Saturday Catch Up…and Sex!

It”s been quite a week, with kiddo’s here and there, finishing one project and LEAPING into another…I’m getting a workout, to be sure. I think I’ve been up and down that ladder of mine more in the last 3 weeks than in the last two years. And that includes hanging Christmas lights!!

Tuesday night I was supposed to have an O from Master. Well, He did give it, but after I wrote my blogpost, and crawled up the bed….I did the unthinkable.

I fell asleep.

Hard asleep.

Deep asleep.

I slept like a frigging ROCK, people!! I’ve been struggling with insomnia for the last several weeks, and BaM! I’m not sure why it was Tuesday that I had to do the catch-up sleep…but it meant that there was no possibility of an O when I finally roused myself a wee bit…at 12:33 a.m. You know the rule…the day ends at midnight, and if the O doesn’t happen by then, too bad, so denied and sad. There was also the thought in my head that Master would make me forgo having an O until our Friday night phone date.

Wednesday I started my bid to get Him to let me have a Wednesday night orgasm.  I texted. I cajoled. Not too much…it’s a fine line between begging and being  a total pain in the ass  for Him.  After a bit of teasing, and I admit this…some absolutely shameless  tit pictures (like this one)

that I took on the phone and sent to Him to soften Him up… (and this one)

and then this one…The pink shade on my nightstand lamp always makes the pictures have this rosy hue, and I can’t help but think of the song Roxanne by Sting/Police…You don’t have to put on the red light…(yes, I do!).

To my absolute surprise, He gave me an orgasm Wednesday night! He did call me a cunt, which I knew He would, knowing that I was being totally slutty in sending Him the cleavage shots I know He really likes. This is one of the few times I’ve actually used my rack to attempt to wheedle something from Him…usually I just send Him titpix to cheer Him up during the day. (His job is dead boring, from my perspective, anyway…!)

I’m almost ashamed it worked. Well, I had to remind Him that this week featured His insisted-on HNT shots, and that made Him so happy that He was swayed to give me the orgasm I was dying for.

He did say He is looking forward to seeing me in a few weeks for playtime…He told me  that one of His greatest pleasures was hurting me, followed by fucking me, and being sucked off.

That just gave me the wonderfulest thrill. He looks forward to beating me! I feel giddy.

Thank goodness it’s you-all reading this, you with your own forms of perversions…because I find it thrilling that He enjoys this so much…and really it’s the first time it’s ever come up like that before.

And it made my pussy throb even more.

And it makes me long for mid-July to get here sooner. (And of course, that just brings us closer to football season!! But I’m not going down that road today. Not going to talk about Tom Brady and his hair, or passes and touchdowns…nope!)

So I need to back up in time a bit, to the Wednesday night O. No, actually, to the MONDAY night O.  Because that’s when it happened….a dreadful faux pax, a fuck up of epic proportions!

Yes, the unthinkable occurred.

You know nilla is the *perfect* submissive, right? (I do try!) I do as instructed, ordered, told. I listen, I obey, I follow-through.


Sometimes?  I fuck up.

I’ve got an ongoing rule … after He gives me an O, I need to write Him an email detailing it. Not *right* after, but in the morning.  He wants to know how His little “fuck with nilla’s head” games have played out.  Did it bother me about the clothespins on my belly? How tough was the clit torture I had to do…etcetera.

If there are extenuating circumstances, I can text Him and explain. For instance, He knows I must leave for work very early on Saturdays now, and can’t do an O report about FNF until Saturday  night.  But if I don’t initiate a “why”…it better be there for Him.

And Tuesday? I forgot.


Just plain forgot.

Tuesday is our “lovey-dovey” He wasn’t going to punish me then…and I thought..He’d forget.

I did eventually do it…but it was verrah late…around 1130 p.m. so He didn’t see it until the next morning, Wednesday morning.

Rut. Roe.

Don’t ever, ever EVAH assume that your Dom/Domme has forgotten that you screwed up. EVAH!

