her head, no, moaning as the heavy head disappeared from her view, crying as she felt it bump against her lower lips.

“The pill is just a scam. Don’t work half the time.  An excuse for you sluts to fuck around and not get responsible, that’s all that thing is for.”

His cock slid into her. It wasn’t long but it was very thick. He began fucking her, despite her pleading to stop, please stop. The door opened and the nurse came in. She stood and watched the doctor fucking with a faint smirk on her face.

Pressing hard against her opening, he groaned as he came. She lay crying as he tucked his cock into his pants.  Crossing the room, the nurse took out a tray with a variety of instruments on it.  The doctor looked at the tray, and selected a tool.


She didn’t remember driving home, only the unceasing flow of blood. It was like the worst period, ever. She lay in bed, shivering. Her roommate checked on her periodically. She didn’t remember the ambulance ride, only waking in the hospital a week later.

Her mother sat by her bed, holding her hand as she became aware of her surroundings. It was obvious that she had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Mom…” Though she tried to speak, the sound was only a whisper.

Her mother leapt from the chair, ringing for the nurse, and stroking her face.

“Alynn, my sweet girl…”

“Mom?” she was dazed.

“We almost lost you..” Her mother stifled a sob as the nurse came into the room.

She looked down at Alynn, taking her pulse.

“Lucky girl,” she said when she was done counting. “Doctor will be in shortly…she is making rounds now.”

“You almost died.”

She could barely believe the doctors stark words.


“You had a severe abdominal infection. I’m sorry, Alynn, but I had to perform an emergency hysterectomy.”


Dear Friends,

Two works of fiction…although I will share that the 2nd story is based on a factual account I read recently about the effects of having an illegal abortion back in the pre-Roe v Wade Days.

My blog, my opinions. This is not about whether abortion is morally correct…but it IS about a woman’s right to SAFELY make that decision for herself. To legally be allowed to control the fate of her own body. To not be legally bound to becoming an incubator at the behest of a law.

Would i have an abortion? I don’t know, and I’ll never have to make that choice since i am sterile.  I’ve never been so poor that i didn’t know where my next meal was coming from, worried about another mouth to feed. I’ve never carried a child in my body. But that is NOT the point. The point is that it is MY body, and MY choice to make.

I’ve watched the attacks on women, especially woman who may have no other option but to go to Planned Parenthood rather than an OBGYN.

These attacks range from Komen for the Cure’s pulling financial support to Planned Parenthood (which is many women’s only option for medical care, including breast screenings, birth control aids, AIDS and other STD checkups, AND abortions), to  pols saying “they didn’t worry about poor people because they already had a net there to catch them.” Oh. REally? I’ve known of several families who ran out of food before they ran out of month…helped by my church’s food pantry….and i’m sure they were not isolated cases.

Again, that is not my point here. I’m trying to illustrate two polar extremes of what could happen in a world where a woman’s body is legislated.

We need to just say no.

Loving the Things W/we Do…

I’m sorry.

I know you want to kill me (especially allybonky!). I really built that story up yesterday, and now here it is …another “stall” day…but……Master has ordered a ‘follow up’ to the Sunday @ Starbucks tale…

And I may as well tell you up front there won’t be a Felicitation’s chapter Wednesday either, since I will be taking part in the Bloggers for Human Rights post then..though there will be two stories that day. So I hope you do come back for that. I won’t post a HNT post this week, will jump right back into Felicitations until it is finished. Promise. Unless…you know, the Boss decides to have me do something different.

There, that takes care of the PSA’s (public service announcements)  for this post.

Now, back to the Starbucks tale.

Master and I sat together at a little table in the back of “Our” Starbucks. I’d palmed a heart in my hand before I came in. Leaning down to give Him a kiss, I planted this heart on the back of his shoulder. It about killed me to not giggle. I headed right for the bathroom, where I laughed quietly to myself, and took care of business.But….before I came out of the bathroom, I slipped ANOTHER heart out of my purse.

Yes, I did it again. Can you believe the temerity?

I pushed on the door to leave the bathroom. It didn’t open. WTF….oh. I get it. I give a tentative push. Nope.

Someone is blocking the door and you don’t need three guesses to figure out who “someone” is. So what does a slut do when her Master sticks her in the bathroom and won’t let her out?

