Behind…no ~wait~…not *that* “behind”…

….you pervs.


I’m behind on writing posts. It was my plan, you see, to have stories neatly all written out for you all during the Thanksgiving break. With family here, and increase in my work hours right up until Turkey Day, I’m flat out. Like next to zero time. But here I am on Tuesday night, writing a post…and I need to get my ass to bed and have an orgasm! A GIANT one. That is, if Master ever answers His phone and GIVES me one. Dammit. ūüôā

If you go here, you’ll see this headline:

TOP 100 SEX BLOGGERS of 2012

And guess who is on the list¬†again? Yay! Yes.. me! I’m so psyched it’s silly. Coz I am number ten.



When I started writing here 3 years ago, it was just to relieve the pain and longing of my head. To dream my little dreams of bondage and sex. Because what I read on the internet at that time was …mostly….crap. Not to say that I never have a misspelled word. Or that I use perfect grammar…coz we all know I fall into the habit of colloquialism usage quite a bit. For me this blog is a conversation, as if we’re sitting at the table having tea. Ask Aisha…I really talk like this (and usually in a big long rush) all the time!

In a story, it’s not so much conversation, i grok the difference….but although I’m really not aiming for a Pulitzer here, I want you (and me) to be able to read here and not be totally grossed out by illiteracy.

I like sex. I like “perverted” sex. I like to be hit, and fucked, I like to masturbate to dirty stories….and dammit…I want some decently written stuff. If you read “she fuked herself on dildo stuck on tub…” instead of “she slid down onto the dildo that she’d pressed onto the tub wall, bending and slowly easing back until it parted her lips, then entered her.”….well…there’s a huge difference there, right? ¬†I like to write. I’m pretty good at it, and I like to write this sexy stuff.

Stuff that will turn me on.

I’ll NEVER forget the first time I read a snuff piece. I had NO idea what the little codes were on the stories on ASSTRA…and Kristen Archives…for you who also don’t know, let me share.

Snuff means dead.

Like, he kidnaps her fucks her and stabs her to death.

Like…yeah it’s porn.

But what’s the fucking point there? How is that even remotely what I am searching for. That story is ultimately what got me started. I wasn’t just disgusted by it.

I was pissed.


Madder than pissed.

I ranted (in my head) about that story for days. See? even now, writing about it? That rage simmers. I want a sex story that has a point. That turns me on, that makes my blood run hot, and my pussy, hotter. Not, definitely NOT cold and dead.


Snuff just isn’t mah thing, ya’ll. And if it’s yours? You won’t find it here, to be sure. I’m way more of a Happy ever after, or happy for now kinda slut. And yup, I write dark stuff too..there in my “Dark Fantasies” blog. Not always HEA, but never, ever snuff.

Where the fuck was I going with all this?

Oh, right. Top 100. So I started writing coz I didn’t find anything out there that turned me on. Everyone I read was writing real life stuff, which was¬†fascinating but not exactly what I was looking for either.

Ergo…vanillamom was born. I wasn’t an aspiring writer. I just wanted something good to fantasize about while masturbating. Shocking I know.


And then I got readers. So I wrote for them. And now I write for ME and you all as well. If you like something, you let me know, and that’s pretty damn nice. It has given me courage to work towards publishing…although really? That’s not my hugest aspiration.

When I first started reading porn? There was no way I could afford it, nor bring it into the house. My first mission is not to make money publishing porn. It’s to let you all get some decent quality stuff that you can get off to, without having to make a dent in your pocket. Yeah. I know, that’s anti publishing. *shrugs* The idea for me is that not everyone has the freedom/flexibility to be able to buy porn…but most people can come here and read free stuff. And if it gives you a woody, or makes you squishy…then all to the good.

So now here I am, up there in the top ten of the top 100 sex bloggers.

I guess I could say I owe it all to my pussy. ūüôā Or in writer-speak:

“Her wanton, craven pussy drove her into writing. She needed to give voice to all the terrible desires that burned deeply inside of her, to release the dragons that lusted within, and free the aching need from the chains that held her in check.”


***ON another note***

(does that make you go “laaaa” like in angel voice? me too!)

On Sunday after work I had some time to kill before going to the City to fetch the teen. I got to hang with Master for an hour which was lovely. It is the most interesting blend of vanilla and Dom. We’ll be talking along and He’ll just drop something naughty into the conversation and I’ll get all flustered and blush and hide my face. When I peek up at Him, He’s grinning that wicked grin of His…funny Master. Verrah funnah.

I got Him a gift for His birthday. The “why” of it isn’t important, really. What is funny is it’s been something I’ve looked for, why…for ages…blue and white christmas lights. I got two different strings, a long one and a short one. I wasn’t certain quite how big the small tree is in His sitting room. (There is a “public” tree in the living room. This is strictly for Master in His private space.) He looks at the second (larger) set and just…it was a good gift. He looks at the first string and …gets this …well I call it the Dom look. When He’s going to say or do something that is NOT what I intended the gift to be.

You know. A pervertable. Kinda like that fucking pink brush.

And He beams. Just…fucking glows…and says “nilla, these will look soooo good on you.”



I quickly resemble a landed carp. Mouth opens, closes. Opens, closes. No words. I wave my hands in the air between us.

Shake my head.

No. No ono onono nnoooo

I don’t want to hear this. And He doesn’t. Just a few little…body movements to let me know exactly where some of the lights are going.


no no..

and I giggle. So fucking embarrassed. I had *no* fucking idea He’d use fucking christmas lights in a pervertable fashion. No idea. That…innovative Man.

At least indoor/outdoor lights are wet proof.

I hope. ūüôā

Happy (almost) Thanksgiving everyone! Tomorrow is Turkey Day in the USA…but here in nilla land, ¬†it’s still HNT!

Visitor (2)

(It’s been a while since part one…you might want to read that part¬†again….. ~n~)

Corn season was done, the fields had been harvested. The dairy farmer from Otis had come with his big silage machine, cropping the stalks and trucking them away. They paid in the traditional way of farmers, a handshake and a promise of shared bounty. He got the corn, she got manure, milk, cheese, and the occasional steak.  One hand washed the other, as Moma would say.