Thursday is ZNN day…NO touching. None. Just sit and stew in my juices…and deal with all the horny-inspired texts He zings at me through the day. Just as I calm down from one…*bing* in comes the next. He keeps me stirred up all day, without laying a finger on me.

Except for this past Thursday.

Coz, yanno, fuck up.

“How’s your clit?” He asks me via text. He’d really had me torture it, and then the during the Wednesday O that He’d gifted me with, I’d done it again. So by Thursday, yes indeed, my clit was tender. Throbby. Sensitive.

And so I told Him all that.

“Well, we need to protect it then, nilla.”

Hmmm, I think. WTF? His next text makes it crystal.

“Put a band-aid over your clit. Start at 9 a.m. Change it every three hours. Send pix. Change every three hours until your ass is in bed…or midnight if you’re stupid enough to stay up that late.”

I’ll admit it here and now.

I read it again. And …again. And then I text Him back my meek response.. “Yes, Sir”.

So on a day when I am usually NOT allowed to touch, my fingers were fumbling against my clit…band-aid on…then the clit was being stimulated with every movement (devious Man!), then fingers fumbling 3 hours later to get the old bandaid off…and the new one on.

By day’s end? I was so wound up I was oozing pussy juice.  So much so that in my final pussy pic, Master had thought I’d cum. I hadn’t…but I was decidedly, and very visibly,  aroused.

And it was fucking ZNN….and it would be hours and hours and hours before I could get any sort of relief.

It’ll be a long, long time before I make that kind of fuck-up again. Rules. I have ’em. And I plan to follow them most carefully in the future!

Dr. Strangeguy? Is that you?

I know the drill. Go in, ring the bell (how Pavlovian!), go lay on the brown leather sofa.

I go into the room with the little  green light on beside it, showing that it’s open and available. The sofa…is gone. A large oil painting has replaced the prints that I’ve suspected have been torn out of old copies of Down East.  There are a couple of new chairs…rather comfortable looking, but I forgo them to wander over to look at the painting.

Paintings intrigue me. I love to see the strokes of the artist, try to capture the feeling that he or she has attempted to share with the world. That’s why I don’t get Picasso, really. It feels …lifeless. Give me a John Singer Sargent, or any of the Wyeth’s,  any day. Show me some pieces from the Hudson River School, Thomas Cole or Fredrick Church, instead of some modern art that features concrete blocks stacked up strangely.

This painting is big. And it’s trees. Lots of trees. I peer closely at it. There’s something different about it, but I can’t tell what it is. I take a step back, tilting my head.

“Ah, so you like it then, nilla?”

I jump. I didn’t hear the door open. Not a whisper of sound.  I jerk around abruptly.

“Doctor?”  He too is somehow different. His hair is a bit less unkempt (although usually by the end of a session with me, he’s run his hand through it a million times, which always make me giggle inside), his beard is shaved neatly, and close to his face. His jeans do nothing to hide his bandi-legged walk as he approaches me and takes my hand.

“Now, nilla, come and sit and let us talk about all that has gone on with you in the months since your last visit.”

Is there, perhaps a bit of censure in that jovial tone? Okay, so I’ve had to cancel a few visits, but time has been pretty tight for me. Even now, I’m sneaking in here between camp for the teen, and activities for my littles. It’s a constant juggling act.

“What happened here?” I blurt out. “It looks so…”

“new?” He looks at me, waggling his brows. “Well, nilla, I’ve had an uptick in the amount of patients I’ve been seeing; perhaps letting it be known on your blog that you were coming here had something to do with that, eh?”

I clear my throat. I know counseling sessions are usually private, but I had thought that was for *my* confidentiality. I can’t tell if the good Doctor is pleased or frustrated at his new-found popularity.

“So,” he continues, interrupting my thought-ramble, “I’ve done a bit of upgrading, making the office a bit more..appealing. What do you think?” He waves his hand around the office. I nod, and smile. I like the changes. I do. The painting captures my attention once more.

“I love the painting, Doctor S,”  and I point towards the mammoth thing on the wall. “But there is something…strange about it.”

He smiled, folding his hands in his lap.

