Blessed Beltane

from here

Also known as May Eve, May Day, and Walpurgis Night, happens at the beginning of May. It celebrates the height of Spring and the flowering of life. The Goddess manifests as the May Queen and Flora. The God emerges as the May King and Jack in the Green. The danced Maypole represents Their unity, with the pole itself being the God and the ribbons that encompass it, the Goddess. Colors are the Rainbow spectrum. Beltane is a festival of flowers, fertility, sensuality, and delight.

Prepare a May basket by filling it with flowers and goodwill and then give it to someone in need of healing and caring, such as a shut-in or elderly friend. Form a wreath of freshly picked flowers, wear it in your hair, and feel yourself radiating joy and beauty. Dress in bright colors. Dance the Maypole and feel yourself balancing the Divine Female and Male within. On May Eve, bless your garden in the old way by making love with your lover in it. Make a wish as you jump a bonfire or candle flame for good luck. Welcome in the May at dawn with singing and dancing.


I don’t “actively” celebrate Beltane anymore….nosy neighbors, mostly (yes, I did celebrate this ritual outdoors, skyclad, once upon a time).

I do celebrate the rebirthing of life, accepting the ability to create new things …quietly, in my heart. And as I write this, wifey is downstairs making Maybaskets for our neighbor- tomorrow morning the kids and I will deliver them. It is likely the one pagan ritual that we both take part in.

And the fertility rites for helping the garden prosper? Well, we don’t have sex together anymore.

And i cannot picture inviting my Master outdoors to fuck in the garden.


*shakes head*

yeah. No.


Blessed Be…wishing you fertility in all its manifestations (not just physical childbearing) …wishing you  bright days for growth; soft rain for rest; and time to enjoy both, fully.

Tea and Bruises

oh, what a really nice Sunday morning it was. It’s actually been a good weekend for me, despite Saturday’s angst-filled post.

Saturday was cold up north here, until late in the afternoon, when I finally ventured outside to attack the hedge with the trimmer. I worked up a really good mad. Really really mad.

You ever watch the movie “You’ve Got Mail” with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks? When her bookstore is going down under the big chain store, she keeps hearing people say “it’s not personal, it’s business”.

Which is exactly what I was told when I lost my job.

I’m done with the front now, and pull my 130 feet of cord into the backyard and just ATTACK the undergrowth that has sprung up due to lack of attention these last few years.  I’m swinging and hacking at all those tiny maple trees, hundreds of them, growling fiercely.

My neighbors, if they were in their windows watching me, would surely have thought me mad.

And I was.  Angry mad.


Swishing through the undergrowth, I spin around, eyeing the ground vengefully. Did I miss any? Growling, and rabid with rage…there! That bush has some tree sprouts hiding (in terror, no doubt, after witnessing what an enraged nilla armed with electric hedge trimmers did to their bretheren)…!

Take That!

and THAT!

Panting, rage has drained away. I look around at my suddenly tidy back area. Clear as a whistle. Well, if you ignore all the maple saplings laying about.


Geezuz did it feel good to get that out there.

And doing something useful with the rage? Oh, that was awesome, too. I was really tired afterwards, but it was a good tired. And I’ve got a few more job leads AND an interview sometime next week.

I went to bed late last night, and got an O from Master, which was nice of Him, since it had been 3.5 days…I was getting more than a little squirmy there.

And today.

Starbucks, with the Man.

Heart wars, and arm pinches, and even a series of extremely painful side pinches. I need to lose that muffin top…He attacks that with such vigor. OMFG.

He is quite the rabid pincher. He gets up from his chair and leans over me, ostensibly looking over my shoulder at whatever is on my computer screen…and reaches his hand down my side and pinches the holy fuck outta my side, my underarms.

And the underarm part hurts a shitload; will likely bruise by tomorrow..but not as bad as the side.

And truth to tell, I earned it. I sometimes forget that, even sitting together in this innocuous environment, we are NOT equals. I should NOT challenge that.

And yet, I can barely help myself.

I’m a sucker for that look on His face, you see. When His eyes spark fire at me, His brows lift, and that “you have to be fucking kidding me, slut” look crosses His face.


Yes, there is that, too.