But that was done, and the fields had been sown in with winter rye, to sweeten and enrich the soil. The autumn rains had been fierce, breaking the long, dry summer heat, and causing the farm ponds to spill their banks and leak one into the other. There’d been a week there when she’d come close to blowing out the dam on the home pond, as the water rise was close to threatening the house and barn. They’d even brought Larry in from his apartment in the barn just in case. Thankfully, the rain had eased, the water levels dropped, and life returned to post-harvest chores. Closing up windows, putting up garden produce, dealing with the fleece from the few sheep she kept for the wool only got the top of the autumnal chore list done. Now it was all about finishing up the wood pile. Three cords was not enough to see them through the winter. She and Larry took turns chopping wood that they’d pulled out of the woods back in the spring. After spending time seasoning, they needed to cut them into wood stove-sized pieces, then quarter each chunk of log, then stack them neatly in cords, close by the house for use this winter.

The wind grew chilly, making her shiver. Chopping wood warms twice, she recalled her Dad saying, once while chopping, and then later by burning it. She actually thought it was three times. Gods knew she was sweating as she carried split wood to the pile. Yet every time she stopped for a break, she was reminded that it was November. The wind carried a sharp bite to it, a promise of cold. The air tides were shifting, and soon, frigid Canadian air would rocket down the spine of the Berkshire mountains. She hoped there’d be some good snow this season; this remote area of Massachusetts counted on those skiers from the big cities for a great deal of their annual income.

Grabbing her thermos, she poured some tea into the mug, and wandered down to the pond. The geese had come, then gone. Something had gotten to one of them, she noted, seeing a few feathers around the ponds edge. ¬†It was far from molt season. Likely a yearling lost its battle with a snapper, or a wily coyote had gotten lucky. They didn’t usually come that close to the house, but then again, pickings were getting lean, with the chipmunks and other burrowing critters staying in their dens during the colder days. ¬†She walked the perimeter of the pond, checking the dam for leaks. Thankfully there were none. Next summer, when the water levels of the upper ponds fell, they’d barricade each pond, and make the repairs in the breaches caused by these late storms. Farm pond two had suffered a significant breach, and the tiny run-off brook had flowed hard through the hole in that dam for four days during the worst of the rain. That meant that pond three and four would have some damage as well. And that meant that this pond, home pond, would have borne the weight of all that water. Yet, this dam had held back the flow. Sure, she may have come close to pulling the lever to “blow” the dam if the water had risen any higher. But the pond had taken the extra water, and held strong.

“Dam good,” she said out loud. And grinned at her own sally.

There would be a ton of work to get to once the fields had been sown. Dam work wasn’t always fun, hard on the fingers, the feet. The ponds stayed pretty chilly, even in late June. She sighed into her mug, and ¬†her exhalation became visible for a moment. She opened her lips wide, blew again, watching the puff of breath dissipate. It made her smile,¬†remembering how, as a kid, those first cold days when she could see her breath…how exciting it was. ¬†Now it was a harbinger of hard, cold times ahead.

“And if you don’t get back to chopping wood, it’ll be even colder, you dummy,” she admonished herself, each word punctuated by puffs of white cloud. She was just dog tired. Autumn work was hard work. And she’d not been sleeping all that well of late. Maybe she needed to get laid. Gods, those fucking dreams. She shook her head. She was¬†not¬†going to think about them just now. Still, her clit flared to life for a second. Fuck that. She had wood to chop! Throwing the last of her tea into the pond, she turned and strode away.

The biped had come to him! He was excited by that. He watched her from bottom of the pond. She never guessed at his presence just below her. He lay still, watching her, fascinated as always by her alien body. Two legs, two arms. Poor deformed creature, he’d thought at first. He had come to realize, after finding ¬†others who resembled her, that she was one of the norms here. The other creatures…those he could ignore. Lower life forms, they were food. But the bipeds…as he sank into the depths of home pond, as she had named it in her thoughts, …the bipeds were very interesting. And her in particular. He curled into himself, wrapping his many arms tightly round his vulnerable center and rested, waiting for nightfall.

Desire (5)

A whirlwind of sensations swirled through her. The gentleness he’d used before had been replaced by its opposite. Her nipples ached from the pinches, her pussy throbbed from smacks of his heavy hand.

She lusted.

Uncertain as to why her body had awakened so intensely to lust as he had hit her, she could only lay there and burn. He’d left her side after smiling at her with a wicked grin. Across the room, his back to her, she watched him disrobe. The shadows danced with candle light across his back, a perfect metaphor for what was unfolding here. Light and dark, inexorably intertwined.

He’d brought her to the height of sexual need with the pain, and now let it ebb. Except…it wasn’t. ¬†If anything, her desire grew in intensity. She wanted…needed…to be fucked. She doubted she’d ever¬†wanted¬† more intensely in her life, ever. She watched as he slipped out of his jeans, ¬†nearly drooling at the tight curves of his ass as he bent to remove his socks. The view did ¬†nothing to tamp down the waves of lust building between her thighs. Her nipples were fully erect, painfully erect. She discovered she was almost panting, tugging at her wrists as if she could pull herself free, get herself off.

Her bonds held tight. Her lust was restrained, held at his whim. The words he’d spoken earlier came back to her.¬†“Part of submission is learning to wait. Waiting for¬†my¬†desires, will heighten yours.” She didn’t think she could get any higher.

He turned then, moving towards her. He held a short cane in his teeth, and a golden foil packet in his hands. As he moved, he tore open the condom, slipping it over his rigid shaft easily. Her eyes moved over him, hungry for every detail.

He mounted the bed, and for a moment, his entire body was illuminated for her. Hair arrowed down his lower body, drawing her attention to that which she craved most. Her eyes rose to meet his. He rose up, straddling her, sitting on her lower body. His cock rested on her mons, definitely not where she wanted it. His legs pressed against her and the heat of his ass resting on her upper thighs only added to the heat she felt inside.