“Really? What could be strange about a painting about trees?” He is leading me into a discussion on painting? I had thought we’d talk about my fears of becoming a nymphomaniac because I’m always thinking about sex, and sexy fantasies, and seeing sex stories everywhere.

“Well,” I say, conscious that I *am* in a shrink’s office, “I kind of feel that there’s something in there, looking at me.”

He smiles. “But nilla, do you actually see anything there?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then, Ivy is doing a good job hiding from you. Perhaps she’s shy about coming out and asking you to finish telling her tale. She’s waited a very long time to get fucked, you know. And off in the back corner is a mansion with a rowdy group of Doms and subs, just waiting to have a wild and perverted sex scramble at camp…yet you’ve failed to make time for their story as well.”

I sit back in my chair, a bit stung by the implied reprimand.

“You can’t see it,” he continues, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, “but there’s a garage way off to the west. The mechanic isn’t there, he’s at home with a couple he’s picked up, and made his sluts. But not much has been happening there, since their creator ditched them for other “more important” stories.  And let’s not even mention the haunted antique gown that is still flapping in the wind AND the woman stuck for 30 days in a house being a sex slave for a man who has only fucked her once. ”

He sat back in his chair, his gaze at once sharp and accusing.

“Nilla. You’ve let people down. Your readers CARE about the endings of these stories; stories that only YOU can end for them.  Of course, you could drop a bomb on them and wipe them all away, start with a clean slate.”

He pauses, takes a breath.

“I think we both know you won’ t do that, don’t we my girl? You care far to much about all those characters to simply dispose of them. So. Get off your damned ass, and start writing, girl.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times. He glares at me. Really. I mean…really?

“uhm….I’ll start working on the older stuff, Doctor, if you think that’s best. I…it know, Doc, it does bother me to have all those dangling stories out there, unresolved and blowing in the wind. I guess you’re right, it would clear up the guilt and clutter in my mind.”

Impulsively, I leap up and hug him. What a dear man!

He pulls me out of the hug by my hair, pushing me down over his lap and lifts my skirt. It’s my favorite one, all brilliant bold summer colors. He pulls, folds, pulls and folds. It’s a very long skirt. Finally I feel his hand caressing the back of my thigh and I wiggle and giggle a bit.

“Be still.” He orders sternly.

“This will hurt me far more than…oh hell, we both know that isn’t at all true, don’t we nilla? And since you say you’re a painslut, enjoy.”

The swats on my ass were not  gentle, but they did serve as an effective reminder. My very tender end reminded me of all those other ” ends”  left hanging. All those characters left to dangle out in the inter-ether.   I knew now what  I needed to focus on.  Sitting, writing, and *finishing* tales.  Working on them, despite the pain in the ass it sometimes is…and finally get them to where they were meant to be….

…the end.

HNT Glazed


isn’t going to be what you think it is.

Not glazed from sexual overload from our last playdate,

nor that insensate feeling of helplessly falling into sub-space after hours of





Nope, not that kind of glazed at all.

Maybe if you saw my face when He told me which HNT to post, preempting my  regularly scheduled HNT post for this one…

maybe that look on my face was dazed.

And embarrassed.

But not “glazed”…

I am reminded of the time when puppy wrote of a similar edict from her Master.

You submissives out there…you understand.

They command.

We obey.

So today, per Master’s …..”request”… I offer…

nilla’s  “glazed” tits…

(oh the embarrassment…)


Pulling out My Hair…

…one strand at a time.

My life is so frikking CRAZY. Or maybe it’s just my kids MAKING me crazy.


(that should be a calming yoga breath. In. Out. In. Out. But right now? It more closely resembles  hyperventilation. Just sayin’….)

Today, (Tuesday as I write this and 11 pm…hey, didn’t I say I wasn’t gonna do this anymore???) I had two things on my agenda. Okay, three. Four tops.

1. finish putting together the renovated room (hanging pictures, primarily)

check. That’s done.

2. write.

um. no.

3. ironing

it was a COLD day here in New’s 55 just now, and my fans are off and next week is the 4th of July and last week it was almost 100 in my room (and outside) CRAZY!!!

but no, the ironing didn’t happen, either.