I do love to walk on the very edge of that cliff…and I seem to test that edge more after we’ve had a longer break between any kind of visit. I’ll likely not get to see Him next week, since He will be away, and when He gets back, I’ll be gone.

Wow. Putting that down makes it seem even LONGER.

But I’ll have my bruises to comfort me for a while, and texts and emails. And we’ll always, always have Starbucks…



(ps…a new Felicitations chapter is up in the “Pages” section, (ch 16))

Sex Dreams

(this is what happens to a very horny slut when she hasn’t had an orgasm since Tuesday…hint, hint, Master….)

“I know, it’s terrible isn’t it?”

The hum fills the air, and the space between her open legs. Head tosses restlessly, while the legs try to move, try to close from the stimulating touch.

“Right there…oh, yes…can you feel yourself? You’re trying to push against it. Little slut, I know. You want more. Your head says ‘no’ but your cunt, your dirty little slutty cunt? It’s begging ‘yes, yes’. ”

The vibe is pressed hard against sensitive flesh. A garbled moan comes from a gagged mouth.

“Hmmm, yes, where pleasure becomes torture, I know.”

A chuckle fills the room, rising over the persistent hum of the toy pressing against her clit.

“I see you, you know. Squirming. You want to move away. Can’t. Tied too tight to close your legs and protect your poor assaulted clit. Your horny cunt, on the other hand, is drooling. Feel all that juice on the vibe? Oh, deny, deny. That’s not lube…at least, not my lube, you little whore. It’s your juice. You are wet, fucking wet. You can pretend, Mz. Prissy-pants, that you didn’t want this. Yet here you are, oozing cunt cream.”

“Here, hold this. Time for part two!”

His voice is cheery and her heart escalates. She cannot see what He is doing, the blindfold is tight. She feels the hum as he presses the tip of the vibe into her, braces the end against the mattress so she cannot push it out. The bed shifts as he moves away, then shifts again as he returns.

“There is always, always a price to be paid for pleasure, slut.”

For a moment there is only the sound of her labored breath around the gag, and the taunting hum of the vibe. A pinch on her tit, her nipple. His hands are sticky, and warm. The hard bite of something on her left nipple makes her groan into the uncaring rubber ball pressed deep into her mouth. Her wince allows a stream of drool to slide out the corner of her lip, and create a thick, wet trail down the side of her jaw to her throat. The hard slap against her other tit startles again.

“This first nip, ah, that one just gets a sip of pain. Pleasure and pain. So tasty. You’ll grow to love it, trust me. But this nip?”

There is a hard flick against her right nipple; despite her fear and rage, she feels it rise at his touch.

“This nipple? Gets lots of pain. We’ll start with two. But there will be more. Many more before I’m done with you.”

“OH, look. How very pretty, your nipple all perverted and pinched up like that. Luscious. And …oh, look how wet it is down here. A veritable river of cunt ooze. Tsk, what a dirty little cunt you are. Acting all high and mighty, no sex, first date. And here you lay. Open, cunt soaked, and wanting. You want to be fucked, I know. I see the lips of your swollen cunt, begging for cock. I’m not ready yet.”

The vibe is pulled out of her pussy, and pressed firmly against her clit. She growls, and tries to move away but she is bound too securely for movement. Her head flails, her fingers open and close into fists against the headboard. Her body thrums, her clit screams, her nipples throb. When he slaps the tit with just one clamp, she screeches behind the gag, screeches when he strikes it again. He slides the vibe deep into her pussy and fucks her hard with it. No words, just the hum of the vibe and the squiching sounds coming from her pussy.

She wants to fight it, but she feels it coming…coming…


(sex dream two)

It starts the moment i enter the room. His fist in my hair, as i step through the door, halting me in my tracks. I wince, and moan. It hurts, and it was unexpected. No tender kisses and hugs to reconnect. His hand, in my hair, violently, hard.

He takes my bag from me, my purse.

“The brush. Where’s the brush?”

I reach into the bigger bag, pull out the brush, hand it to Him.  I hear my bags hit the floor behind me, against the closed door. He tugs my glasses off, and pushes me forward. I hear him put them on the desk as he propels me to the bed. I have a blurry, fleeting image of the 2nd bed, covered with his toys, before He is pushing me, face-first, to the mattress.

His hand presses my back; i go to my knees. The fist in my hair tightens a moment.