She sends Him a text, of course.

“Let me out!”

Not very submissive, I admit. I pushed on the door. It opened. He was sitting at our table. His phone chimed. He looks at it, at me.

“Is that from…you, little girl?”

I can’t help it, I start laughing. The Bastard. I walk over to him, leaned down, kissing Him soundly. I slide my  hand down His chest, and stick a fat puffy heart over His heart…

Then I collapsed into the chair opposite his, giggling.  And we talked and I giggled, and we talked and…I begged him to read the post. And He did.

A few giggles snuck out as I watched His face, as he took in my words.

And then he got to the end.

He didn’t look at me.

“There better not be a fucking heart on me…is there?”

And then He looks at me.

And I….well, suffice it to say everyone in Starbucks heard me laughing…aisha will tell you that I laugh very loudly when amused…and oh, my…was I amused!!

“Yes…*giggle*…y…*giggle* … yessssss *guffaw* Master…” and I about fall over, laughing.

“You little ….” He scowls at me, then smiles.

Oh, beware those Master smiles. It promised retribution. He spoke softly of pain. Of  being cuffed with my hands behind me, while He…hmm…there was something there about a sledge hammer, and … I will pay, and with my ass.

He counted up the strikeouts that He felt warranted it. Then He added the hearts I’d scored on Him.  In addition to the one on His shoulder, the one over His heart on His sweatshirt, the one on His knee (under the guise of rubbing His knee under the table….)…there were two more.

One under His sweatshirt on His chest. The other, under all His shirts  nestled at His throat. A teeeny weeeeny pink one.

Cruisin’ for a bruising, as Mick put it so well.

a small addendum here..Master wrote to me this morning: “Too bad they couldn’t see your glee due to your little heart escapade and while I was reading your blog – you were like a kid at Christmas.”

And it’s true…I was beaming with happy!

We finally found a playdate that works for us both; i guess I should be more worried about my ass…yet, I’m not.  It’ll be 7 weeks since our last playtime, but it is what it is, yanno? All in all, despite the brevity of our time together on Sunday, it was full and joyous, with a dash of pain to season everything.

I love to see His eyes sparkle with amusement, and gleam with that ferocious Warrior’s glimmer. It’s a huge turn on for me to see Him like that. He laughed at my math problem…it’s a longstanding thing between us…my suckage at all things math. He applauded when I balanced my checkbook last month. Yeah, it’s a sorry state of affairs, my relationship with all things numerical (except for baking… though who knows why?)

Anyway, He isn’t “pissed” at me…but He has definite plans for payback of immense proportions. I can hardly wait. He wants me to write my obituary. No, don’t gasp…it is only in humor. You know how we all say “I’m gonna kill you…” and don’t mean it? It’s like that.  But so fucking funny, really. And yes, okay…it makes me…nervous. GOOD nervous; sweaty palms, wet-between-the-thighs nervous….

He will, of a certainty, make sitting exquisitely painful. He had already promised a “long session with the Belt”….and who knows if it just got longer, or if FSCT will become the starring member of the cast of characters who come out to play.

I’ll keep you all up to date on that!

I have a brand new outfit to wear..and I am very excited about it…it…no..wait, He’s going to read this. So sorry pervie friends…you’ll have to wait for the pictures!

On this day for lovers…all kinds of lovers, even pervie lovers …I wish you tidings of joy and pain, and hope if you have not yet found your “One”…as I have…that your search ends, and you find the One who has been looking for you.


Felicitations 7


She was startled to see the owner of Felicitations here.

“Well, and don’t you look like the cat’s meow?” His voice was rich, his laughter genuine.

Her cheeks were flushed from her encounter with Gabriel. No, they hadn’t been introduced. She did not know his name was Gabriel.  She smiled at Anthony, but he read her quickly. Scooping her hand into the crook of his elbow, he guided her to the corner of the bar.

He patted her hand gently, ordered two glasses of  Bordeaux, and sat her in the furthest corner.

“Sweetie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, and believe you me, I know what I’m talking about when it comes to that woo hoo shit.”

She smiled tremulously as he handed her the wineglass.

“That’s some powerful vin-tage,” he said, tipping the lip of his glass to ring gently against hers.  “Drink carefully, and tell me everything. Did you see him?”