4. laundry.

nope. pleasant surprise here…with number 2 son away at camp this week, the laundry hasn’t needed to be done every damned day (He is such a Beau Brummell!)

What did happen was a LOT…and I mean a LOT of squabbling with the two youngers. The house is back together, basically…but things are in different places, the room looks totally different from before and I’m getting ready to jump into the next room…

There was poking.

Then punching.

Then screaming.

Then tantrums.

And that was just me.

heh. Just kidding.

Seriously, they were off the frikking wall today. Some days are like that…but when they happen, I really can’t do much of anything but supervise them closely.

Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, with a trek into Beantown in the late afternoon (oh joy) (NOT).  And errands, and and and…

boring vanilla shit.

If this isn’t the saddest excuse for a sex blog post, I don’t know what is.

hmmm…sexy stuff?

I had a delightful conversation with Master Monday night, and we played a guessing game, and I wheedled an extra guess out of him…and won an Orgasm!

Of course He had to put his own sadistic stamp on it, with my clamps (which haven’t seen much action of late) and the chain in my mouth, and the vibe on high on my clit and all that good stuff…

All lead to a ginormous orgasm…

And I slept so wonderfully hard…it was wonderful.

And now, if I don’t get my ass in bed, I’m going to screw up my Tuesday orgasm…and that would suck giant turkey vulture balls.

(isn’t that a pretty picture? ewww. )


Okay, that’s gross. How about this picture instead?

Yeah…now *that’s* a sex blog post!

The Almost End of me…


I did debate about sharing this here. Public venue and all that. But…being the attention whore I am (and you know us bloggers are exactly that)…and because I am so fucking FUCKING relieved…I will tell you my near-death story.

A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away..oh wait, that’s another tale, isn’t it. Sorry Mr. Lucas! Okay, so…we’re remodeling here in nilla ville, and 99% of the work is falling on my shoulders. Room one is done with the work, now I’m putting it back together.

And when you do one room over, and it looks fabulous, you know that all the other rooms around it start to look …well, shabby. So I decided, as I was putting things back together in room A, to take apart and move things around in room B to start working on that one. This room is smaller, significantly so, but it may have more actual work to it (like major wall work). That’s okay, now that I’ve got three weeks of renov work under my belt, I’m stronger and feeling better about moving into phase 2.


There was major, mega-major electrical work done here 4-5 years ago, and we had an electric heater disconnected during that. We know need the extra space that we’d get by removing it and I think, what the hell…I’ll yank it now, and get it out of the way NOW. I get it off the wall after about 15 minutes of unscrewing…and find the wire is still attached.

I get my wire cutters and look at the thick white wire.

And then I hear the voice. The one that says “nilla…are you sure that the heater is disconnected?”

I’m home alone with my eldest, disabled son, and my two littles. And I think, what if the wire is live? And I cut it? BLAM! That’s what. And how awful would that be for my kids? And I thought of Master, not hearing from me and not knowing for a while.

And I listened to that voice.

My neighbor is an electrician. I went next door and asked him to come check it for me.

The fucking thing was live. 220 volts. Holy fuckaroni, Batman! Thankfully, C was able to disconnect it, kill it dead, and I got it out….but what a scare. His face, when he looked up at me and said “This is still live. 220 volts of live. Thank God you didn’t cut it.”


Master was a little freaked when I told Him about it tonight. So much so that He even gave me a Jubilation O (with restrictions…hell, He may be happy I’m still here, but He’s still a Dom!)

So, that’s the end of my little tale…without it being the end of my not-so-little tail!

Or as they say in storyland…”All’s well that ends well!”


In the darkness, when the sun goes down, and you lay your weary head upon your pillow, think of me.

As you lay on your soft cotton sheets, stroking your soft, velvety folds

think of me

touching in your stead.

Remember the feel of my fingers caressing those warm moist lips,

my mouth tasting

the heated honey

that drips steadily

from your desperately wanton tunnel.