I nod; it’s a minuscule movement but he feels it. He lets go, and in seconds I feel cool air on my ass.

The first whap of the brush on my ass is incredibly painful and tears flood my eyes immediately, only to be wicked away by the bedspread. He hits me again. And again. Until I am crying into the uncaring bed. I hear the brush as He tosses it onto the other bed. It hits something with a metallic chink. Maybe SFCT or his belt?

He lifts me to my feet by my hair, spins me ’round, and kisses me hard as we fall onto the bed.

Hey You, Up There, It’s me, nilla. Like, WTF?

I’m working on breathing.

Deep breath in through my nose, then out.


-I hope-

I am meeting with my Master.

I need it.


I need HIM.

This has been a terrible week in nillaville.

*pauses for a moment*

yanno, I almost cannot resist the urge to go back and erase that word, “terrible”.

Coz…uncool things have happened. The week itself wasn’t terrible. My azaleas are blooming (a month early). My lawn is green, and the maples all have teeny tiny leaves.  My world is rich with the sounds and smells and colors of burgeoning life renewal.

On Tuesday my wife was…extremely unwilling to bend from a position she has taken, and threatened to divorce me if I crossed the line…

uh oh, you are thinking.

she found out about nilla, about the sex, about her Master.

*almost smiles*



is over….

(you really will think I’m making this up.  I’m not.)

Over chicken.

And our kids.

She is a rabid vegetarian.

I am an omnivore.

A few weeks ago, after a particularly busy morning, I swung by McD’s and got the kids happy meals for  literally, the first time, ever.  Chicken nuggets, mini fries, apple slices and a soft drink.

Four chicken nuggets.

I violated the Vegetarian Edict. I broke her trust. I ….I should be tarred and feathered. I should be denounced.

If I do it again, she’ll divorce me.


Would *I* make up that kind of lousy fiction?

I laughed. I said “you’d stand in front of a judge and say you want a divorce coz your wife fed the kids chicken nuggets”

She wasn’t kidding.

And it was like a body blow, yanno? Fine. Fuck it.

Master was there for me that night. As I cried, and whimpered. Not over the possibility of a divorce…but over the cold and uncaring woman I am partnered with. Not the woman I married…she’s…harder, colder. Unyielding.

And I know you’ll say, just do it. Just divorce and be done with it all.

But I can’t.  I’m a full-time stay at home mom. My kids are home with me all day, every day. I’m as deeply bonded to them as they are to me, to be honest.  Leaving them…and let’s be fully real here, would kill me.  Split custody, yada yada.


death would be easier.

So there I am Tuesday night kinda spinning in my own juices. Master gives me an O and I finally decide to take it. Thankfully I got off just two minutes before midnight…as He is quite strict about those sorts of things.

Wednesday dawns, and I’m still emotionally tender. Won’t kiss my wife bye as she leaves for work. Like, are you fucking kidding? I turn my head and keep ironing. Yes. Shocking.

I like to iron.


I get an email from work asking for a meeting in the late afternoon.

And when I go, I am told that my position is being eliminated.


Just like that.

It’s not a giant amount of money. It was one day a week. But it gave me some financial flexibility. It gave me a break from my kids, my family.

And I made a difference for some kids. Kids who never got one-on-one time with an adult. Kids who were craving that kind of attention.

I’ve never been fired before.

Call it what you will. Fired. Eliminated.

My self-worth is not tied to my job.

But I’ve worked at that company, in some form or other, for all of my adult working years.  When we were sold, I knew this day could come.  It still stung.


It still stings.

Not my pride, not really.

It wasn’t “me” they were firing. People like me. I’m good at my job. It was the job that was fired, and I was in it.

Fuck that.

I’m having a bit of temper, a bit of sad about it, if you don’t mind.

Today is Saturday and I should be at work.

Breathing in.

Breathing out.

Tomorrow I will be with my Master, and all will be ….not fixed.

But better.

So much better, just for that touch of Him.




After a long day, she entered the subway, head down.

Make no eye contact.

That was the unstated rule of the subway.

She was pissed that she’d left her book on the kitchen counter this morning. Nothing to read on her breaks at work. Nothing to read on the train home.  Miraculously, a seat opened and she slid into it as the car rocked to and fro.

