This is What Happens…

…when you all say that you like this girl’s rambles…you wind up getting more of them!

Actually it is more a matter of timing, of these thought bubbles that appear in my head, and I think…I need to talk about this with my buddies. You all…*waves hand through cyberspace* are kind of my invisible friends. Some of you write to me, many more don’t. And that’s okay. I love to hear from you, I sincerely do. But I was a lurker for a long time on blogs and I understand that sometimes it is nerve-wracking to type out a name, an email address (which is never published, btw) and come up with a comment…it’s stressful. I grok. *nods sagely*

So there I was, my morning suddenly opening up after thinking that today (Friday)would be UBER stressful…one task accomplished very quickly and efficiently, the other evaporating. (Ah, if only the laundry would similarly go POOF, eh?!)

What did I do with that time?

I read blogs. About a dozen, I think. I put comments on a few, smiled over others. (I too stress about saying “the right thing” in those responses. Just so you non-responders think it’s “only you”…it’s not.)

And as I was reading…I realized that I have not responded to a single one of you who has taken time to comment over the last few days. I’m going to jump on that today (and hopefully as you read this over your Easter Sunday morning coffee, it’s done!), and do a bit of writing. But after this afternoon my time is completely committed to others, and I’ve finally de-stressed about it.

Mostly. 🙂 (as my kids say, that’s just how I roll…)

I have a few naughty tales I’m working on, but having the weekend off from writing (and really, most of this week was rambly rather than “write-y”) will make me desperate to sit and start composing.

(That word always makes me think of that Beethoven joke…do you know it? Why do you hear Beethoven’s 5th Symphony playing backwards when you go to visit his grave? Because he’s de-composing…wahahaha..yeah, it’s juvenile. *laughs*)

I’m starting the 50 day challenge early because if I don’t toughen up a bit I’ll die on Monday when I have to do the full 50 of everything…LOL…so I’ve done half of all the required moves for the last few days…and I’m happy to report that I’ve lost over 2 pounds since Master got me “on track”…woot. (The goal is ten by Father’s Day weekend.) I’m happy to report my results here…and you will all have to deal with my happy bragging. 🙂

OH! Have any of you all seen the new Huggies ad? Now, I am well and truly past the diapering age here (thank the goddess…!) and I was never a Huggie momma…cloth diapers all the way…but this new ad? It’s fucking *brilliant*. It says “New mom” and shows her covering herself and the babe in a restaurant as she breastfeeds. The second shot is mom with babe two, at the table (as opposed to hiding in a corner) boob mostly exposed as the child nurses. 🙂 Makes me smile every. single. time. Breastfeeding is natural, nurturing, perfect. And who doesn’t like to see a booby flash now and again, right?


Well, after attending to a few more “necessary” tasks, I found myself some time to sit and come back here.  Had to share with my peeps…oh wait. I just can-not  use the word anymore. Seriously. My 6 yo has a wicked sweet tooth and we went to the grocery story a bit ago…

There are frigging Peeps everywhere. Do you know Peeps? Marshmallow treats shaped as baby chicks or other Easter-y critters, covered in yellow sugar. Except now they come in purple and pink and blue and green…I’ll admit that my kiddo was kinda funny in her perseverance  and more than one person was grinning as she walked hunched over, stiff legged and saying “Peep? Peep?” canting her head this way and that.

Yeah, I still said no.

Last thing that girl needed was more sugar.

Me too.

I’m having my first bout of cravings. I’ll get through it, but man…it sucks.


Last night I was exchanging texts with Master while I was at work. We were talking about “normal stuff” and then he says something about me farting. (whatta “guy”, right?) And I said I don’t fart hard enough to do what he was suggesting…that was a guy thing.

He responds with “Okay, wel’ll work on it-just need a bigger asshole”

to which *I* respond:

“I already have a large Asshole-He created ZNN”

whahahaha…instead of getting slammed, He laughs, and told me that my zinger earned me a reprieve of a half-o on ZNN. Who knew the Master enjoys a smartass sub.

(well I did… 🙂 )

We’re still trying to work out when our next playday will be. We might miss the entire month of April between our two schedules, but I’m already ready to jump back on the Wall and play sexy nasty painful games with Him. You all know what  a greedy slut I am. 🙂

Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate, and blessed Spring for those who follow a more pagan tradition…and happy Sunday to those of you who merely enjoy the dawning of a new day. 🙂


Did you ever…?

…get so behind you could see your own ass without looking in a mirror? Yeah. That’s me.

*heavy sigh*

I feel like there just aren’t enough hours in the day just now and it’s making me kinda crazy…not that it takes much, mind you.

You all know I go batshit crazy if I don’t get time to write….by Monday I’ll be all wild-haired and looking like pictures of Einstein (sans theory of relativity!). Except, you know, red-headed.

So you’re stuck with yet another muttering ramble. I need to get a shitload of things done before Friday coz my weekend is already spoken for, and there isn’t a single hour left for writing. (nor, come Monday, energy–fear not if you tune in and there is nothing here.)

I hate when I stress myself out like this, days before I need to.  But it is part of what I do. I kind of shrug and move onward (albeit at a fast, fast pace!)–nothing will change it but action, right?

So I was kibitzing with Master about my lack-of-sleep this week, having had several bouts of insomnia. Then explaining that I had to be out late (for me) on Friday night, and up SUPER early for work the next day, netting me about 4 hours of sleep.

Now, this was shortly after He’d said “No fucking way, slut” to my pleading for an Orgasm (Wednesday). The O on Tuesday night had been pretty fucking spectacular, and I was craving an encore, yanno?

“Nope. No way. No fucking way, slut. It’s going to be a lo–ong week for you. But cheer up, nilla, there’s always Tuesday.”

After I whined an bit about the whole ‘no’ thing, I told him about  my weekend of hecticness.

He began to chuckle.

You know the kind, right?

When the Sadist wakes up and takes over.

I’m sitting in the window seat in my bedroom, naked as a jay-bird, looking out into the moonlit night, my pussy (already throbby-needy-wet) begins to…melt. Something about that wee transformation in Him just thrills me. It’s menacing in a sexual way. His voice does this…this oh-so-slight change in timbre and He laughs once more. Not a totally humorous laugh, but more of a devious chuckle kind of laugh. It’s the laugh that bodes no good for me.