As you toss to and fro on your bed tonight,

you’ll remember

my fingers moving inside of you,

slick with lust, until you burst from the joy of it.

In the dark, alone,

remember me.

Writer 3 (fini)

Her lip quivered, her bottom ached, and she was in heaven. It didn’t seem to matter anymore, that the man currently using a variety of her cooking utensils to swat her bottom, was her boss.  Once more she heard him shuffling through her drawer, then shutting it, and foraging through another.

He moved silently, and she moaned audibly when he struck her. There was a loud crack as he hit her bare ass, and she whimpered, shifting.

“I didn’t tell you to move, slut.”

Her head fell forward, resting on her hands on the counter before her.

Her voice, when it came was breathy and muffled.

“Sorry Sir. That really hurt, Sir.”

He cracked her ass again.

“Good…it’s supposed to. Your ass is almost as red as your blushing tits were earlier. You color easily.”

His hand caressed her hot bottom, the circles smoothing over all the sore spots, and she moaned again. So good, it felt so good to have his hands on her. His fingers swept under the curve of her ass, and across her lower lips.

“You are so wet, little girl. So naughty. Is that little clit of yours throbbing?” He laughed as his fingers found that engorged bud of flesh, and rubbed it hard. She moaned, and gasped, shocked and awed at what he had done to her in the few minutes since he’d arrived on her doorstep.

The coffee spat and sizzled the last few drops into the pot. Reaching around her, he took up the mugs. She daren’t move; she listened to the sound of the brew filling the mug with hunger…and annoyance. She wanted coffee, but more, she wanted him to keep touching her.

She heard him sip. He was right behind her.

“Now that is as pleasant a view as I’ve ever seen, so early on a Saturday. It’s almost similar to the times when you’ve leaned across my desk to fetch things for me, and I got to imagine your ass just like this.”

She shook her head. He didn’t. He hadn’t. Had he?


“yes slut?”

“You…noticed me?”

“Every day. And I know, too, little girl, that you saw me at the club this spring. I wonder…why didn’t you approach me, instead of pretending to be invisible in the corner?”

“I …I was scared. Afraid…of how much I wanted you. And you were having fun with all those women with big…” her voice trailed off.

“I like tits. I like them in every size and shape. The pear shaped ones, and the tiny apples. The cones of nipples, the eraser nipples, and the tiny shy ones.  And it wont’ be much longer before I am introduced to yours…but from what I could see when you answered the door…they’re perfect.”

“Now, slut. You asked me something a few minutes ago. Do you remember?”

She nodded, then remembered His insistence upon saying it. She swallowed. “Sir….will you…fuck me?”

“With great pleasure.”

She heard the mug hit the counter, and the squeak of his shoe as he crossed the floor behind her…and in moments his shaft slid home into her wet and welcoming pussy. He fucked her hard, and deep, with a controlled violence that thrilled her. His hand would slap her ass, then grip into her hips hard enough that she knew she’d be marked. His cock filled her hole, as his hips crammed him deeply up into her belly. From behind, he wedged himself between her splayed legs, and plowed into her welcoming pussy. She was tight; he stretched her. She was wet…he slid into her on moist flesh. She was thrusting back at him, begging him with her body for more.

Harder, deeper, pounding her, pummeling her body with his rapid, firm strokes, he felt her muscles clench down on him, squeezing him, enticing him to jettison his load with her. He felt her wetness saturate her, felt it drip to the floor between their feet with every withdrawal, felt her groaning in the head of his cock with every deep thrust.

His balls churned, and he rose to his toes, his hands seeing her tits through her shirt, using them to propel himself further into her body. When his orgasm slashed through him, pouring his gift into her, he lay his head on her back, panting.

Her breath was ragged, her fingers clenched around the edge of the counter. After an eternity, he pulled out, pulled her up and around and fastened his mouth to hers in a searing, hot kiss. Then pushing her to her knees, he firmly advised her to clean him up.

She never enjoyed a chore more.


It was late. Saturday was drawing to a close, and Sunday was hovering on the horizon. He was sleeping, as she should be. They had spent the day talking. And fucking. And teasing. And fucking. And sucking.