“Oh, honey, don’t play coy with me. We both know a hung, ooops, i mean hunk of a man when we see one, don’t we? And if there was a chance I could divert him away from you, to me? Ha…Honey, I’d do it in a heartbeat! Not that I’m an alleycat, but that is one fine looking fellow.”

He rose up to tiptoes, and gestured wildly to someone behind her.

“Darling, here is the sweet little thing that I sold the vintage “House of Worth” gown to…. Sweet thing? This is my Francois…”

Dressed in a lime-green suit jacket, wearing a hat with a long white feather, Francois somehow just missed being a parody of a gay man. Perhaps it was the confidence he exuded as he strutted up to her, or perhaps it was his size. He was very tall, barrel chested, and made her feel positively tiny! He swept her into a bone-crunching hug.

“Ah, ma petit, so good to finally meet you!”

He released her, holding her at arms length, sweeping her with his intense gaze, before spinning her around and running a hand down the back of the gown and over her rump.

“Lovely. Perfection. Yes, I can see why Anthony had to sell this to you.”

He beamed an enormous smile towards his mate. There was a moment of non-verbal communication between them.

“Very well done, my darling boy.”

Anthony inclined his head, with a regal nod. They were quite a pair.

“She knows, Francois.”

“Really? So soon…?”

“aaaynd….He scared her.”

“Oh. My.”

She interjected, wanting to lay that little fallacy by the wayside.

“He did not scare me.”

They ignored her, talking right over her head like she was invisible. How aggravating!

“How unfortunate. He’s waited a long time to find you, you know.”

Francois looked down at her with a worried expression.

“Frankly, it was getting difficult placating him. Ghosts can be so annoyingly persistent when they want something. And we just couldn’t find the something he wanted. Which of course was a someone. You.”

Francois took her hand, held it close to his heart. His large expressive eyes showed his concern. They’d never met but she felt instantly comfortable with him. There was something very soothing about this man. His other hand rose to cup her cheek, smoothing his thumb against her skin.

The tear leaked out unexpectedly.

“I wasn’t scared.  I’m not scared.” She sniffled, even as Anthony proffered his kerchief to her.  He dabbed at the tear as it pooled at the corner of her mouth.

“Ah, cherie,” His eyes welled up in sympathy. “I know exactly how you feel, truly.  The first time I saw him, he scared the shit out of me.”

“No lie there…I’m the one who did the laundry that week,” quipped Francois.

She couldn’t help it; she laughed.

“Wait. Let’s get this straight…I. Was. Not. NOR AM I….Scared.”

They looked at her as she spoke firmly to them.

“Angry. I’m … fucking angry at him. And …I don’t even know why.”

Anthony clasped his hands together.



Cara and Francois spoke simultaneously.

“That won’t be necessary. You can just speak directly to the one involved.”

The three turned rapidly, to face a scowling Gabriel.

He’s a FUCKING Bastard….

Sorry to interrupt your reading of “Felicitations” dear pervie friends–i know i have left you hanging in a most terrible fashion. Not that you don’t expect that of me anyway….however, this time it is not. my. fault.

okay Master, i’m getting to it, really!

I need to back up a few days. To HNT day, actually. You’ll remember that there was a small pic of me at the end, what Master calls a “teaser pic” that doesn’t show all that much ‘stuff’?

seriously Master, you’re SO impatient. i can see you, sitting there at ‘our’ table, reading this ‘shit’ and saying to yourself, c’mon nilla get with it. Fix IT!

You’ll have to forgive these little asides. For as you are sitting and reading this with your morning coffee/tea/cocoa…Master and i are at Starbucks, and He is reading this.

Yes, right now.


I’ve been “tasked” to this particular post, you see. Which is why “Felicitations” has been bumped to tomorrow.  And i wonder if you’re reading faster knowing those two things…that He’s tasked me, and with that title up above there…

Coz, yanno? He really is a marshmallow Mean Fucking Bastard. *giggle*

i’m trying to be serious about this Master, really i am. i see you looking up at me with those stunning, leonine eyes of Your’s, ready to cut me to ribbons with that piercing gaze…keep reading, trust me, it gets better….