If he didn’t fuck her soon, she might just go up in flames!

“You want.”

She nodded. His eyes held hers. There was a magnetism there that was hard to ignore. He slapped the small cane across her tits. Arching, she cried out. Though the thing was slender, it stung! Again he zinged it across her tit, then slapped the other.

She moaned, deep in her throat, a gutteral, animal sound of pain and lust. Her hips bucked under his ass, even as he landed blows across her nipples. The sting there only served to intensify the throb of her aching clit.


Staring down at her, his eyes bore into hers. Her gaze held steady, but she felt the flush of embarrassment rushing through her. It only served to make the wet flesh between her thighs burn hotter.

Quick as a flash, he slapped her tit with his hand. She gasped. It hurt! It was sudden, unexpected, shocking. The blows kept coming. Left tit, right tit. He was unrelenting, slapping sides, top, undersides. Her tits bounced around her chest, beginning to pink, then redden. It hurt, the blows coming on top of the criss-crossed lines from the cane. She moaned. A tear slipped from her eyes, but in the commingled feeling of need and pain, she barely noticed it. Another deep moan, louder this time, filled the room. He smiled down at her as he beat her tits. She felt them swelling, felt like they would simply explode from the blows. The ache was intense, her nipples throbbing sharply with each blow.

Why was she moaning?

As if separate from herself, she felt the pain, but there was a responding tingle in her clitoris.  Slap-tingle. Slap-tingle. Reaching forward, he grasped both nipples and squeezed. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, until he started to pull his hands up. Still holding her nipples tightly, he pulled upwards, as if trying to tug her tits off of her chest by them. When it seemed that there was no more flesh, no more resilience, he twisted the nipples he held.

The pain was incredible. She cried out, shocked at the intensity of this new pain. And when he dropped her tits, it was almost as painful, as blood rushed into her abused nipples. He watched as she whimpered, moaned, tossing her head side to side as she tried to cope with the assault.

Shifting his hips, he let the tip of his cock tease at her slit. The shock of pleasure was as intense as the pain had been.

“I’m going to hurt you when I fuck you.”

The dark words sent a spear of lust straight to her core, even as his shaft pierced her folds. Without preamble, he jabbed his cock into her. It hurt, as her sex-starved pussy was suddenly filled with him. He fucked her viciously, using her hole to satisfy his own need. His body covered hers, and his mouth savaged her tits. Reaching between them, his fingers found her swollen clit and pinched.

She came in an explosion of light, color, motion. Her pussy clamped down on his thrusting cock as if it would never let go. He pushed through her grasping pussy, further exciting her, and making her orgasm roll on and on. She’d never been fucked while having her orgasm-the feeling was intense. Incredible. And still he fucked. He pounded her roughly, shoving every¬†millimeter¬†of cock into her cunt. His balls slapped at her ass, as he withdrew an inch, then grunting, pressed hard into her, short little fucks as if to pierce her belly. Her cervix screamed as he hit it hard several times, and her orgasm continued to roll through her.

It was one long, undulating wave of pleasure, wrapped in a cocoon of pain.

He pulled out of her pussy, and rose from her, gasping. Sweat rolled down his face, gleamed on his chest. His fingers slid into her pussy, then lower, pressing into her ass. One finger, making her whimper at that unfamiliar sensation. She knew. She knew what was coming next. For a moment, she wondered about that safeword. Two, two fingers in her asshole, then quickly, three. Twisting, turning, fucking as they widened her, and before she could think, his thumb pressed on her clit, mashing it hard, as his cock pierced through her back door.

Her mouth opened in a howl, but it came out as a deep, guttural grunt. He pressed hard, worked his way deeply into her bowels, filling her ass with his rigidity. For a moment, he lay upon her, buried deep, and let her breathe.

“Good whore. Going to fuck your ass hard, fill you with my jizz.” His words were dark, whispered into her cheek. And then he moved. Hips sliding down, then back, sawing his way in and out of her pooper. Her anus felt stretched beyond measure; every withdrawal was like taking the most incredibly sensual shit. Every filling of her hole was like being fucked by a baseball bat. It felt like he was bigger with every thrust.

Yet his thumb continued to play with her clit, her pussy began to tingle. As unbelievable as it was, she felt another orgasm building, building fast. As his pace increased, as he began to slam into her ass with the same force he’d fucked her cunt with, she felt the run of moisture between her thighs.

“Whore…you came. I felt that!” He was chuckling into her ear, biting her earlobe. His thumb rubbed her clit harder, faster, as his thrusting grew deeper. Soon he was grunting, and she knew he would cum. His hand rose to her tits, both closing into fists over her breasts, making her squirm to get away from the pain. His pelvis ground down on her pussy, the hair of his groin rubbing her lower lips, and pulling another climax from her, even as he shouted his own cumming.


The steady throb of her ass woke her. She lay cradled in his arms, sated. They were sticky, sweaty, and entwined deeply with one another.

“You were a good slut.” His voice, the honey of his voice, made her smile.

“Thank you Sir.”

“We’re not done slut. Just on temporary hiatus.”

The words filled her with a curiously light sensation. One she recognized for what it truly was.


Sunday, Sunday, Unsexy Day?

hmmm…maybe I shouldn’t say that. Someone on facebook posted a great link about a mom, who told her daughter she was beautiful, but when told that she herself was beautiful, too, poo-poo’ed it.

She was middle-aged.


Stretch marked.

Her breasts had lost the fullness of a 20-something girl, and had sagged.

But wait a second, ¬†she thought…was she setting her daughter up for future self-disappointment? Not many of us have the body of mick’s Mistress Molly. No time, no energy, no time. But does that make us “un-beautiful”…?

Sure to mass media, perhaps. I’ll never grace the cover of Rolling Stone. Okay, coz I don’t sing much in public but *waves hand*…that isn’t the only reason. Even Playboy, for all the good it has worked towards with gay marriage, and open sexuality, and not being ashamed about feeling sexual…contributes by having 18-year-old bunnies…how the¬†hell can I compete with that?