She was flying with endorphins and was restless. Silently she crossed to her small desk, and woke her sleeping computer. She booted up and prepared to write her second, and last entry.

She looked over to where he lay, tousled, and so sexy, even in sleep. Pulling her keyboard close, she began to write of joy.

Writer 2

Hand shaking, she dialed her boss on his cell. He answered on the fourth ring, when her stomach was doing swandives, and she was just about ready to disconnect.

“Well, hello, Dru. What a good girl, calling me like this, and on a Saturday morning.”

His tone was silky, and just shy of sarcastic. Her heart continued its rapid course. She felt sweaty, flushed and just a bit sick. Was she talking to her boss? Or her boss the Dom? She simply wasn’t certain.

“So you enjoy writing, Drusilla?”

There was a pregnant pause. Embarrassment supplanted the nerves.  He waited her out, until at last she hmmmed and ummed into a soft ‘yes’.

“And you enjoy writing that sort of thing, and just putting it out there for the entire world to masturbate to, hmmm?”

Her toes curled against the carpeting, her elbows squeezed against her sides, her eyes closed. She was so fucking embarrassed!


“Quite a bit of stuttering going on there, little girl. Come and open your door.”

Her eyes flew open.  Still clutching the phone to her ear, she ran down the stairs  and stood behind her door.

“Well?” His voice came from beside her, and she jumped, forgetting for a moment she still had the phone on. Fumbling, she unlocked the door, pulled it open. He stood just beyond the screen, looking down at her. He was dressed in comfortable khacki pants, and a tee-shirt. She pushed open the screen and spoke into the phone.

“Come in.”

He laughed.

“Oh, Drusilla, you are the perfect picture of embarrassment. You’ve blushed all the way to the tops of your very pretty titties.”

Following his finger, which traced a path from her cheek to her collarbone to the top of her cleavage, she noted that she was still wearing her hand-me-down wifebeater tank top, and a pair of comfortably shabby boxers, her traditional summer sleepwear.


“Sir. Let’s save Mr. Humphrey for work, shall we?”

She nodded, mute with shock. Was she dreaming? Was this all an elaborate dream she was having, after writing that first blog entry? She pinched herself; ouch! She was very definitely awake….unless of course she was dreaming  that  she pinched herself…no…no, she was not even going down that road.

“How about you save the pinching for me?” He looked at her. She knew that he understood how totally unsettled she was.

“Nice house.” He looked around the small, neat living room. Beyond, the dining room with its antique table. And on the other side of the living room lay the formal parlor.

“I. . . it was my Grandmother’s. She left it to me when she passed. I–she…we were very close.”

He nodded, taking note of the antiques sprinkled here and there. The house very much suited his Drusilla; light and airy curtains at the windows, the breeze blowing them gently, filling the room with the sweet scent of honeysuckle from the garden beyond. The couch was floral, the television across from it, unobtrusively tucked into an antique-looking armoire. Even the DVD’s stacked inside it were neat.

So much order and neatness, hiding a cauldron of sexy desire. He smiled.

“Shall we talk?”

She moved into the kitchen and turned on her coffee pot.


Her eyes moved from the cabinet where she was taking down thick white mugs, over to where he stood, at the vee where the two counters came together. On the opposite side of the large farmer’s sink, the coffee maker hissed its siren call, as the aroma of morning filled the air.

She swallowed nervously.


“Are you wet?”

The question threw her, and she fumbled, nearly dropping one of the mugs. She caught it before it hit the counter, then braced her hands on either side, heart racing, and not from the near-miss with the mug.  His hands came over hers, and she felt him behind her. Close behind her.

He moved closer.

His cheek brushed her ear. “you embarrass so easily, little one. This is going to be great fun, isn’t it? Of course, if this is too much for you, you can say no. At any time…tell me enough…and it will be done. No harm to your career. But your blog was pretty specific.”

He paused, as his hands slipped up from hers, to caress her arms. He raised goose-flesh, and she felt her nipples harden in response.

‘Gods, don’t let me be dreaming,’ she begged herself.