‘oh no,’ I think to myself. Now what?

“Well, nilla…that’s wonderful. Sounds like a night you should get an o. Maybe…maybe” His voice drops a bit here, both in pitch and volume, and my pussy is almost bleeding sex juice now. I feel it slicking my thighs, and reach down to touch.


“…maybe even an O…and a half, I think.”

I am silent for a minute, then gasp and stutter.

He laughs more.

“B-b-but….Masterrrrrrrrrrr…” I whimper at last.

“Yes nilla?” His tone is …jovial.

“But it’s going to be …well…I’m going to be out until at least 1030 on Friday…”

He laughs even more, his voice rich with delighted amusement. My pussy lurches at the sound.

“I’m having one hell of a picture here…you getting home, doing all you do before bed, sliding into your bed sometime around 11, and knowing you have to pound your pussy before midnight because it’s a required orgasm…and a half. Then up early, wet and sticky thighs, being all horny and turned on for work. Aaaahhh…”

I’m aghast.

And turned on.


How is it that He can do this to me so readily? Like I’m hair-trigger-wired so that the smallest show of Sadism rocks my world and turns me into a horny wanton slut?

It’s amazing.

Sometimes I can barely believe this is me, who used to be so cautious, so wary. So…vanilla.

Oh boys n girls?

nilla is so not vanilla anymore.

What I am, is joyfully, blissfully happy…even though I can still see my ass running ahead of me. 🙂

(ps. keep reading. I was so flubber-flustered yesterday I actually wrote TWO posts for today…so if you’ve been wondering about Sam’s story…read on. ❤ nilla)

Sam’s Story

Her feet hurt. She could take an order in her sleep, having worked here in Avril’s restaurant since she was 15. She could carry a tray of soda’s with ice without spilling a drop, remember which customer ordered onions and mayo and which did not, and calculate a tip to the penny. But her feet still hurt.

She’d thought, several times, that she’d escape her small-town life. When Frank Wescott had roared into town with his Harley, hung out at the dungeon beat her bottom, and fucked her raw and brainless, he’d promised to get her a helmet and take her with him. Yet he’d roared off as he’d arrived – alone.

That was the same year her brother had become wheelchair bound, when she’d had to take on more work around the house to help her mom and dad as they made all the alterations to give Billy freedom in the house. Her mom traveled for her job, and Sam found herself working two jobs…one at the restaurant, one at home helping to care for her brother.

Often she had been too tired to indulge in her private fantasies at Club Crop. She had a need to be beaten and fucked and forced to submit. She’d played, dabbled really, at submission. Suddenly, with the arrival of Shae and her mother, things had gotten all turned around.

At first she’d been resentful. She had cut loose at the club, drinking to oblivion, not caring who used her. Seeing Shae in her wheelchair had made her so fucking mad. She was already dealing with a wheelchair-bound person – this was her private world, dammit! Yet, after she and Shae had a meeting of the minds at her father’s house, things had settled down. Somehow Shae had gotten Sam back into Dan’s good grace, and she had gotten a second chance.

For a long time she’d thought she had a thing for Michael, but that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the one. She had to admit that Shae had been dead-to-rights about that. She and Michael had never had the same “click” that she’d found with Daniel.

The steady throb in her feet faded as she thought about Dan. Dominant, oh hell yes. Her pussy pulsed softly and she shifted, not noticing her sore toes as her mouth watered, and her body reacted to her memories.

He was so fucking compelling. Hard. He was physically hard, mentally tough. He was good at bondage, at setting predicaments for her, and a master at handling a woman’s body. He knew where to touch, what she could take, and just how far he could push her beyond what she thought she would bear.

“You gonna close up and head home, or just stand there with that shit-eatin’ grin on your face?”

Avril laughed at Sam as she shook her head, escaping from thoughts of Dan. Reality came rushing back as she wiggled her toes in her shoes and winced.

“Go home girl. Been here since six, and it’s going on three.”

She didn’t have to be told twice. The place was pretty empty, just Jer and Daisy sharing  a hot fudge sundae as they did every Thursday, as they had for 66 years, or so Jer said.  She smiled and waved as she slipped back into the kitchen, hanging up her apron and heading out the back door.

The day was gorgeous, as the warmth of Spring poured into the mid-Atlantic. It had been a crappy winter, but days like this sure made up for it. Turning her face to the sunshine, she stood for a moment, letting the warmth soak into her.

“You’ll get freckles that way.”

Her heart thudded.

“Daniel..” she couldn’t speak past the lump that rose in her throat. Gods he was so fucking handsome. His hair mussed, likely from running his hand through it, his eyes gleaming, the flash of his smile.

“Come here and give me a kiss, pretty wench.”

She couldn’t play coy with him, nor flirt as she did with so many of her male customers. One step, two, four brought her to him. She leaned up, then up onto her toes to reach. Circling her arms around his neck, she moved softly, so unlike herself. The kiss was tender, sweet, a thing that was as much question as obedience to his wishes.

“mmmmm” he murmured against her lips.

His big hand cupped her head, and she felt both the heat of the sun and the heat from him. He was hotter.

He took the kiss deeper, lips nudging, tongue seeking. He took. She gave, more acquiescent than she’d ever been in her life.


“Yes…very nice.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t…” She broke off looking up at him. She wasn’t sure what they were out here, outside Club Crop.

“I do.”

His eyes flashed, and she suddenly realized that he was always “on”. Being a Dom wasn’t merely a costume he shrugged on when he stepped into the doors of the club, but an integral part of who he was as a man.

She dropped her gaze, fell into step beside him. Still, she was shocked when he took her hand, swinging it gently in his. He turned to cut through the park.



The way he drawled it out. The amusement of it. The thrill it gave her. Suddenly her nipples rose, pressing insistently against her bra, begging for his touch. Unbelievable the power he had over her.

“um…my house isn’t this way.”

“I know. We’re taking a detour.”

She thought of her aching feet, yet his hand held hers firmly, guiding her onto the path that led beneath arching tree limbs that were hazed with the first hint of swollen green buds. At this time in the afternoon, the park was quiet but for the call of robins flitting from tree to grass.  He led her deeper into one of the quiet nooks where a grandmother maple stood. It was a local hang out, the fat low limbs perfect for junior tree climbers, and later in the evening, a secretive sort of place for quick beer parties.