Another stop, the whoosh of doors. She watched the people ooze their way through the throng of  “standers”, watched the new people squeeze into the little spaces that opened.

He was tall, a head taller than anyone he stood near.  His shoes were shiny. His suit was gray, a rich charcoal.

The doors hissed shut, the train clicked and clacked up to speed. The girl by the door had a skirt so short that her butt cheeks almost hung out.  She giggled with her boyfriend; a high girlish giggle as his hand crept under her skirt and fondled one round moon.

She looked away, embarrassed. Glanced back surreptitiously. It made her squirm. So naughty. So sexy. She pretended not to feel the yearning to be that girl.

The train slowed, the doors whooshed open again. Again the dance of bodies jockeying for exit and entrance. People shifted. It was almost a dance.

The dance of the subway, she smiled to herself.

Mr. Shiny Shoes was closer now. Almost in front of her. She noted that the gray suit had fine black lines running through the fabric. The jacket fell just low enough that she couldn’t really speculate about ….there.

For just a moment she flashed a look up at his face.

He was looking at her, a half-smile on his face.

Like he could read her mind, knew where she had been looking.

Mortified, she looked away.

At 125th Street, she rose, brushing against him, and exited the subway.



After a long day, she entered the subway, head down.

Rain up above meant more travelers down below the city streets.  Last night she’d been restless, and finished her book in bed.  Today she’d stared out at the wet and gloomy city from her office window, thinking of the park. She’d almost gone out, almost taken a break, almost enjoyed the  scent of rain on grass and gardens.


The doors hissed and shooshed open, closed. People pushed harder today, wanting, needing the comforts of home. She was bumped, prodded, moved deeper into the belly of the train.

A hand rested just above hers, warm, despite the chill of the silver railing.

A large hand.

She  looked at it for a moment, then dropped her gaze.

Shiny shoes. And today’s suit was black, jet black.

She felt the heat of his body pressing against her side. He was so much hotter than the heavy woman to her right. Her body yearned toward his heat. She drew in a breath, scenting the exotic smell of sandalwood and male musk. She closed her eyes, imagined running into him in another time, another place.

“Nexxxt stop, 125th Street”  hawked out the driver.

Her eyes flew open, she turned.

He turned.

She looked up.

Eyes so blue. Shocking. Intense. And those gently curved lips.

As she slid across him, through the morass of humanity between her and the door, he whispered “Tomorrow…wear blue.”



After a long day, she entered the subway, glancing around at her fellow passengers.

The day had dawned foggy, but by noon only the tip of the Chrysler Building hung onto the cloud; by days end, the city was stretching, reaching upwards into glossy blue skies.  Her dress was almost that sky color, while her feet wore  a snappy cobalt. Around her throat, a single sapphire, a bequest from her grandmother, winked its blue smile.  She slid into the subway crowd, her purse slung across her body.

Her heart beat fast as she watched for him. She hadn’t ever noted which stop he entered on.  She watched feet come in, crowding, ebbing, flowing. There! Shiny shoes!

51st Street.

She felt his heat against her, her heart racing. She wanted to look up. She didn’t dare to look up. Was that a hand on her hip?

She chanced a quick flick of her eyes to the left.

The handbag of the heavy woman who was always on the train before her. She tried to not let the disappointment puncture the thrill.

The conductor called her stop. She glanced up as she turned. His face was solemn, but his eyes smiled.  Her eyes flicked down as she slid past him. Yet she heard his whispered “Good girl. Tomorrow, black”



After a long day, she entered the subway, head up.

She slipped into a seat almost as soon as it was vacated.  Her book was tucked into her handbag; she’d read it today in the little park near her office. The weekend looked promising, and she planned a little picnic for herself in Central Park.  She smiled as she looked around the loaded car.

She noticed the loving look of the tired mom standing in the alcove framed by the door, a young child strapped in an umbrella stroller, while her toddler sat quietly on the seat next to where she stood. The mother’s fingers danced quickly through the young boys curls in reassurance as the train jiggled and shook around a curve.

She watched the business woman across from her, eyes busily scanning the NY Times she had folded into thirds, while next to her,  a teen sat, eyes closed, enraptured with his ipod. The white earbuds glowed against his ebony skin, and his head nodded with the silent beat of music.