But still…does that make me¬†not beautiful?

Master tells me I am. It’s rare, but He has said it from time to time. (it always makes me …shivery-proud-happy when He¬†does say it.) It doesn’t come from a mass-media perspective. It comes from the physical, from the connection, from the submission…it’s a “package beautiful” I guess.

This woman’s point on Face Book was that we are all inherently beautiful…and that to not be open to that in ourselves, we are, in essence, teaching our daughters that when they hit 30, or menopause, or their hair grays or they have children and gravity and stretch marks…then they are no longer beautiful.

pish-tosh to that!

So today I *am* owning my sexy. I *am* owning my beautiful. Yeah, my nose is crooked, my smile isn’t brilliantly neon white. (oh what those peeps doing mega tooth whitening gonna pay down the road…)

My beauty is my own. My freckles, my wrinkles, my soft belly…all mine. All earned through the gift of living for more than half a century.

Holy fuck.

Half a century? Man…that’s fucking¬†old!

But still beautiful after all these years!


Master and I, if you haven’t seen in various comments, are back on track. He sent me a very personal email late on Tuesday, and I snuffled and sobbed my way through it. Snuffled at work. And finally got permission to text Him. We have yet to “speak”…but even being allowed to talk via text was an improvement.

Do you Dom/me top-types have *any* fucking idea (pardon the disrespect implied there) how hard it is on us sub-types when you withhold yourselves from us that way?

It is torture.

It is pain.

Really, really bad pain.

If I could have safeworded myself out of it, I would have. It hurt so much I didn’t think I could bear it…and I’m a very strong submissive. Maybe not Kaya strong, as far as pain goes, but I can take a¬†lot of pain.

But I couldn’t have lasted too much longer without His touch, that’s for darned sure.

Writing helped. I wrote thousands of words in a few hours, the passion just pouring out of my fingers until I could blink without crying. It sucked out some of the sad, and put it into a more cope-able format for me.

I was in a bad way…and I thank you all for your kind words, thoughts, and hugs. It meant a lot to me. I won’t respond to those individually, because it will only make me cry all over again…but know that your words gave me solace. And I thank you, humbly, from the depths of my not-so-aching-anymore heart.


This is the weekend leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday here in the USA…and I’m busy between home life and my job, which is very holiday dependent, ergo..I’m working extra shifts. Am very much hoping that I’ll be able to sneak in some Master-time, as we’ve not seen each other since play day. (big pout)…not to mention the whole “nilla was a bad submissive slut” thing. I really want to hug His neck, kiss Him, love on Him a little. I’m¬†sure He wants to pinch me. Bruise me. Make me yelp.

In other words…heal one another, fully and¬†completely. Does anything say “I love you, you dumb slut” more than fresh bruises?

I didn’t think so.



Desire (4)

His gentleness astonished her. Her lips burned from that kiss, seared with the branding of his mouth on hers. He sat on her belly, looking down at her. In the semi-darkness, his intense eyes were hidden.

“So innocent.”

She frowned. She may be many things, but innocent was not one of them. Opening her lips to protest, he once more laid his finger upon them, shushing her.

He slid off of her, and ran his hands up and down the length of her. The touch was light, almost tickling. She watched his hands moving across her skin, down her legs, touching her toes, then up her inner thigh. Oh, how she wanted his touch at that sensitive junction! His hand cupped her, just for a moment, then moved up, over her soft belly, around her belly button, until he cupped her throat.

“You are so vulnerable, yet you don’t see it. Not just because of these,” and he tugged gently on the ropes that held her right wrist. “But because of here,” and he tapped her forehead. For a moment, his hand squeezed around her throat.

“The balance of pain and pleasure is a constantly moving point. And there will come a time when your pain will outweigh your pleasure, which will enhance mine. Has any of your studying prepared you for that?”

He paused a moment, looking down at her with a ferocity that thrilled her, even as it frightened.

“No,” he answered his own question. “Some things must be experienced to be explained. So we go, into the darkness, together. If you need this to stop…at any time…your safeword will protect you. I will hurt you, hurt you and take great pleasure from your cries, your screams, the marks I leave upon you. But if the line of toleration is crossed, and you truly can bear no more, your safeword ends it, and you will be released. You must choose the word, Emily. One that you will remember in the throes of passion, and the depths of pain.”


The word slipped out from her. She had been thinking about safewords. Her reading had taught her that while some didn’t play with one, most D/s couples did. It would be her only “out” from being hurt more than she could bear. All she had read had spoken about the release of pain, the blending of pain and pleasure, the heady cocktail of it served by a Dom, and the joy of ‘subspace’ but she hadn’t understood it. She knew now that she would, by the end of this. And ‘pepper’ had come to her mind again and again…a stimulant, a piquant flavoring, heat, and bite …for her it symbolized what she knew of the D/s experience.

“pepper,” she spoke again. “And…do I call you Sir?”

“Yes, Emily. Pepper, and Sir. And now, you will lose your identity, and become my slut. You will answer to slut, to cunt, to whore, to fucktoy…or any title that I choose to give you in the moment. But Emily will be gone until you take your leave of me. Understood?”

She nodded, solemnly. It was one thing to read about this, those dirty names being applied to a girl…and it was another thing entirely to hear them used as¬†her¬†name. It gave her a quiet tickle in her tummy, a cross between nerves, and thrill. She felt…like the time she’d gone up in the Ferris Wheel when she was 12. Brave enough to attempt it on her own, despite her fear of heights. Going up had been a thrill ride, but the quaking fear when she was all the way up had made her belly quiver. That experience had been a curious blend of fear, and powerlessness, and the thrill of doing something she’d never dreamed she’d be brave enough to attempt.

This felt exactly like that.