He walked her right up between two low limbs, pinning her against the tree with his body.

“Close your eyes.”

Forehead to the rough bark, she complied with a softly whispered “yes, Sir.”

He lifted the skirt of her waitress uniform, and tugged aside the thong panties she preferred. In seconds she felt the head of his cock pressing, sliding into her.

“So wet and hot already. Such a slut, Sam.”

His words were almost growled against her ear, and she whimpered with the pleasure he was giving her. Balls deep, he made short, sharp jabs with his hips, pressing her into the tree, fucking her slowly. One arm came around her hip, feeling for her clit, rubbing it roughly.

“No cumming,” he admonished.

“B-but you’re…” she gasped “…touching..”

“Mmmmm, swollen hard clit. Lovely and suckable. Next time. Next time I’ll take you someplace, lay you over the hood of my car, and suck your clit until you spurt all over my face.”

The shivers built, almost un-stoppable.

“Oh sir…sir…i…i…” She clenched, squeezing his cock with her pussy, bearing down to try to stop what seemed inevitable.

“Cum…pour that hot pussy juice all over my dick,” He growled, his lips at the back of her neck. Small bites followed his lips, and that was her undoing, as she arched back, taking him deep into her desperate belly.

“And quietly…” He added. “Just in case someone happens by…”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she felt her body convulsing, as she exploded. She felt her pussy grabbing his shaft, swore she could feel every vein, each contour of him as her cunt tightened again. His fingers pinched her clit painfully as he joined her, pumping into her as deeply as he could, emptying his balls into her, their breathing as ragged as if they’d run a race.

After a minute, he tugged the thong back into place, as well as her skirt, and took her hand again, and led her on trembling knees, homeward.

It was amazing, but her feet didn’t seem to bother her anymore.

nilla’s “Best Part”

I could just jump right in here and say “my best part is…..”

But you know I won’t. *laughs*

Well, hell, I *know* I’m easy…but we don’t want it to end *that* fast, now do we? Right. See? I know YOU, too. 🙂

It’s Thursday as I sit and reminisce. And I will tell you that things are still floating in and out of my head, a plethora of images..His eyes, the …concentrating, I guess…way that He dug into that damned black bag as I lay on the bed watching Him.  He’d pull something out, lay it on the bed. Repeat. Occasionally He’d pull out something and say “Oh! I’d forgotten all about that!” and then He’d look up at me, wiggle the toy at me, and smile.

Threat, promise, glee.

Though that was a very amusing part (and a bit titillating)…it still isn’t my favorite.

Then there was the Wall session. He was gentle, guiding me carefully (blindfolded) around the bed. And He was rough, pushing me hard against the wall. (Hard enough to leave a small bruise on my forehead. When I texted Him the next morning saying so, His response? “Then don’t move your pretty fucking head.”


Still, not my favorite moment (though I admit it is in the Top 5).


Well…it’s been a week since I started writing this, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. Those first 200 words took me more than an hour to write! I usually write about 1200+ words in an hour, for comparison. I was very obviously still in the slut-zone. The good thing is that I don’t seem to fall and crash and burn as I come down to “normal” anymore. No subspace one minute, and then BOOM-subdrop, tears, and whimpering depression. That seems to have moderated as we moved into our 2nd year together, and these days, working on year 4? I can’t remember a time when I fell into a gloom after playtime. Pissed off a time or two, oh yes. 🙂 But subdrop? Not so much.

I remember, last week, that I’d write a phrase or a sentence and would gaze off into nothing, remembering. Lost in the memories of his body hot on mine, the intensity of his teeth biting my nipple, my shoulder, even my ass where He’d hit me, bruised me. The scent of him, the weight of him, the strength of Him…he is so *fucking* strong.

But now a full week plus has passed, and of the bits I am still remembering (yes, it sometimes takes 2 weeks to remember all of the day…i think the blindfold plays a role in my lack of clarity in remembering) some of the things He did…we did.

We’re pretty fucking naughty. 🙂

But what one part of our 8 hours together was the best part? That’s harder to pin down than you might think. I love spending time with Him in vanilla settings. Having tea and bagel time before we head to the hotel, talking about vanilla things, when He will drop in some naughty D/s thing. Or tug my hair and hold me in place by it, right there in the restaurant as I get up from the table and slip over to his side to kiss his bearded face. Mmmm, public submission turns me on.

But there’s this moment.

Our playtime is almost over. I’m already hurty-achey…in part from the beatings, and in part from being used. My girly bits are swollen, throbbing, raw feeling. (gawd…just writing this turns me on)

By now the blindfold is gone, and He’s laying over me. We’re both pretty spent. I don’t think I have a single O left in my body, but his fingers, those naughty, strong digits, are still busy over my body, pulling my nipples, pinching me, tickling me. I’m pinned, unable to summon the strength to even attempt to push him off of me, just glazed and looking up at Him.


There is not a better word to describe it. Drained, thudding in my entire body with every heartbeat. Full and empty at the same time. I think I’ve touched the divine, been touched by something deeper than sex and lust and pain. Transformed. Healed. Happy.

And then those naughty fingers slide low. They tease their way down my belly and I know.

“ooooohhh” I moan.

“Shhhhhhhh” He whispers, his mouth hovering just over mine.

“I-i c-can’t…oh Masterrr…” 

“Shhhhhhh” he will say, then take my mouth in the tenderest of kisses, as his fingers begin to assault my pussy. He might pinch and prod and pull, or just nudge my swollen lower lips apart and press inside. Sometimes he’ll start slow and gentle…and other times it is nothing short of an onslaught, the Warrior taking the conquered. His strong fingers begin fucking into my painfully sore pussy, fucking hard, rough violent, while I whimper and moan into his mouth, as His lips continue the gentle assault on mine.

And then my body is gone and I’m flying, cumming, cumming so hard I fear that my molecules will lose their grip and i’ll explode into oblivion. I squirt at these times, my pussy convulsed in intense paroxysms of pleasure. And pain. The two so intertwined I have no idea which is which.

And fade to black.

When I rouse, He is there, laughing against my mouth.

“You slut, you’ve ruined another coverlet.”

Yeah. That is a pretty favorite part, too.


There’s more!

(gee isn’t there an infomercial that goes like that?)