At 52nd Street, he entered the train and worked his way to where she sat, his crotch inches from her mouth. She felt as though she was kneeling, looking up into his face. His incredible eyes roamed the deep vee-neck of her tight black sweater. Her jacket lay across her lap, while her demure mid-thigh skirt rode half way to her crotch.

She was so slutty and daring, she mused with wonder, her eyes and face turning back to look at his feet. His gaze was so intense.

His finger lifted her chin, his smile full, making her heart thunder. Their gazes locked, and the world shifted to just her. To just him.

His finger slid to her lips, demanding entrance, fucking in and out of her mouth.  As the train drew up to her stop, he removed the wet digit, wiping the spit-slicked skin across the top curve of her left tit just above the neckline of her daring sweater.

She rose, brushing against him, for a moment, crotch to crotch. She felt the hardness bulging outward against his navy suit pants as if seeking her. Her pussy responded with a thick lurch. He pressed  a card into her hand, and she wrapped her fingers tight around it, like a treasure.

She smiled as she exited the train.



She stepped onto the train with a lilt. The air above ground was warm, the breeze had gently tossed her hair to disarray. She didn’t notice.  Her heart thudded against her teal tank top. Her nipples pressed against the cotton, announcing her arousal to the world. Her bra was clasped in her hand, rolled as tightly as she could.  Her pussy was wet and weeping, as it had been all day.

She counted the swooshing of doors opening and closing, her anxiety and awareness growing as they neared his stop.

He slid up behind her. His fingers took the bra from her. She heard the rustle of his clothing; she imagined that large hand slipping up under his suitcoat, pressing her intimate apparel into his pants pocket.

She didn’t turn, didn’t look;  she had been given her instructions on the back of yesterdays card. There’d been no  ‘good girl’. No smile. Nothing but that finger, fucking her mouth. Right there, on the train, in front of anyone who happened to look her way.  And she understood.

He was training her.

She had wrestled with that.  All that night, as her lips continued to tingle with the memory of his touch.  He was more than just a business man, just as she was more than just a business woman. She’d never met someone on the train before.

It wasn’t the done thing.

It wasn’t safe.

Nor the ‘proper’ way to meet a Dom.

Yet, here she was, her bra in his pocket. Pantiless.  Heart thumping. Cunt drooling with want.

She felt a hand on her hip. The train was crowed, the press of people desperate for the weekend to start, as soon as they reached their exit, and freedom from the week’s toil.

The fingers began to walk on her hip, slowly sprocketing her skirt higher. She felt the whoosh of air as the doors opened, closed, against the bottom of her ass, and tried to quell the shiver.

So fucking naughty.

So dirty.

She felt the finger slipping along her ass crack, felt the sharp and sudden pinch of flesh between fingernails. She rose to her toes with a gasp, hidden by the screech of the train as the brakes slowed them for the next stop.

The questing finger found her wetness, smearing a path to her asshole. Pressed deeper, upward.

She wanted to protest.

She wanted more.

Pain. Lust. Embarrassment.

She had a stranger’s finger up her ass.

She shifted, pressing back against it. Felt the chuckle against her asshole as his body shook with his laugh. The wisp of warm air against her ear as he spoke, low-voiced.

“Tomorrow. Central Park, Alice in Wonderland. Dusk. Dress…enticingly.”

The finger pulled out of her ass, even as the train slowed;  the doors opened at 125th street. She exited slowly, delaying the moment when the doors would separate them. The door snicked shut behind her as lust leaked down her thigh.


Her skirt billowed in the shifting winds. The day had been full of puffy clouds, gusting breezes. It was cool, but bearable. Her top was silk, blue, and pressed against her breasts in the wind. Her nipples rose in the coolness, with the stimulation of silk and air.

And arousal.

She was so aroused.

She sat on the edge of the platform, looking at the creatures of the massive statue. Alice rose above her, her face full of joy. She caught a flash of movement through the branches that blocked the view from the east path. Her attention shifted. He strode towards her. Her heartbeat thickened, slowed, then sped up, while her breath came in short bursts.



They rode at a furious pace within her.

His hand came out to cup her cheek, to capture her chin. His lips touched hers, gently.

“Let’s see where this takes us, hmmm sub-girl?”

With a laugh, she slid her hand into his, and they began their journey together.