So, we, Master and i, were talking during FNF. He was verrrrry tired. About as tired as i’ve ever heard His voice. We talked for a long time, but no playing. It was just…sweet talk

i didn’t say that Master…see? Those are strike-throughs up there.  Everyone who reads here  knows…and understands, that i misspoke…just a wee bit…up there…

right everyone?

note to self….(no giggling out loud)

So we were talking and He was all Dommy and mean, you know how Doms are, right? (grin)  We were talking about spanking and tit torture, and assfucking, and hugging all sorts of other torturous things.

And we spoke a bit about the blog. This blog, not the Dark Fantasies one. And i remembered right then,  that i’d neglected to tell Him my status count for this weeks HNT. So i did that, and then mentioned that i’d said He was sweet.

You know, in the post.

This post…go ahead, i’ll wait. It’s right there at the beginning. And i kinda said it quickly, and kept right on going …and He drew me up short.

“Whoa…whoa…what? What did you just say?” He says in this incredulous voice. And the words “uh. oh” start floating in my head.

And i’ll confess here and now that i stalled told him hesitantly. Coz…yanno. I *know* that tone. Not quite the same tone He used Thursday night when we were on the phone and He was yelling at His GPS lady (He called her a presumptuous cunt!!!) for interrupting Him while He was talking. (Which, btw, made me hysterical!)

But i did, eventually, mutter “I said you were sweet” in this tiny voice. Which He made me repeat, only to holler say calmly “you did what?!”

You did holler, too, Master, but i struck that part out, coz, yanno, I didn’t want people to think you were a total Asshole. Then again…hmmm…that is the point of this isn’t it?    Wait …is this  like one of those stupid math problems? You know the kind, Master…. A train leaves Boston at 9:32 headed for Cleveland, while another train leaves Chicago 4 minutes later. At what point do they cross the equator. It is, isn’t it….??…anyway, i digress…

Now, you all know that Master is a right tough Sadist. You’ve seen the pics of His handiwork a few weeks ago…so you all know He’s rather firm handed with me.

And oh, how i love that!

Love that He takes charge, love that He hurts me so good. But the “sweet” comment? Well,  it’s ruined His “street cred”…who’s gonna believe that a “sweet” guy is a Fucking Bastard?

Who would believe that someone who poured a bunch of sweet on His slut would also do this:

Am i right?

Surely, only the deepest, darkest kind of Sadist would inflict this kind of pleasure hurt on His submissive slut, right?

see Master? did You have *any* doubt that i’d get around to the ‘good part’….eventually?

You know i see You, sitting there, looking up at me and giving me the “Hairy Eyeball” look…the one that makes me giggle nervously…and makes me all squishy and wet …

*big smile*

Must be because i’ve done “IT”…fixed it all up nice and tidy, so that everyone now knows the truth about You…yes? Big Bad Ass Dominant Master of nilla (the slut..wait, i think that’s redundant…nilla is synonymous with ‘slut’…)

Coz really, pervie friends, He is the sweetest meanest most ornery Man you’d ever chance to run across …

what’s that Master? i said it again?

i did not.

it’s a strike out, see? And You know, Master that whatever is struck out is just totally disregarded by my readers. Oh, yes, they grok it.


Whoops, sorry there Master…that one just kind of slipped out.

Yes, You know i am taking this assignment totally seriously.

Oh, BTW Master? There’s a teeny little heart stuck on Your back. From when i hugged You when i got here.  🙂




(He’s not the only one who’s “bad” !)

Felicitations 6

Flashes, images, and sensations whipped through her mind. It was like being  in a room of mirrors and spinning around.

Nothing was clear, except for the giddy feeling of joy.

A breast…hers?

Hands touching her, so many hands, caressing and pinching. The pain was there, but there was a warm suckling between her thighs.

The heat was incredible.

As her orgasm swept through her, the images broke and fragmented, like that vision-mirror, shattered.

She swayed for a moment. He was holding her hand, that handsome stranger, and tugging her across the room. He passed swiftly through the throngs dressed in their Valentine’s event finery. Corsets and clamps, stockings and jock-locks. Leather and latex, velvet and fur, nothing was verboten. The crowd ebbed and flowed with the pulsing rhythm of the music, accompanied by the snap of crops, the begging moans of bottoms, the wicked laughter of Tops.