But I still haven’t told you my very, very best, favorite part…and I’m guessing that you really want to know what on earth it could possibly be?

You might be surprised. Maybe. It’s not the beating. The fucking. The dressing up, the shoes, the slutty makeup, the Wall, the toys, the tying up. It’s not the crop, the paddle, the fucking silver cake thingy, and certainly not the fucking pink hairbrush!

It’s something unexpected in a D/s relationship.

Something that doesn’t come into the room via his black bag.


It’s  laughter.

I know. It’s unexpected. Tears? Tears you’d expect there to be. All that beating. All the bruises. All the pain. Yup, there are tears, and I treasure ’em…but at the point where negativity breaks away, when I am still very much in the grip of the Sadist…something inside of me goes *pop*. (no, not that. Well, okay, yeah that. But that’s before. And after.) (laughs)

This “pop” is in my head, my attitude. Suddenly all that has been before fades, and all that lies ahead is too far away to worry about. There is only the *right- fucking- now*  where I have nothing to do or be or attempt. I just need to be there. Lay there. Accept. Release. Relax into the moment.

In yoga and meditation, that is one of the goals. To let go, and “be”. To BE fully present in the moment and accept that where we are is right where we are meant to be.

And in that moment…it’s exactly perfect. I am where I am meant to be, doing what I am meant to do.

And I laugh for the sheer joy of that. For love of HIM for bringing me to that place over and over again.

He makes me giddy, full, alive.

It’s not the pained laughter as he torments my poor feet. It’s not the writhing struggling laughter as he tickles my armpits, or my waist, or my belly.

It’s the laughter of pleasured glee. The giggles post-orgasm. The rolling laugh as we exchange witty barbs, when He is laughing along with me. When our bodies are just … brimming with the delighted joy of satiety in one another’s company. (I was going to say conjugal delight in our company, but it is deeper than flesh.)

It is the laughter of two hearts joined in a union of opposite, yet equally twisted desires, each equally matched to pleasure the other.

And that my friends, is the best part of all.




HNT Rambles

Is it me or is this week absolutely *flying* past? Snow is *finally* melting from the northeast, we’ve broken 40 twice already this week, and might, maybe, possibly, hit 50 over the weekend. The pussy willows are finally fuzzing out, blue starflowers are refusing to be swayed by the last of the snow piles and are blooming brilliant as the sky. Even my chives are peeking up out of the planter, cautiously scenting the air…Spring is creeping in on little cat feet, and nothing gladdens my heart more after this unbelievably long winter. (on the bright side? after getting nearly 100 inches of snow this winter, it is unlikely that we’ll be facing a drought this summer!)

Here it is, HNT day, and I thought I’d do something a bit different than the tradition boob shot, a glimpse of the full nilla, as it were. Happy Spring, and happy HNT!

This is nillap.s….this was taken in late January, when my hair was going through that disastrous purple -red phase, which thankfully, is all gone! (What a difference a few months make!)



“What on Earth were you thinking?”

He frowned down at her, as she stared up at him, a pleading look in her eyes. OH, she was well and truly fucked now, and he was glad that she knew it. Saucy slut. Presumptuous slut.

“Well, Sir, i waited so long for you to come home, and I was thinking about how I would feel when you came in the door and I’d get to suck your cock coz I’ve been thinking of it all day, and then I started touching myself and closed my eyes and could almost taste it, you know?”

He interjected her quick-spoken defense.


She blinked.

“It, Sir?”

“You said you could almost taste ‘it’…to what are you referring, slut?”

She flushed. That would be two strikes against her now. He hated when she called his penis an “it”.

“I-I-” she paused, swallowing the nervous spit gathered in her mouth.  “Sorry Sir. Your penis, cock, dick, rod, staff, dong, cum gun, fuck-rod, joystick, pecker. Not an “it”.”

He almost had to bite his lip to prevent the smile that threatened to emerge. She was required to speak ten alternate names for his cock if she slipped and called his manhood an “it”. The inclusion of joystick always cracked him up. Which of course she knew, the smartass.

“Very good. Carry on with your explanation for that.”

He pointed to the puddle on the floor near the front door. She threw a quick glance at it, then hastily back at him. She wanted to look away from him, he knew, but he compelled her to meet his eyes as she spoke of her misdeed.

“I-I was thinking about sucking your cock, Sir. The way your skin feels against my lips, the weight of your shaft against my tongue. The slick way your swollen head slips deeply into my mouth, my throat. The feeling of the gag until I get it under control, the taste of your cum as you spurt. By then I was rubbing my clit harder, and before I realized, I was cumming, Sir, and your car–I could hear you turn into the driveway and…”

“And it was too late to hide your dirty deed?”

“Oh Sir! I wouldn’t have hidden it. I would have told you.”

“The smell of you when I walked in the door told me, slut. And my cock remains unsucked.”

She looked hopeful for a moment. The dragon inside of him was happy to dash that hope, watch the nerves dance across her face.

“Unfortunately, that can not happen until you receive your punishment. You do need to be punished, don’t you, greedy little slut?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Yes Sir.”

“Good. Rise, and assume the position.” He pointed to the arm of the couch.

Slowly she rose, the hem of her skirt fluttering around her thighs. Shirtless, as he preferred, and pantiless as well, he enjoyed the teasing view of her bottom as she moved towards the couch. He knew the fabric would scratch at her nipples, she complained of that often enough.


She stopped, throwing a questioning look over her shoulder.

“Wait right there, I’ll be right back.”

She watched him walk into their bedroom. Now what? She felt a tremor of nerves. In moments he was back.

Moving to the front of her, he pinched one nipple, making it draw tight. Grasping it between thumb and forefinger, he wound an elastic band around and around it, holding the engorged nubbin in its full, hard state. He treated the other bud the same way.

For a moment she didn’t feel much. Pressure, to be sure. A tingle between her thighs, but his touch always did that.

“Now, over, in position.”

She bent over, her increasingly sensitive nipples rubbing against the chenille fabric. Oh. It felt even rougher as blood pooled behind the constricting elastics.

He moved around the room, gods only knew what the fuck he was doing. He came close, folding her skirt up and baring her bottom.

“At last,” she thought, but to her disappointment, he moved away. She heard the squeak of the chair as he sat in it, and the corresponding flush of embarrassment as she felt his eyes moving over her bottom.