His hand traced whorls around her right tit, around and around. She felt dizzy, watching it. She wanted his touch on her nipple. She wanted to be fucked. She, who had never delayed gratification of her sexual needs, was submitting even that to this man. It was a multi-layered puzzle, this submission thing. It was more than just letting him tie her up. It was more than just agreeing to his demands at any given moment.

It was giving him virtually everything.

For a moment, she wondered at that. At this moment, he could do anything to her. He could beat her sensually, or he could beat her senseless. He could use her violently, call in an army of friends to share her with, sell her into slavery, or kill her. She’d protest any of that, naturally, but it all boiled down to trusting that this man, this¬†Dominant man, would use her for their mutual pleasure.

Yes…exactly that…. trust.

It took a lot of faith to believe him, that his words would honor his intentions. At this point she could only go by his reputation. Thus far, no rumors of anything untoward had ever carried through the halls of Boisvert, Stein, and Lichen about him. That sort of thing would, wouldn’t it?

For a moment, just a sliver of time, a bolt of fear stiffened her. He could kill her. Maim her. Harm her. What the fuck was she doing here? Yet his hand continued to make slow, lazy circles around her breast, and she felt herself gentled by that touch. She relaxed, with every circle he traced on her skin, until she found her place of peace.

His eyes stayed steady on her face, as if watching all the emotions playing there. When at last her heartbeat slowed from thundering panic to trembling excitement, his fingers closed around her nipple, and pinched, hard.

Desire (3)

Immobilized, she could only look around the room wide-eyed. Though she might have longed to touch some of what was here, strange objects hanging on the wall that she had read descriptions on in the previous week, she couldn’t get free and go exploring.

She lay in his bed, spread-eagled. The how of it was astonishing. One moment she was filled with temper, wanting to bite, kick, scream at him. The next they were here, in his loft and she was naked. It was a blur, a fantasy, a longing so intense she wondered if she’d had a breakdown and slipped without a sound, into a fantasy world.

But she remembered the burning fire of his eyes as he’d bound her wrists, her ankles, ¬†to the sturdy bedposts. And the single touch of his fingertip, tracing her from the hollow at the base of her throat, between her breasts, stopping just shy of where she most craved his touch.

And then he had left.

“Part of submission is learning to wait. Waiting for¬†my desires, will heighten yours.” The door had closed with a soft snick. The only illumination in the room came from the soft glow of candles. The scent of cinnamon and fir filled the space, the shadows tantalized with all the instruments of torture on the walls around the bed.

There was no clock, no glow from around any windows to inform her of the passage of time. Time just flowed around and through her, the numbers on a dial immaterial to what she was doing.

Breathing, to be sure.

Craving. She had an intense craving for him to touch her. That single burning touch had been so gentle. She’d been prepared, if she was totally honest with herself, for brutality. Yet through the time he bound her to his bed, he’d been gentle.

Fierce, but still gentle.

His eyes had burnt with a fierceness that might have freaked her out, if she hadn’t been looking at him with a longing that was just as intense. He’d been in her dreams all week, playing out the scenes of depravity that she’d watched on her computer screen. Yet, for all that his fingers had been strong and sure, they had been careful against her flesh.

Though the rope ran round and round her wrists and ankles, there was a bit of wiggle room. Not enough to pull free, but certainly not enough to leave marks.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. All the research she’d done had suggested that “submissives” enjoyed their bruises, wearing them like badges of honor, rather than “wounds”.

The door opened, interrupting her musing. He came to the side of the bed, and looked at her. His gaze lingered a moment on her tits, and her nipples rose to tight buds.

“Eager, are we?” He spoke softly, but did not touch her. For some reason, she didn’t feel compelled to speak, complacent enough for the moment to watch him watching her. Her breath caught, held a moment as his hand hovered over her lower belly, certain that now he’d touch her. But his hand just hovered there, as if feeling the heat from a campfire. He smiled softly to himself, then glanced at her mouth.

“What are your expectations, I wonder, little one?” But as she opened her lips to answer, he laid a finger across them, and shook his head. With one last glance at her, he crossed the room to a chair, and sat. As he settled in, he was lost in the shadows cast by the wings; all she could see were his legs, one leg crossing the opposite knee.

She wanted to squirm. To speak. To break the unexpectedly uncomfortable feeling of being looked at like…an object. She also felt a growing warmth between her thighs, and an answering wetness. Good God! If he moved her, he’d see the wet spot she was creating. The embarrassment flushed her skin, rising her nipples to pertness again. Gooseflesh rose, then faded, and still he watched her. After a time, embarrassment turned to indignation. The bastard!

“I…” she began but his soft “shhhhh” silenced her.

A myriad of emotions swelled, then ebbed. At long last, he rose from the shadows. He spoke not a word, just pressed his fingers into the cleft between her splayed legs, running them up and down the slippery wetness there. How she wanted him to invade her, to take.

Every fantasy she read was all about the Dominant and their selfish taking! Why the fuck was he not following the script? Yet those fingers merely continued to slip up and down her slit, always carefully missing her clit, never entering her pussy. She tried lifting her buttocks a bit, rising into his hand, but he kept the pressure steady, just a tickle of a touch.

When his hand slipped away, she was desperate to fuck. She, new though she was, knew better than to speak. He’d shushed her twice, and she didn’t want to have their first time be about punishment. She’d read about that very carefully. She’d be good, quiet, obedient. But she needed to be fucked!

His lips traced the curve of her breast, tenderly caressing the plump mounds, again bypassing the center of her sex need. She wanted, craved his lips on her nipple, but always, through licks and kisses and gentle sucking, he missed it.

She began to realize the subtlety  of his torture. He was turning her on, and denying her the touch she craved. Why, the devious bastard! She smiled, fast, but he saw it. Rising, he straddled her,  and kissed her.

His body was heavy, the feeling of his jeans against her sides, her belly was an unexpected turn on. They were new, rough and scratchy as he settled the weight of his body on her.

The kiss was soft, gentle. His lips teasing hers, nudging her open, his mouth a caress on hers. Tongues twined, tasting one another as she gave into the moment. She was falling hard, falling fast, needing, craving, wanting.