“And Drusilla? You haven’t answered my question yet. Perhaps I should find out for myself?”

She froze. His right hand rose up over her shoulder, caressing down her back, and slowly moved over the curve of her ass.

“Open your legs wider.”

She shifted, opening. Her heart beat was so loud she was amazed that he couldn’t hear it.

He cupped her pussy through the thin boxers, the heat of his hand fueling her fire, and she whimpered, and pushed down against it, seeking more.

His voice was a low, warm murmur near her ear.

“There’s the horny little girl I read about last night. That’s it, go for it…” His fingers curled, rubbing against her clit and lips. She groaned, and rubbed against his hand.

And then it dropped away.

“Shall I fuck you, then?”

She nodded.

“Say it. Tell me what you want, you greedy, horny slut.”

She was mortified. And so turned on she could barely breathe.

“Sir? I want you to fuck me. Please Sir? Will you…fuck me?”

Dru felt his chuckle against her back.

“Was that so very hard, little slut?”

“yes, Sir, it was.”

“hmmm, I don’t think it was as hard as …this..” There was the sound of a zipper, and the soft whoosh of fabric as it slid down his legs. She pictured his shorts pooled around his ankles. With a tug, he pulled her boxers down, and hooking his arm around her belly, pulled her back until she was leaning forward, bent at the waist.

“So, Dru. You really want me to fuck this pussy of yours? It’s dripping down your thigh, you know.”

She blushed. She had never said such dirty things aloud before. Even writing them had been so difficult for her. Hearing them was exciting. That was part of the draw of going to the Play Party that time. She’d hung back, shy and awkward. Everyone else was having a great time, including Nick. Which had shocked her no end. Watching him touching and pinching those girls who gathered around him.

His eyes had swept the room, but had likely missed her, tucked in the corner as she was. But she had been so turned on as she watched his whip-play with a submissive, and later, as he dripped wax on another. He was so sexy! She’d gone home that night and masturbated to several incredible orgasms.

And now, Nick was here. Her boss, bending her over her coffee mugs, and touching her pussy.

“Drusilla? You keep forgetting to answer me. One might think you were …preoccupied…” And he laughed, that sexy hot laugh that never failed to excite her. Her clit…throbbed.

“Yes, Sir. Yes! I want you to fuck my pussy.”

Thank goodness her face was over the counter. His hand left her wet center, and she gasped when he took her head by the hair, bending it back. Her eyes looked up at his, shocked.

And so fucking excited she thought she might explode right there! No wonder girls loved to get their hair pulled!

“Where are your utensils, Dru?”

Her eyes widened. She stuttered out what drawer they were in. Releasing her head, he bid her to “stay.”

Like she was a dog.

Her head fell forward, she was panting heavily, so aroused she could barely stand it. She heard him rummaging around in the utensil drawer, the sound of various things being moved, from the ting of a pancake turner to the scrape of her serving spoon. She wondered which…


Her head rose, her rump quivered.

“Oh, that was nice.”

He hit her jutting ass again.

15 Seconds

I begged. I might have whined just a wee bit.

“nilla, you are tired. you worked hard today with your house project. And more tomorrow. And the heat.
“Masterrrrrrrrr…I’m such a horny slut!”

“you were born horny nilla.”

“OH Master, puleeeeze?”


“Okay nilla, you get one O”

Then silence. I breathe a thank you and then silence. I let it go for a moment.


“Isn’t this the part where you ask Me about what conditions you may have this O under?”

“Oh, no, Master… a very wise Man once told me to take what I got and run with it, and don’t ask questions.”

He laughs. “you’re a smart slut.”

I laugh.  “Thank You, Master.”

“Now, the conditions are…” (I groan) “Shuddup, nilla”

(i giggle)

“You remember when I grab your pussy right there at the top, two fingers just inside your cunt, and pull up and squeeze the shit out of your clit?”

“Yes Master….(soft moan)…”  This always, always ALWAYS makes me cum, cum Hard, and often squirt. NO matter HOW many O’s I’ve had before.