“Those pussy lips of yours are glistening with sex juice.”

The comment was almost offhand, a description rather than a tease. The flush grew deeper, and her “glistening pussy” pulsed with the sudden upsurge of desire. It embarrassed her no end that he was sitting there just looking at her, yet the humiliation, while excruciating,  was also exciting. Sometimes she was such a sick, perverted fuck.

The familiar strains of Beethoven’s Für Elise came from behind her, his cell phone. He spoke to Emily, his secretary at work.

And spoke to her. He rose from the chair and paced the room.

And spoke to her.

And added several paragraphs of text to a document she was obviously updating as he spoke. He spelled names, waited for read-backs, and generally ignored his slut, skirt folded up over the small of her back, ass raised, nipples hurting.

She fumed. She huffed. She waggled her butt.


The call ended and the first swat on her ass came almost simultaneously. He struck all around her ass, never in the same place twice, until she felt like she could glow in the dark. Her body pushed and wiggled as she tried to maintain position, her nipple scrubbed against the roughness of the couch cushion below her. Her breasts hurt, aching and throbbing from the tightness of the elastics around her nipples.

The pain in her tits was nothing compared to what was happening on her ass. And when she thought she would scream for mercy, his phone rang. His hand rubbed her abused bottom as he talked once more to his secretary, stroking teasingly over her swollen pussy, then back to rub her ass.

She knew better than to make noise when he was on the phone, but she felt the moan growing with every sweeping touch. And then his fingers were reaching, seeking her swollen clit, tugging and rubbing it. She was close, so close.

He stopped touching, wiping his hand across her bum, and paced around the room still working on that fucking document! She needed to cum, dammit! The squeak on the floor presaged his coming near her again, yet he didn’t touch her. Around and around the room he moved, making her crazy with the need to shout at him. The cad! The brute! The bloody bastard!

His fingers slid into her slick, hot hole, and she almost yelped as he stroked deep into her, and out, swishing across her clit. Without a word, he pulled out, walked away, resuming the circuit around the room.

He was driving her fucking nuts!

Again the call ended, and she waited, her nipples sending hot licks of fiery pain up her tits. Every movement now was extremely painful, and she did whimper.

The thwack of the cane against her tender bottom was shocking. She yelped again as he caned her between her thighs, short hard raps against her tender, greedy pussy flesh, down the length of her leg, then back up over her ass. She didn’t know where the next blow would land, and she wanted nothing more than to roll away and attempt to crawl under the couch to hide.

And then he was done.

The cane hit the table in front of the couch with a clatter. The quick zzzzp of his fly was the only warning she had before his cock slid into her pussy.

He fucked hard and deep into her, his fist tangled in her hair, arching her back. He spoke not a word, and ignored the phone when it rang again. He pumped at the rhythm of the classical love song, and when she was that close to cumming, her nipples feeling like they would explode, he pulled out of her greedy pussy, leaving her gasping and yearning.

“Now, slut. Now you may suck my cock.”

Really? Ya’ll Like the Rambles, eh?

Master wrote me a very wonderful response to my post on Monday. I was going to share it, but I think I’m just going to hold it close to my heart. The final thing he said to me when I called to thank him, was “remember nilla–you write for you–no one else. Everyone who reads is just along for the ride with you.”

That  moved me. I’ve always said that, this is my place, and I’m so glad you all come along and read and comment…but once in a while I forget, and I get taken aback when there is the occasional negative remark. These are my fantasies, and I *know* that I’m not going to hit every person’s personal “thing”, right?And some of my things will be things that utterly repulse some of you.  Some of you are turned off by the stories I’ve written about doggie sex, for instance, and some don’t like rape stories (though there are a lot of us pervies who do get all wet and quivery about the *fantasy* of rape sex. This in NO WAY condones rape culture, or the thought that a girl should get nailed because her skirt was too short. This here is a fantasy. No more, no less.)

So…one of my little fetishes is writing Octo-porn. 🙂 Tentacles in all their many forms both repulse me…and turn me on.  So imagine my surprise when I was hunting for Easter basket goodies at big box store…and found these:

pinkoctiThere are 4 pair of sox here, and this is the “alt” colorway:


I LOVE them, love them. I’ll wear them every time I sit to write a tale of dastardly tentacles!


My bruises are fading, and I’m quite sad about it. The ones on my thigh and ass and shoulder are still pretty much there, but a bunch on my left arm turned green the other day (and that’s kind of unpretty, yanno?) and are now faded to pale. I think the one on my left thigh, which I don’t believe I printed here, will be black and blue for another week. It’s funny coz that one doesn’t hurt all that much, really, He just managed to hit just right with that fucking pink brush.


You’re likely to be hit with a string of nilla ramblings this week, as it is a wonderfully busy week just before Easter. I’m working 11 hours on Saturday, and part of Easter morning (I don’t mind, I’m a pagan. I don’t really enjoy the church thing on Easter, though our church is VERY liberal, mostly humanist, with a lot of pagans thrown in for spice. But…it’s not my scene so I’m happy to have the work hours. We’ll do the whole egg-hunt thing when we all gather again post-church. My kids have been good about it, too.  Our Bunny is clever, he likes to hide clues in the eggs, making them run up and down stairs to find the next, until they find the last one leading to their baskets.  He’s even smart enough to do pictorial ones for my two non-reading kids. 🙂

And Master and I will maybe get a wee hook up time on Friday evening as I journey into the City to wait for the teen kiddo. He’s going to a dance with the g/f. We’ll see  how that all plays out. Hopeful though.


Looks like the snow storm slated (last week, at least) to strike the northeast tomorrow…will miss. Hall-lay-loo-yah! We’ve finally danced above 40* and should get there again today (Monday). All the snow we got last week has nearly melted. And I planted my tomato seeds Sunday afternoon. 🙂 It will be a long time before I can plant them outside, but at least they have begun!


ON the D/s front?

Master has been a HUGE BIG MEANIE!

He offered me a “deal” with “better than house odds”…He challenges my math “skills” frequently. I could have an O on Saturday night, for sure.

Or I could risk the odds and get TWO o’s on Sunday. 55% odds that I’d get it if I waited.

He even UPPED the ante, pushing my odds up later Saturday night. But no. I stuck to my guns. I was fucking horny, no O since Tuesday, and I was resolute.