At this moment, in this time, she was desire, incarnate.


Fuck Toy nilla HNT

“Get on the fucking Wall,” He says. His words are terse, curt even. He pushes me against the wall so hard my head thunks it. It’s violent and erotic.

“Fucking stay there.”

Then silence. I am not blindfolded, but automatically, I shut my eyes when there. It is a refuge. He comes up behind me and puts the cuffs on my wrists, but doesn’t fasten them to one another. The dangling hooks are a promise of something…..later.

He taps my right thigh, slips the thigh cuff up over my ankle, up my calf, up my thigh and tightens it, then does the same to my other leg. My hands are firmly against the wall. I think He leaves the room, but instead He has gone to fetch the blindfold. He slides it over my eyes, then, shutting out any possibility of seeing what’s about to happen.

The door opens, closes.

These things He does, these setting-up things, never fail to turn me on. Putting me on the Wall was brilliant. It kept me from being at loose ends, rather like a dog being kenneled, the Wall soothes me, even as it turns me on.

Will He hit me?

Will He ignore me?

I don’t have any idea.

He must be gone. I heard the door close, and it’s been silent. I take a chance, pushing that envelope, and reach down to rub my pussy. Immediately He grabs my wrist and tells me to keep my hand on the fucking wall, slapping it up over my head.


“YesSir,” I murmur, heart racing, and pussy throbbing.

I hear the door open, close, and I stay, exactly where He placed me. I hear nothing for long minutes, but He doesn’t fool me this time.

The door opens, closes again.

“Hello, nilla.” The voice is not Master’s.

“Do you remember this big cock of mine?” ¬†His hand takes mine off the wall, rubbing it over his crotch.

My heart races, fear, nerves, both dashing through me. I don’t want to do anything to make Master look bad. And I don’t know where He is, my Master. Did He send Sir P in here alone? I don’t have any idea.

“Get on your knees and take out my cock. You remember how, girl?”

I nod as I drop to my knees. His hand touches my hair, as I feel the giant lump of his cock, rigid under his pants. And then that massive shaft, all million inches of it, is free. I feel the heat of it by my face.

“You know what to do with it, girl. Open your mouth.” His words are kindly, firmly stated.

My mouth opens, takes the head inside. My lips stretch around his girth, and in moments his hand on my head is demanding more, deeper.

I choke, gag.

“Mmmm, good girl. Take it, take it all down now, like a good girl.”

And I throw up a little in my mouth. And swallow it back, taking his cock deeper, gagging again.

He releases my head, pulls back a bit, lets me up off it. I’m not afraid of not breathing, not at all. But his cock is too fucking big and makes me gag.

Apparently, he doesn’t mind that a bit.

In seconds, the reprieve is over, and his hand guides my head down, down.

“She needs more practice,” he says over his shoulder.

“Hmmmm…” Master replies.

There is a sharp arrow of lust that spears into my pussy with that one sound. Master is here! Watching. (and taking pictures tho i didn’t know that at the time, either)

His cock is slick and wet and heavy in my mouth. He’s not fucking my mouth, but teaching my mouth to accept him. I swirl my tongue around his head, but in seconds, he’s pulled out and whips me around to the bed. Suddenly my pussy is filled with him.

I cannot fight it. I don’t want to, either. It’s not the fucking, exactly, that is the turn on. He’s so big, painfully big.

It’s the process of being used. Of being objectified. Of being a fucktoy. It is a massive kink of mine, and it comes to life whenever Sir P visits.

After a round of fucking, I’m back to sucking him, gagging and puking again…(don’t know why you guys like that, I really don’t)…but I get through it, and then we’re back to fucking. I ride him, he lets me get on top and fuck him to several great orgasms…and then I’m pushed off again, pulled to the edge of the bed and he’s having me lick his balls, he strokes his cock and when he cums, there is a lot of it.

Splat! on my cheek.

Splat! on my tongue.

Splat! on my nose.

He uses his cock to wipe it on my face, an erotic paintbrush.

Master throws a wet facecloth at me, it hits me on my nose. “Clean yourself up. You’re a shameful mess.”

Embarrassed flush?


It’s an erotic flush. He humbles me. Taunts me. Teases me. Fucks with my head. And when Sir P takes his leave of us? He fastens my wrist cuffs to my thighs. I am helpless now, unable to see, unable to move.

He flips me over onto my belly and fucks my ass hard. Fucks me long and hard and deep. My ass is His. I am His.


(as a brief aside, for those that are wondering about my despondent state…Master and I have recovered our equilibrium. I have been punished, and forgiven. I’m really, really glad that is behind me, and we’re back–if not in that “totally happy” place, then well on our way. ~n~)

Masturbation Fantasy

¬†It was Tuesday, our “Like” Day…a special day in our week when we connect. This one was tainted by my fuck up over the weekend, and I simply was not certain what would come of the day that has been “ours” for nearly 2 years. But once again, Master surprised me. It was the day we made up, when things were settled. When we texted each other and resolved the biggest issue. Later, as the dust settled, He allowed me an orgasm…I always get an orgasm on Like Day…but there were parameters. I had to create a fantasy to masturbate to that would include ice cream…part of my punishment is that I can no longer have any without His express permission…which will be a long time coming. So the fantasy¬†had¬†to have ice cream in it. I crafted it in my head, then lay in bed and began it. It was a powerful orgasm, since I’d not had ¬†any in many, many days; it was also a cathartic release of all the emotions that were still floating through my red head.¬†

Wednesday I wrote it down, exactly as it played out in my fantasy, exactly as I had done in in my bed (albeit substituting clothes pins for Masters mouth on my nipples). He liked it enough that He told me it is “bloggable” …High praise from my Master, indeed. ¬†~nilla~

You stood over me.


Hands tied over my head, feet apart.

“I could get twenty guys in here to fuck you. Use every hole, use it well. I could beat you, pound you into a pile of goo.”

I swallow hard. You’re not angry, you’re calm, firm, resolved.