Love, Master’s Way

He rarely says “I love you” to me.

Not in those words.

He says it when He comforts me from vanilla-life wounds.

When He says

Here’s what you do….when you need me, call me. Right then, right there. If I can answer, I will. If  I can’t, I’ll call you as soon as I am able. Got it?

He may not say the words…but it is woven through every text, every pinch, every bruise, and everything He does to, for and with me.


I love You, Master.

non sequitur

non se-qui-tur/, nan ‘sekwiter/

noun:   A conclusion or statement that does not logically follow from the previous argument or statement.
Aahhh, New York City.
What a wonderful, decadent place. Women in heels up to there, dresses down to there, men in suits and crisp ties (ohgods…I do love a man in a suit…(and jeans, and nekkid….but I digress))…So many people to see, a veritable sea of humanity ebbing and flowing down the dirty streets of New York.
Looking up.
Looking around.
Looking down.
The whirrrrrr of the subway (and the subsequent rush of musty hot air) through the sidewalk gratings.
And oh, there are stories to be told—  the subway enticed my imagination!
The theater … *biiiig smile*
We drive home last night through intense rain, buffeting winds. Teenage girls in the back seats, talking about things from text etiquette, to boys, to NYC, to boys… a pleasant counterpoint to the road-fog and pounding rain outside the van.
Finally back to our starting point, we decant, unload, and finally the teen kiddo and I can head home.
And then it’s time for bed, which means time to call my Master.
We talk.   We laugh.
He is happy; the Bruins won and go to game 7 (I am banned from calling or texting Wednesday night, LOL!), and we talk about our families, about NY, about the horrid (but needed ) weather, the drive home…
Finally, His voice falls to a “tender” place…and He sends me to bed without an O, which I pout about, a little. Maybe more because I feel I should push for every opportunity? Coz I was one tired nilla-slut. Five hours of driving, two days of walking…yes, I did  need to sleep.
“Go to sleep slut.”
I yawn, and I swear I can hear Him smile through the phone.
“See? You’re too tired to touch. Go to sleep nilla.”
“Yes, Master.”   Less obedience than capitulation, I admit. I yawn, apologizing.
Oh, and nilla?
“Yes, Master?”  I am sleepy-voiced now,  slurry with fatigue.

On that time that we finally get together, sometime in June or November or what-the-fuck-ever time it is…(His voice drops lower, softer) I’m going to fist-fuck you. Goodnight little girl.

Just Another Wednesday…

It’s Wednesday morning and I am just now writing my blogpost. And I’m feeling no pressure about it, not at all.

You would not believe how hard I’m trying to *skip* a post! It’s bloody hard work, for a wordy slut like me!

My stories are starting to return. I’ve been working on Felicitations, for those of you who thought it might fall by the wayside. I’m planning on writing it to the very end, but that likely won’t happen until next week….this week is chock-full of Vanilla-ville stuff.

Even though I homeschool my kids, there are lots of things happening in the community this week of school vacation (we don’t take school vacations…learning happens all the time, right?) So I’ve been busy with those sorts of things, and now that my kids are older and don’t need supervision every second, I can start to get those yukky house tasks that have languished for years.

I threw out Tupperware.

(laughing…who doesn’t have a drawer full of old and yuk tupperware?)

I cleaned closets, organized closets, aired out the guest room…all kinds of boring and mundane stuff…and as I work, I begin to fantasize. What would happen if…

or what about…

oh! I never thought of *that* in a D/s world. Oh my.

*fans face*

So…although my day planner is full of vanilla tasks, there is a nasty little D/s storm brewing under it all.

And of course, I’m totally sexually frustrated. A vibe is great, but it sure doesn’t replace the Man doing what-the-fuck-ever He wants with me, right?


I might skip a day. In fact, I can guarantee that I won’t have time to cram in stories for this weekend, when I will be in NYC. I’m busy every moment leading up to that. (My mother in law will be coming while I’m gone…ergo…tidying…if only I could keep my wife from messing things up in my wake…I swear she’s like another kid sometimes!)

I’m going to break the writing streak before the 2nd anniversary of the writing streak.

Tomorrow will be HNT for sure……Master’s rule…..but that may be the last you hear from me until Monday. Or…Tuesday.