My son was volunteering at an event at church, with friends of mine bringing him back home. As the hour approached 11, I texted him. My “day” ends at midnight and if I don’t get an O in, tough tooties. He didn’t answer the first text.

11:15 I text again.

He says they have one more load of dishes to do, maybe 30 minutes. My heart sinks. It’s a 30 minute drive home. I’m fucked. Or, as I like to say, unfucked.

I try to text Master to see if there is still a chance…but no answer. He was asleep. Or ignoring me. Or laughing. One of those.

So no O when I finally fell into bed, exhausted, at 1245 a.m. I’d been up since 530 a.m., worked a 9 hour shift at work, saw Master, came home and waited for the teen to arrive back. All the while being uber horny, needing an O so much.


I tried last night. He was in a foul mood. Just…human, you know. And disinclined to give *me* pleasure. Now…He’s just enjoying torturing me, and it’s apparent that I’ll have to wait until my “usual” day, Tuesday, before I get an O. (as I sit here, throbbing and wanton as I write this)

He is such a Bastard sometimes.

(and yes, I do like it that way–otherwise what’s the point, right? But I still get to grouse about it. 🙂 win-win even when it’s a lose-lose.)

When I talked to Him Monday night He was totally set on my not getting an O. He won’t change His mind very often…even though His mood was sunnier. A bit sunnier…and enjoying that I was all wanton and needy. I’d tried ALL evening to soften Him up, sending Him texts while I was working… I even co-opted a song from the 50’s, rewriting the words, something about “now He holds my o’s,” and then I got busy, and about 20 minutes passed before I looked at my phone.

We’re here this beautiful day to celebrate the (former) life of Nilla the Slut – who left this planet after constantly pestering her M -even though the song was clever.

“nilla the slut sits quietly in the corner like a good girl.”

And so I left Him alone until I knew He was driving home from work. Which is why I’m glad I had the most of this text written since we talked through my bed hour. 🙂

You’ll note that in my text to Him I said “like” a good girl, not that I *am* a good girl. 🙂 Need to leave those “pestering options” open. *laughs*


(this is uber rambley…even for me!)

I started a story..well…actually, being the ADD person I am, I started one story, got up to make a cuppa (tea) and on my way back? Got an idea for a 2nd story so I started that one.

Which means that neither is done. But both are half-done. Tomorrow should be an easier day. We’ll see.  But thanks to sofia for the idea for story one. Her blog entry today made a naughty little tale pop right into my head. I love when that happens.


One final thing…I thank you…ALL of you…for your comments over the weekend, and especially on Monday. We’ve all been judged, and likely even judged someone else (I know I have, and paid the price for it, of personal and public embarrassment for not remembering my manners)…I will respond to each of you, just know that I’m really backlogged. I very much value all your thoughts, and the time that you take in writing to me.

Be well my friends.


nilla rambles…yes, again

So, where is my head tonight as I write? Ah, a funny thing you should ask. I did get some face time with Master after work tonight, which was really nice. We talked, flirted. He pinched me some on my arms, tickled me a bit (why, why am I so fucking ticklish??!!) and it was a nice chance to “touch” one another for the first time since play time.

I told Him of some of the “negative” feedback regarding the HNT pictures, comments which surprised me, frankly. He reminded me that TTWD is a continuum…and though *I*’ve been here for 3.5 years, many readers are “new” to me and to U/us…and haven’t followed the path to where we were, and where we’ve come from, and where we’ve yet to go.

And that helped give me some perspective.

I’m very proud of my bruises, you see. They prove something to me, several somethings. That I am strong. I often feel like I’m not, you know. Because I’m also so very, very needy, which makes me feel…you know…weak.

The bruises prove something else. That He can hurt me with love. Because HE needs it. That we’ve found this connection of yin-yang that pleases us both.

They are beauty marks. Marks of His love for me, written all over my body. The bite marks are especially special…reminders of a ferocious bout of sex and pleasure and pain, a dance of primeval lust. Marks of my love for Him, that I can take this pain, that my body transforms His beast beatings into a lust-fire so intense it’s a wonder we aren’t both consumed by the conflagration.

This blog is not just a place of sexy stories, but also the place where I talk of my journey. It’s the place where I found myself when I first started questioning why. Why did all those “perverted” stories that I’d been reading turn me into a wet puddle of goo as I surreptitiously read them? Why did my heart pound and my pussy ooze when I read of real people. Real women? People who did this…for real?

They called themselves “submissives”. . . but who did that, really? Let themselves be used. “Holes” they were, there to be used however their “owners” wanted. Kaya was my first, soon followed by doubleknot. They were sexual slaves.

I was so far removed from all of that. I was a good girl-a good woman. Sure, I hadn’t had sex with my spouse (a woman) for years. Sure I’d always had feelings towards both men and women. But I was a lesbian. And I was a good girl.


Except…I began to suspect that I wasn’t a good girl. Not in my head. Not between my legs. I tried to “quit” and went a month without reading any of “those” blogs. And found myself curious. Insatiably curious. What if.

What if I wasn’t a “normal” woman, what if I had these submissive feelings for real?

I was a good girl…except for that one, niggling question.

Ah, that “except” has made all the difference, hasn’t it?

I keep that poem by Frost where I can read it every day. The Road Less Traveled. I’ve even posted it here. It is my “touchstone”, or what some might call a defense–for I, I took the road less traveled by-and that has made all the difference.

So–I ask you to not judge my Master, nor I, by my bruises. By His ability…no…His desire to make me, mark me, as His, nor my desire to bear them.  I ask you to not judge Him or me, at all, just as you would not want to be judged for how you and your Master/Sir, or slave/sub/girl/boi handle your relationships.

You’ll never know where this journey will take you as you move along…maybe you’re a dabbler and you’ll stop at a few spankings. Maybe you’re adventuresome and will want to pierce, or tattoo or brand your slave. Maybe you’re so enthralled with your Dominant that you’ll do just about anything (barring of course, removal of limbs, having sex with cattle, or harming family members…you know, sensible stuff.)…the point here?

It’s not for me to judge your kink.

Nor is it for you to judge mine.

I’m not going to feel put off by those who think my bruises are extreme, since they please me too much. I just really needed to get this off my chest.

Because bruises of the body? Those I’m happy (and desirous) to bear for Him. Bruises of the spirit caused by naysayers? Nah. Those I’m just going to let those slide on by.