Even when I lay there begging for Him to stop…that I can’t…don’t…have anything left…if He grabs me there and finger fucks me …I cum.

“I want you to do that when you work for your O…no. Wait.”

He pauses a moment, and I hear Him shift in his seat. “Get your dildo. NOW!”

He all but barks it at me. “Hurry up, slut. Got it?”

“Yes Master, got it…”

“Grab that pussy…GRAB IT!…Now FUCK.. fuck your cunt, you little whore…”

and I am UP UP over the edge, cumming like a crazed woman. Slut. Whatever.

I start to laugh, still so turned on, so pumped ….

“Oh Master, I came, came hard. Again…Your voice…the memory, the pull…”

There is a moment of silence.


“15 seconds, nilla. You little slut! It only took 15 seconds for you to cum.”

I giggle.

“Well, Master, I told you I was horny.”

“Yeah, well, you were born horny. Air makes you horny.” He is amused. I hear the laugh in his voice, the tenderness there, too. And the almost amazed head-shaking…I can hear that in His next comment, too. And it makes me smile.

“Little slut.”

HNT: Torture

He tortures me in a lot of ways. He uses the toys, from the beautiful silver fucking cake server, which stings like a bitch, to the large plastic salad fork, which feels horrible.

All of which turns me on. Painslut, much?

He pokes with his fingers and thumbs, leaving HUGE bruises on me. Who woulda thunk it? Here is the right arm…the last lingering traces of his bite…and the new, purple “poke” marks:

Now, the other side is more painful, coz He hit the same spot over and over, as I stood there. Just little jabs, mind you. We were in the parking lot, and not a place where you’d expect to see a guy waling away at a bear in mind that to the outside world it just looked like a teasing, tickling kind of poke.

If only “they” knew how wicked His finger pokes are…

(isn’t this a different sort of HNT?!)  It’s almost impossible to get this in without some tit. Bear with me here…(somehow I think most of you won’t mind!)

Purty colorful, yes? And amazing to this painslut how fast it purpled up …this was like…a 3 minute thing…


Over and above this? And the other stuff we do? And oh, we do some wicked things together… 🙂

He is the Master of the Mind-Fuck.

Take our last visit, 2 weeks ago. We’re going to a place kind of far away, and He wants me to ride with Him. Which is really fun. But before we leave, He stops at a grocery store.

“Wait here.”

I sit and take out my phone, check my email (I have a “stupid” phone…but I can read email on it!!), look at the clouds scudding across the blue blue sky…and wait. He comes back to the car, opens my door, and hands me the 6 pack of sparking water.

  He takes one bottle out, and indicates that I’m to keep the rest by my feet. He offers me one, but i’m not too thirsty yet, and I have no idea how long we’ll be driving and you know how men are when women need to pee when they’re driving. (laughing)

Eventually we arrive at the destination (a hotel, of course), and He drains the bottle of water and hands the bottle to me. The bottle in the picture above, to be specific. We gather our things, including the other water, and He asks for my help in grabbing a file folder for some papers He’s bringing upstairs.  I love helping Him.  Eventually, we are all collected, and we go to our room.

He hands me the folder with the paper, bidding me to put down my stuff.

All except for the water bottle.

His eyes are glowing and I wonder …what the fuck?  He’s not jumping me, not attacking my feet. Nothing is how it usually is on a play day. He points at the folder.

“Open it.” His voice is gruff and for just a moment my heart leaps into my throat. Is He…terminating our relationship? But no. There is a picture inside the folder.

A picture of one of the fattest cocks I’ve ever seen in my life.

Propped up against the man’s groin is a 16.9 oz bottle of sparkling water, just like the one in my hand. His cock is the same size as the bottle is long (tho thankfully not quite as thick.)

I look from the bottle in my hands to the pic, to Master. I am sure my mouth was open in amazement.

“That’ll be in your mouth before the day is over.”

And He was right. It was.

I keep the bottle on my make up table these days…not so much to remember the giant cock I sucked (and may suck again)…but of the supreme wickedness of my Master’s mind, and how in awe I am of Him.