I wonder what the fuck You’re going to do to me for my fuck up.

“Instead, I’ve brought just a few guests.”

You open the door and a woman stands there, holding a large ice cream cone. You go to your bag and pull out  two vibes. You cover one in a condom, squirt lube on my pussy.

“The lube carries the vibrations a lot more intensely” You say, almost to yourself.

“She will let the ice cream drip. All over you. ON your face, your hair, your tits. And she will lick it off you. You can smell it, feel it, do everything except taste it. This will be the last ice cream that your body will see, feel, experience until next summer…and only then if you are a good, very good, slut.”

She takes the dripping cone and holds it over me. where she stands, she blocks my view of You…but in moments I feel the pressure of one vibe on my clit. The second one roars to life and is gently inserted into my pussy.

“By the way. No fucking. You’ll have orgasms all right…but not one single bit of fucking. Bad girl.”

There is ice cream dripping on my cheek, my tit, my belly. She passes the cone over and over me. I feel You, taking a lick along the side of my tit, sucking hard on my nipple, then biting. I whimper, but not much sound comes from my duct-taped mouth. You have made certain that not one molecule of ice cream will pass my lips.

You play the second vibe over and around my clit and as I squirm, You press it hard against my tender bud…I’m moaning and trying to move and You bite my nipple as you torture my clit. There is pain and pleasure on both ends of my body.

Finally Your mouth leaves my nipple; You continue to play the vibe on my pussy, making sure the one firmly inside is still planted deep, while mauling my clit with the other. You whisper in my ear, as her mouth licks and laps the dripping ice cream on my body. It is torture AND a turn on , her warm mouth, the cold ice cream.

“nilla was a very, very naughty sub, yes?”

I nod, whimpering behind the sticky gag.

“nilla won’t make this mistake again, will she?”

I shake my head, vehemently,..NO no, I won’t.”

Your voice continues, the honeyed whisky of your tones at odds with the mean Dom things You say. “Maybe I’ll let Sir P fuck your ass next time. That would be some punishment, wouldn’t it? Or maybe a whole string of guys. One after another, using your ass, your pussy, your mouth…how ’bout that, huh?”

I whimper, shaking my head NO NO NO…this is NOT something that I want. Sir P’s cock already hurts my pussy…the thought of that…in my ass…. no…not a pleasant picture.

There is a plop and I arch up in shock…that bitch has dropped the rest of the ice cream onto my belly and is sucking and lapping it. I can smell it, and my mouth waters. I must swallow hard and fast so I don’t drown in my own juice. You¬†had¬†spoken of drowning me, after all….and it’s cold, so fucking cold. The dual vibes on and in me are making me come so close to cumming. My nipple hurts where You bit it, and I’m shivering with cold and lust…my clit throbs, painfully reminding me that i’m that close to orgasm…time to take away the stimulation…but you’ll have none of it…


When I cum, it is intense, very wet…and I almost pass out with the force of it.

nilla was a very bad slut, Master.

Thank You for allowing me an orgasm on Like Day.

Desire (2)

She researched. It was what she did best. It was her career, her hobby, her solace. The stinging remark he had made just before he’d pushed the elevator button, sending her away had burned in her mind.

“I don’t date vanilla women.”

What the¬†fuck did that mean, anyway. She swiped angry tears away with the back of her hand. That her hand was shaking, she ignored. She wanted to play the role of the dismissed-as-wanting female…it looked that way from her¬†perspective, and sure as hell felt that way, too.

“Vanilla this, fucker,” she muttered, giving the finger to the garage ceiling, imagined waving it in Mr. Stephen Howard’s fucking fine face.

The bastard. The….fucking bastard.

She got into her car, and drove home, flushing with embarrassment as she remembered her preparations for seduction. Her bedroom resembled the scene of some horrible attack. She, the neatness queen, had things strewn hither and yon. Stalking through the room, she ruthlessly folded tops, bra’s, panties, putting everything away with a snap and a bang.

When there was nothing left, she sat, panting, on the edge of her bed. Why? What was she lacking, that he found unpalatable? She’d been hit on constantly in her life. She wasn’t stunning, drop dead gorgeous, but she was sexy. Attractive. Fun to be with.

“Stop it.”

Her voice brooked no argument. With a sigh, she rose and got a facecloth. Blotting her tear-smudged eyes, she tried to put him out of her mind.

“Unattainable, like Prince Harry,” she muttered into the washcloth. Except. He wasn’t.

“I don’t date vanilla women.”

The facecloth fell into the sink with a plop. As if on autopilot, she went into her office, and booted up her computer. First, a google search. Which led her to wiki. Which lead to articles about BDSM, fetish, and other sexual deviancy.

She sat back, stunned. Her mouth opened and closed for a moment. Surely, BDSM, Dominance, submission…that was a twisted darkness. And, okay, perhaps she had fantasies that wouldn’t be classified as “nice” …but.

She shook her head. Her fantasies hadn’t gone this way. Not really. She bent over her computer and read.


Blinking, her eyes refocused on her office. It was dark, except for the glow from her computer, currently illuminated by the video of a man beating a bound woman. She paused the player, and rose as if coming out of a pool of hot water. Her body trembled, her nipples were hard pebbles, and her panties were soaked.

She had seen several of her darker fantasies played out before her. She’d been researching for hours. And as always, got lost in it. It was deep into the night, nearly midnight. She arched her back and stretched up to the ceiling, then bent slowly to touch her toes. The smell of her own sex was intense. Clit tingling, pussy slippery, she knew she could have an orgasm in minutes.

But she needed to think, not get lost in more physical sensations.

He was a dominant. It explained a lot. The assessing looks he gave most people, as if he was looking into them, not just at them.  He exuded a confidence that was almost off-putting. And God, he made her so turned on.  Torn between desire for a cup of tea, which would guarantee insomnia, and the need for sleep, she headed for bed.

And dreamt of him, beating her.


For a week, she didn’t see him at work. Her department was currently doing a huge R & D project, which meant a lot of runs to the management offices. Files, print-outs, flow charts, demo’s.