“UnderDom” (afterward)

She was laying, blindfolded, bound, helpless, on some sort of table. Though initially cold, it had warmed some with her body heat. Her head rested on some kind of headrest, her arms secured to the sides of the table with fat silver clips that had been hooked onto round eyebolts that jutted from each leg. The table was short, the edge of her ass barely resting on it, her knees bent, folded back, and clipped by her ankles the same as her wrists were.

Her nipples were tight, her pussy juicy. She’d never done this sort of thing before. Always she’d played in the open rooms, being a mobile partner. This was very different.

She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to do this, actually. Michael had bound her here, his hands quick and strong as he’d tied and hooked and secured her. The blindfold had thrown her a bit, but she did not protest.

The door opened, closed. The in-rushing air teased over her open, exposed body, twirling around her breasts and making her nipples clench even tighter. Hot fingers grasped each upthrust bud, making her moan.

Whomever he was, he was not being gentle, pinching and twisting her tender bits. A whimper escaped, even as she felt a fresh rush of lust juice sliding from her. They pulled away, but were quickly followed by a series of fast, hard slaps on her tits. All was quiet for a moment, then the soft sound of a cabinet being shut, or perhaps a drawer? She thought she remembered that there were both in this room.

A sharp pinch on her left nipple made her gasp; in moments her right nipple was stung as well. He dropped the cold metal chain between her tits, making her shiver.

The pinch between her thighs came as a deeper surprise, and she realized he was clamping her clitoris. The sudden rush of nerves mingled with fear, danced with lust. There was a tug on the chain connecting the clamps on her nipples, and she knew what he was doing, connecting her three pleasure points.

There was a rip, the sound of a package, and she knew he was sliding a condom on his cock. No words spoken, only the blank taking and torture of her body–and she wanted with a need that ground deep. He’d gone from covering his cock to standing between her thighs without her fully realizing that he’d moved, and yet, she felt the probing between her pussy lips. That tugged on her clit-clamp, which in turn tugged her nipples.

She moaned as he sank into her cunt, the sensation of being so filled, the pain of the clamps, the incredible sensations of being so completely body-focused.

He fucked in and out of her, slapping her thighs, her belly, tugging on the chain, making her whimper.

“Sir, please may I cum?”


Her breast screamed from the pain, the wordless cry from her lips as she crested, unable to hold it back. Lost, she was swirled into a whirling dervish of sensations. He was jack-hammering between her legs, plunging deeply into her, as her pussy clamped, convulsing around his turgid thickness. She couldn’t seem to stop cumming, lost in the sweeping waterfall of pain and pleasure.

She woke gradually, her nipples throbbing, her clit matching beat-for-beat. Her blindfold was off, and a hand held her head up, pressing a bottle of water to her lips.

“Just a sip, Sam, just a little bit.”


Her heart fluttered.

“Thank you Sir.”

It seemed that Shae had been right. She had said she’d lay the groundwork, but it was up to Samantha to do the rest. This was only the beginning…but for the first time in ages, she had hope that there would be more here than just a beginning.


Shae held onto Michael’s hand as they watched slave leila being beaten by another slave. She’d never have the gumption to “top” another, even if Michael had ordered her to do so. It was perhaps the ultimate in submission, to serve a Master who would require such a task as a show of acceptance.

She had declined to play tonight, saying she didn’t feel all that well. He’d asked if she wanted to stay home, but she’d worked too hard on The Plan for Samantha to not be here when the woman truly needed a friend. She’d alienated so many already.

Tonight she had abstained from drinking, and had been almost meek when Michael had led her down the hallway to one of the private play rooms.

Yet, watching Samantha wobble down the hall an hour or so later had been worth every moment. She glowed. Master Dan was looking pretty smug too. Shae hoped it would work out for them.

Turning to her husband, her Master, she smiled.


“Just thinking how lucky I am.”

“Well, not every slut has an UnderDom at their disposal!”

“Not every UnderDom has Cannoli Woman watching his back!”

“True.” He grinned at her, then catching how pale she was, he frowned. “What’s up, slut?”

“Well…” she paused, looking up at him.

“Well?” He scowled. “Speak, slut.”



“I’m not a trained dog, Mi—Master.”

He rolled his eyes. Sometimes a smartass sub was a mental workout.

“Fine, fine. It’s nothing. Really.”

“Why do I not believe that?”

“It’s just a bun in the oven, okay?”

He paused his remonstrations, as her words permeated. He blinked, and she almost cracked a smile as his eyes grew misty behind those sexy geeky glasses.

And then belled out a laugh as he scooped her up, hugging her hard.

“I’m gonna have my very own bun!” He chortled, spinning a fast circle that almost made her lose her dinner.

“If your bun hurls on my corset, I’ll be sure that YOU are the responsible party.” Mistress Madeline stood quickly, moving out of range just in case Michael’s girl was ill. “Set her down boy, and give me a hug.”

Both Michael and Shae were jostled and jockeyed around as they were thumped, hugged and kissed in congratulation. When they finally made their escape from the party, they were grinning like fools.

“One more stop, Michael.”

“To Grandmother Bun’s we go!”

There, laughing and crying and kissing and hugging, they celebrated the promise of new life.

And of course, they all lived happily ever after.

“UnderDom” (14)

The bell tinkled merrily as he tugged open the door. Looking up at it, he tripped over the threshold and took two staggering steps into the store. The woman behind the counter giggled.

“You always make such an entrance Michael!”

Too used to these sorts of things these days to even be embarrassed, he pushed his glasses up his nose, and tried to clear the thick knot of nerves from his throat.

“Hi Patty. Yeah. I get that a lot.”  His voice sounded strained. He looked around, ran his hand through his hair. Where to start?

“You look…” she paused, seeking the right word. He wondered if she thought, and discarded, ‘troubled, freaked-out, or crazy’–all would be apropos, actually. “…like you need some guidance.”

A rush of relief flowed through him and his smile gleamed. That was the magic of Michael, Patty thought to herself. That smile, and that helpless/lost little boy look he wore so often. It was so endearing. She’d had such a crush on him in high school, but cheerleaders did not date boys in the chess club, an unwritten rule she often wished she’d broken. She wasn’t in any position to make a move these days, what with her being married these last two years.