They passed  a Mistress she knew, dressed in her cross-garter boots, thigh-high and polished to a sheen. Her corset lifted her ample bosom high, yet hid her nipples. Her arms were encased in mesh glovelets, and in her hand, the coil of a long whip. The end almost touched the floor, a scant inch from the bent knee of her slave. There was about her  an implicit air of being “in charge”. It wasn’t the boots, the whip, nor the corset, but something inherent in her. She recognized that same je ne sais quoi…in him.

“You missed a spot.” The Mistress spoke gently, critically peering down at one gleaming boot. “Well, get to it, slut!”  Her sub lowered his head, dipped his face down to her booted toe. Cara craned her head, watching, as his tongue flicked out.

“Come along, stop staring.” He slowed his pace for a moment, looking at her with that smile firmly in place. Yet she saw, and felt, the fire behind his calm expression.

“Where are you taking me?” Yet, she knew. She’d been here before. William had taken her to one of these back rooms during a scene.

“You know very well where I am taking you, cher amour.”

She stopped. Tried to stop. But his grip on her hand was firm, and he propelled her forward, pretending, or perhaps not even noticing that she was resisting.

“I can’t.”

“You must face your fear, mon cher.”

“I am not your dear.”

“No, ma salope douce, you are far more than just my dear, oui?”

She knew, though she wasn’t certain how she knew, that he had called her his sweet slut.

“I don’t know you.”

“Remember, cher? The night sky over the Seine, the warm breezes as you lay beneath me?”

She shook her head. No. She didn’t. Couldn’t.  Yet the haunting image burst into her mind, her hand outflung on the chaise, opening and closing in rhythm to the stars. The cool touch of the night wind against her heated flesh, the tease of it against her breast, bringing her nipple to full, tingling firmness.  The stars, so many of them against the velvet sky, then lost to her view as he rose above her, claiming her body with his….

Again, she stumbled, and again, he held her steady, his hands against her torso, almost cupping her breasts. Her back was to the wall, so cool through the thin silk of her gown. Heat poured from him. Her hand was on his shoulder, the firm reality of flesh under her fingers belying his status as a ghost.

“I don’t understand.”

How she wished her voice would hold steady.  He leaned against her, his heat scalding her. If this was a repeat performance to what happened in her bedroom, she wanted none of it.

” Deny me if you can.”

He paused a moment, his body hot against hers. Her nipples rose to caress his chest, her breath caught in her throat.

“You want. I feel it. As  you do, cher. You may pretend, but your body leads the way to truth. It yearns for me, for us, to be complete again.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

A woman tittered nearby. It broke the spell he seemed to have woven around her.  She pushed at his chest.

“Get. Off. Me.”

“I know you are angry, ma petit.”

She glared up at him. She was angry. Furious, even.

“I feel nothing. Nothing.”

She broke away and dashed back into the crowd.


Felicitations 5

She’d opted to not tell Geena about the dress, or about the encounter with the “ghost”. It sounded too freaking weird, as if she’d been smoking mushrooms. No, for now, it was best to just be mum on that subject.

She did preen a bit when her BFF told her she was ‘stunning’. She smiled victoriously when she told her of the “stunning” deal she’d made on it, too. She told the story of the lost tattoo parlor, and the finding of Felicitations.

“I’ve got to go see this place for myself.”

“It’s not for the faint of heart,” she warned her friend. “Not in the best part of town, and totally unexpected when you go in there. It’s neat, but still. . .” Her voice trailed off. Hard to picture Geena heading into that seedier side of town.

Then again, someone might think that of her, too.

Yet, she didn’t feel at all compelled to go with her. How odd was that? She couldn’t even get the words out to offer.

They pulled into the parking lot. Already there were a lot of cars here. As they made their way to the front doors, she waved at a few folks she knew.  They stepped in, the door opening to a not-so-typical bar scene. There were all types of kink represented here. They nodded to the bouncer, Trace. Rumor had it that he wielded a mean whip, though she had yet to see it. Since whips scared the fuck out of her, she doubted she ever would. Spanking, now there was a kink she really enjoyed.

She had been accused, on several occasions, of enjoying “kink, lite”; but to her way of thinking,  there was an entire spectrum of kinky styles, and she was quite comfortable with where she was at, thank you very much.