When she wasn’t at work, she was on her computer at home. Blogs, stories, movies, stills. First-hand accounts of submissives, of dominants. She began to understand a darker side of her own sexual leanings that she’ always tamped down. The one guy she’d dated who’d held her immobile when he fucked her brains out…she’d been full of passion for him, and had been bereft when his contract had run out and he’d headed back to Liverpool. The guys she’d been with after him had paled in comparison. She had no idea. She didn’t feel submissive…but the idea of being taken, used, made to do things sexually that she would never in a million years give voice to?

That was all fantasy, wasn’t it?

Where had all this come from, she wondered. She’d had a great childhood, never been hit or abused in any way. She’d always felt that people into kink…well, she didn’t really suppose that she’d believed it was more than a farce that was on television for effect.

It was real.

It was raw, and explicit and.

And she hated to admit how much she was attracted to it.

She had never been hit, never been bitten or tied up. Only Liverpool Larry had come close to enacting her dark dreams. She slept little, during the week of learning. On Friday, she was exhausted. She paid little attention to the dark circles under her eyes, and her general fatigue. She was caught up in the two worlds…work and BDSM culture and wasn’t sure where to put her feet.


The day was finally over. Friday, at long, long last had ended, taking the last of her energy with it. In the parking garage, trying to work up the energy to go home, she leaned her forehead against her car door and just breathed. The coolness of the glass calmed her, as she fumbled with the key in the door lock.

“Let me.”

His voice, like warm chocolate over ice cream, came from behind her. She turned, resting her rump on her door. The lethargy fell from her like a coat, shrugged away with a surge of temper.

“Why?” She all but snarled.

“Because you’re obviously …”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, a stomp of her foot.

“No! Why did you say that to me?”

He smiled a gentle smile, then pushed off the car he was leaning on. His finger pushed a fall of hair from her cheek, then slipped under her chin. The warm puff of air from his mouth tickled her ear.

“Because, little one, I saw your ghosts.”

Desire (1)

She hadn’t ever pursued a man before. But something about him magnetized her. They had met, by chance, at a company outing. Cool eyes had assessed her, and she remembered being torn between annoyance at his weighing glance, and, God help her, preening. Her spine had straightened, her breath deepened, her cheeks had flushed. That her nipples swelled, and her pussy dampened, she ignored. She wondered, not for the first time, about his arrogant,¬†dismissive look. He’d smiled, cool, composed, then turned and melted back into the crowd.

She’d asked about him, of course. All the same words rushing through her head were repeated by her friends.

“Arrogant bastard!”




“And those eyes…they look right through you!” ¬†This last from her friend Cecile in accounting. She seemed to know the most about Mr. Stephen Howard, executive V.P. of Senior Management.

So, he was a manager. They all had that same style, managers. She figured it came from bossing people around all day. And really, there were all kinds of people, even bossy ones had a role.

She kept her eyes out for him after that. Boisvert, Stein, and Lichen was a huge firm, so odds were she wouldn’t see him until the next event, which was the annual Holiday party. She’d missed last year with her mom being ill, and having to fly out to Reno early to help her Dad. ¬†Come to think of it, she’d missed the year before as well. She had no intention of missing this year.


The elevator door opened just as the bottom of the box of files she was holding decided it couldn’t bear the weight of them any further. Cascading folders, loose contents spilling across the elevator floor had her scrambling to gather them up, even as someone attempted entry.

“NO! No…you can’t come in here! She waved him off, not looking. The doors chimed to announce their closing, as she moaned “no ono” under her breath, but they stayed open.

“That’s why there is a “Hold” button on the doors, you know.” She looked up. It was him. Oh mother of God. He didn’t offer to help, merely stood looking at her with a half-smile as she knelt virtually at his feet. She felt the blush, felt exposed and vulnerable. Quickly she gathered up the files, stacking them willy-nilly.

“Come with me.” It was not a request. Wordlessly she took her stack of files, and followed him. The back of his jacket hid the back of him, but she imagined his ass was as lovely as the rest of him.

He held open an office door. His office. She swallowed hard, then preceded him into the space.

“Put those there. You’ll have plenty of room to sort them before you take them upstairs. But be quick. That meeting is in 15 minutes.” He turned and left her.

It was like a strong wind blowing in and through her. She shook her head, amazed that he managed to shut her up. Anyone else and she would have snapped at him, castigated him for not helping. Yet in his own way he had. The long gleaming surface of his conference table stretched across his office. She imagined, for a moment, laying there, ass on the edge, as he fucked her.

No. Better not go there.

Quickly she began sorting her files, pushing aside her erotic fantasies of Steven Howard.


Standing outside his condo, she sucked in a deep breath. The die was cast, her hand had already rung the bell. It was too late to turn and run; she heard footsteps approaching the door.

He stood in the space, consuming the space, owning it. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his body blocking any entry. His chest was bare, gleaming with perspiration, while a pair of old and ratty sweatpants clung, barely, to his hips. Her mouth filled with saliva.

He let her look him over. She was perfectly groomed. Her tee-shirt was tight, her prettiest bra lifted her ample tits to show their size and shape beautifully. In her head she imagined him tugging him to her, kissing her speechless, his hands running up and down her body.

“Miss Kensington?” His voice snapped her out of her reverie.

She passed him the box of chocolate covered strawberries wordlessly. His brow raised in silent question.

“for…you know..your office today. Thanks.”

She spun and turned to go down the hallway, her face flushed. Geezus.


So, he did know her name. His hand blocked hers for a moment as it was poised over the down button. His breath brushed her earlobe as he all but whispered.

“Thank you, Emily. I don’t date vanilla women.”

His hand pushed the button, while his body kept her from turning back to him.

“Vanilla?” she asked, not looking at him, as she stepped into the elevator. What was it about him and fucking elevators?

“If you don’t understand…that’s explanation enough, little one. Thank you for the berries.” The door slid shut as she stood, back to the doors and descended to the garage.