Moving from behind the counter, she laid her hand on his arm, but thoughtfully didn’t mention to him that he was actually trembling. Smiling, she steered him around the store.


He burst out of the store feeling drained. The sky was growing overcast, and he recalled that storms were forecast for later today. It was getting on towards lunch and his tummy grumbled. He decided that a hot dog in the park was just what his mouth wanted. Heading off, he spoke to people he knew as he moved south on Main Street. He wasn’t going far enough to swing by Heavenly Eats, but he could always swing by there later to get some dessert. Thinking of Shae’s wet, juicy pussy as he’d had a morning ‘snack ‘o snatch’ as he’d quipped, he almost smacked his lips. Pussy to start the day was much like eating dessert first at dinnertime. Yet if he went down there now-he laughed aloud at his own pun. OHboy, he was such a goner over that woman!

He walked into the stop sign pole, bounced and corrected his path, not noticing that the people in the car stopped there were snickering at him. His smile was dreamy as he recalled the heat and sweetness between her thighs, and the hot smell of her lust as he slurped and sucked her to several powerful orgasms.

Walking down the tree-lined paths, he was reminded that it was just about this time last year that he’d first seen her gleaming hair, heard her delightful laugh. What a distance they had both traveled. Lost in his memories, he found the vendor almost by happenstance. Apparently his nose could trace  the scent of steamed meat that wafted through the air without his brain disengaging from thoughts of Shae.

Sitting at one of the benches, he closed his eyes, taking a hearty bite. He grunted as he felt the unmistakable *splot* in the center of his chest. Opening one eye and canting his head a bit, he saw a blob of ketchup, mustard, and chopped onion right over his heart. He closed his eye again.

“I seem to recall seeing this exact thing, in this exact spot, at this exact time last year. You are truly a creature of habit, aren’t you, Michael?”

Hot dog half-in his mouth, his eyes flew open at the sound of Shae’s laughing voice. The sun struck her hair, gleaming off of the soft waves. Her face looked like she had been carved from porcelain, so perfect did she appear.


“You’re going to choke.” Laughing, she wheeled up to him, swabbing at his chest with a napkin. Why did women always seem to have napkins on their persons? Perhaps he needed to create a “Napkin Woman” for his next novel.

“I faid,” He chewed and swallowed fast, like the Neanderthal he felt he likely resembled.   Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“What are you doing here?”

“Trolling for handsome slobs. Looks like I found one.”

“Cute. I could make you pay for that later you know.”

“You could…if you could catch me. You and I both know it’s more likely that you’d trip over your shoelace before you ever did.” Her laugh filled the air around them, curling little ribbons of lust through his belly.

Looking down he discovered that, indeed, one lace was untied.

“Have I mentioned that you’re a smartass?”

“Oh, once or twice.” She grinned, then in a smooth movement, slid from her chair to his lap.

“Isn’t this better, slobberman?”

She leaned against him,  her head cradled under his chin.  She could hear his heart beating, a steady tah-tunk under her ear, smell the sharp tang of the mustard and onion residue. Her Michael. What a sweet, klutzy man! She kissed him, right there on the spot on his shirt, right there over his heart. His hand smoothed over her hair, followed by his lips.

“I love you, Shae.”

That had been easier to say than he expected. He dug in his pocket, palming the small box.

“I love you too, Michael.”

“I love you as my girl, as my slut, as the bright light that makes my life shine.”

Her eyes welled with tears. He touched something deep in her, this silly, clumsy man. He tied her up in words every bit as easily as he did with rope.

Neither heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, nor noted the wind chasing last autumns leaves in swirling, scurrying whirls.


“Wait. Let me finish.” He paused, their noses nearly touching. He slid the kiss onto her lips softly, then sat tall. He lifted the box into her line of sight, watching as her eyes widened, glowed. There was blue fire in the depths of her, shining for him.

“I want you, Shae, to be mine….for always. You’ve wrapped my heart in one of your cannoli shells, and you’re the only one who can break it. Your laugh is the tether you bind me with, and your smile, ah, sweet woman, that smile is worth all the creamy custard filling in the world.”

She giggled. Leave it to Michael to do something this unconventional.

He flicked the toggle on the box, opening it. Inside was a sapphire, nearly as blue as her eyes, with a single small diamond on each side.

“Blue, for your eyes, Shae. Diamonds for the spark that ignites in me, and that I ignite in you.”

A fat drop of rain hit his nose, splashing onto Shae’s head. Moments later, a second, crashed onto his head. The sky opened up and a fury of rain doused them both.

“Will you marry me?” He asked.

“What? Michael, I can barely hear you!” Shae shouted at him, rain streaming down her face, pooling in her lap.


She looked at him, at the speckles of raindrops on his geek glasses, the water streaming over the planes of his face, his hair plastered to his head.

“Of course I will, you nut,” she smiled.


“OF COURSE I WILL YOU NUT!” she shouted up at him.



Rising, twirling her in the downpour, he stopped before he got dizzy and dropped her. She slid  down his body until they stood, arms wrapped tightly, entwined one with the other.  His mouth lowered to hers in a tender kiss. Tenderness became an inferno as heat burst between them.

“Jesus Christ, get a room. It’s fucking pouring out here you morons.”

They broke apart, watching the jogger move on down the path. They had, it seemed, come full circle.


“Best wedding present, ever.”

“No threshold at the door, either. I made sure that Dave kept it level access.”

“Good for your chair to move in and out.”

“I like in and out.” Her hips moved in a little bump-n-grind in her chair, and her smile spoke of naughty things.


“Mostly it was because you’re such a klutz, Michael. No threshold means one less thing for you to trip over.”

“I’m not a klutz. That’s just my alter-ego so you don’t guess who I really am..”

“Really?” Shae drawled at him, as she turned a slow circle in Michael’s newly completed art studio. Light poured in through the transom-style windows, gleaming on the aluminum-framed pictures. He’d noticed that right off, naturally, that she’d taken  some of his characters and had them blown up into poster-form, and mounted here in his space.

“Really. Have no fear, my dear…”

“Michael. I am not afraid of anything with you by my side.”

“Exactly as it should be.”

She smiled up at him.

“Go on…say it…you won’t be happy until you get it all out.”

“UnderDom is here!”

Laughing, she grabbed him around his waist hugging him hard.

“That he is, indeed.”