She’d quoted the “sticks n stones” verse at her accuser, a slut with so many piercings that she looked, at least in Cara’s opinion, like a spell-cast voodoo doll. The woman had rolled her eyes, called her juvenile, and stormed out of the bathroom.

William had been in the stall in the corner. When he’d sauntered out, zipping his fly, and smiled at her, she’d flushed with embarrassment. He had applauded her low-key approach, though he admitted that a slut-fight in the bathroom would have been equally appealing.

She’d laughed, and the rest was history. Now it was ancient history.

Her gaze flashed around the room. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Her eyes met Williams across the room. He looked at her implacably; she looked on. How did one ‘see’ a ghost, anyway. She felt the flutter of her skirt around her ankles.

Just the wind from the front door opening. She glanced over her shoulder. The door was closed. Damn fucking ghost, she muttered under her breath.

“Cara?” The high, breathless shriek warned her a moment before Moxie enveloped her in one of her hugs. The air was perfumed with wildflowers wherever she moved, making Cara’s nose twitch. She babbled on about who was here, Cara’s dress, how much her corset was pinching her, and …”

Cara tuned her out. She thought she’d heard something. A tone of voice, that had a familiar edge to it. Who was it? For a moment, Moxie’s voice drowned it out again. “….and of course, you can play and have fun, and i’m sure Master would love to have a chance to spank you! i know how much you like being spanked, and being masterless right now….”

She didn’t mean to rub it in, really, Cara knew. She was young and impetuous and often spoke without realizing how things came across.  She was trying to be kind, and caring. Yet, it was still a tender spot for her. She and her Dom had not parted ways amicably. Oh, since then things had healed, that much was true. But being masterless was not something that she enjoyed. She wanted to be used, controlled, and owned once more.

Over Moxie’s monologue, she heard the voice again. She turned quickly. There, across the room, stood a man she had not met before, nor seen here. She took a step. And another. Without thought, she was suddenly standing beside him. He stopped, mid-sentence, and looked down at her; time stood still.

He took her arm when she wobbled, his touch sending licks of flame up her arm, racing through her body.

“Hot,” was all she could think.  His touch made her so hot.

“Hello, cherie,” he said in that rich tone she knew so well, yet had never heard before. “Have we met?” His eyes slid down her throat, lingering over the line of bruises she’d managed to hide from her friend. How had he known they were there?

He knew her, of that one fact, she was certain. She, however, had no idea who he was. Because it just wasn’t possible that he was a ghost. He was hot, and breathing, and very, very alive. She studied his face.

Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes.  His hair was thick, and a  rich sable brown. It glinted with silver highlights with  every breath, and each little movement he made. He was gorgeous. Stunning.  Sexy. He exuded sex appeal. He watched her watching him, and  as he waited for her response, His lips curled into a knowing smile.

She wanted to be coy. Or flippant. Yet before she could frame any sort of response, he stroked a hand over her hair, a touch that was as familiar now as it had been an hour ago in her bedroom.

“You look as though you have seen a ghost ma cherie!” He laughed, as did the other men standing around watching them.

Lips pursed against a sudden rush of annoyance -damn she hated being manipulated- she turned on her heel, only to be drawn up short as he easily caught and held her wrist.

“Oh, not so fast, cherie, eh?” He purred in her ear. “The night…she is only just begun, oui?”

She tried not to shiver as his tongue caressed the outer shell of her ear, as his breath tickled deep into that sensual spot just inside.

“Not. Fair.” She murmured, low, throwing a glare up at him.

“Ah, ma petite cherie, all is fair – in love and war- yes?”

Her chin raised a fraction higher, and she debated kicking him in the shin. Arrogant Bastard. Yet her heart beat thickly with the rising of heat between her thighs.  She’d never been one to lie to herself. There was something here.  Something…

“Perhaps that open mouth is for kissing, oui?”

“She’s got a bit of a temperament, that little slut,” warned one of his companions.

“Ah.” He nodded, looking down at her as she frowned up at him. It took less than a heartbeat for his lips to take hers.

“Lovely,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m not one to take liberties as a usual course of events, little one, but in your case? I think we both know that I will.” He drew her closer, whispering against her tumbled hair.

Remember, mon amour….”

***   ***   ***