The Musuem (5)

Taking his cock from his pants, he stepped forward. She smelled him, the rich scent of man, of cock, of sex.

The slap on her tit caught her by surprise–she’d not seen him grab the crop until it was there in his hand. Her focus had been on one thing, getting that hunk of man-meat in her mouth. The artist for the bronze hadn’t exaggerated a damned thing.

“Eat up, girl.”

He slashed through the air with the crop,  landing it on her thigh. She opened her mouth wider as she eeked gasp of pain. The jolt tugged at her wrists, tugged at her hair, tugged at the chain holding her here. If she fell over, she’d likely pull every hair out of her head. Saying as much to him as his cock hung an inch in front of her lips, he offered her one suggestion.

“Don’t fall over then, slut.”

Any other words she may have attempted were shoved back into her mouth by his enormous shaft. He pushed in firmly, making her take it, take it. She felt the urge to gag, then the gag itself. Hotter than the warm bronze statue she’d mouthed before, flexible enough to bend its way through her reticence and into her throat, his cock fucked deep. Then slowly his hips slipped back, pulling the shaft from her until the flared head of it caught at the edge of her lips. He hung there for a moment, just the tip of his cock resting on her bottom lip, then he tipped forward and slid within again. Every few seconds he would strike her with the crop. Shoulder, back, thigh tit, arm. He’d hit, and fuck, fuck and hit. She was torn between whimpers from the stinging slaps, gagging from the sheer size of him, and joy to finally have him in her mouth.

He pulled out, a string of spit joining them for a moment, breaking as he moved behind her to untie her. He rubbed her cramped muscles, then took a handful of hair.

“Come along now.”

He led her, wrists still tied behind her back, into yet another room, bending her over a doctor’s style exam table. He tugged a strap up and over her, tightening it on the other side. It passed over her neck, holding her face-first in the middle of it, tits pressed against the cool faux-leather surface. Her ass jutted out. How convenient, she thought.

And then thoughts slid away as something pressed into her pussy.

Whatever it was it was big. There was a hiss of velcro; he wrapped a strap around her thigh. He moved around the table again, releasing her hands, and bringing them up over her head. Again the hiss of straps being released, then fastened around each wrist.

“You may cum.”

There was flick, and the thing in her pussy leapt to life. She moaned. There were things going on behind her, she wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but she didn’t care. She hung on the edge as the vibe churned. Her cunt grabbed at it, but it didn’t speed any faster than he’d set it at.

“Sir…I…i can’t….”

“Ah, a pity, then.”

He didn’t sound a bit sorry that the big vibe in her pussy wasn’t set quite high enough to bounce her up over the edge of her raving need.

She whimpered, moaned, and dared to complain. She needed to cum. Pleasepleaseplease…

Until He silenced her. He lifted her head by her hair, then inserted a short but fat dildo into her mouth. In moments, a strap was wrapped around her head. It pressed just deep enough to make her almost gag, and was wide enough to prop her jaws open. It hovered just at the edge of discomfort. It was definitely annoying. She tried to mumble around the fat hunk of rubber in her mouth, but only managed to squirt drool from around the edges.

He lifted her head, saw her glaring at him, and smiled. The bastard!

“Nice drool.”

He dropped her head and slapped her ass.

“Better ass. By the way. This is going to hurt.”

The slap of leather on skin was an unmistakable sound. He didn’t start slowly, but hit fast and hard.

Just the way she liked it, actually.

Whimpers and wriggling did nothing. He moved all around her bottom until the stinging glow of hot beaten flesh was everywhere. Her butt felt like it was on fire. A puddle of drool had formed under her mouth; due to the gentle slope of the table, it now coated her tits. The vibe in her pussy hummed steadily.

“You take it well, slut.” His breath came heavily, and she knew he was deeply aroused. There was a squirt, and something cold hit the crack between her cheeks.

He wasn’t.

He couldn’t.

That giant dick up her asshole?

She shook her head, whimpering. A warm finger pressed against her anus, intruded. In and out it moved, painting her butthole with lube. A second finger joined the first, then a third, stretching, stretching her. She couldn’t…she yowled around the cock gag as the head of his cock popped in when his fingers slid out.

“Breathe through it.”

He pressed deeper, slowly entering her. Her ass felt like it was being stretched around a fucking  baseball bat! He moved deeper, until she couldn’t think, could barely breathe. There was pain but not the body ripping sensations she’d been afraid of. He began to pull out, and her body, feeling voided, was flooded with the sensation of deep relief.

Yet in seconds he’d pressed back into her bum. Her body stiffened as the orgasm caught her unaware. She felt the squirt of hot juice around the vibe still rumbling in her cunt, the spray of it down her legs.

oh my gawd…she thought, head slumping onto the table. He filled her, and began fucking faster, deeper. Soon he was all the way in, then all the way out. Her ass pressed back into him as he pressed in again, her body shaking through another intense orgasm. Her fingers clenched, released. Clenched released.

Her focus, all of it, rested on the vibing shaking gripping squirting of her pussy, and the deep gutting of her ass by the monster cock sundering it.

His fingers dug into her, climbing her sides, finding her tits and tugging them as he fucked faster. She  knew that his own orgasm must be coming soon, his hips rocked into hers, pulsing and pumping like a machine. The steady thud of his body slamming hers sent her off into the universe as she came again. Her legs trembled, her clit throbbed.

“Good. Fucking. Ass. Whore.”

He stiffened, his fingers locked on her titflesh, squeezing painfully, but it only added to her final eruption. She wondered if one could die from pleasure, just as she felt the darkness closing around her.


She woke slowly, feeling a deep throb in her pussy and ass. Where the hell was she? Glowing in the window opposite from where she lay, the sun was setting in brilliant abandon.

She pushed herself up. Naked as a jaybird, she noted, and then smiled even as she winced. Her butt hurt. She felt the muscle-deep pain  and knew the sunset wasn’t the only blooming happening-she could almost feel bruises sprouting.

Wondering where he had gone to, she rose, carefully, from the bed and set out to find where Leo was hiding.


if one calls an untitled post Untitled, isn’t that a title? Hmmm, a conundrum. 🙂

Go with it anyway, willya? I had a tough day yesterday. Yup. I had to do a task that heretofore seemed terribly daunting. I had to attempt…lazyness.


I discovered something-several somethings, really.

  1. Being lazy is hard work. So hard, I had to take a nap midday to recover so that I could do more “lazy” in the afternoon!
  2. Sitting in one place for 3 hours, in the sun, reading a novel –consecutively—gets one sunburnt!
  3. This is NOT something I could get used to. BUT…I feel truly relaxed and refreshed and ready to tackle the next 4 wickedly busy weeks.

There won’t be any jiggling of the calendar for me and Master, unfortunately–He has His work and I’m working the next two weekends both Sat/Sun and my kids have an event that I need to be at the following weekend and then it’s Memorial Day weekend, and that’s always house renovation weekend here. If it rains, there’ll be stuff to do inside, if it’s nice, there’s painting and a new patio to put in–oh we’ll be busy. The following weekend (yes it never seems to end!) is my teens birthday weekend so there really isn’t a time to run away again until after all of that is done. 


So thanks for coming by yesterday for tea and whine. It was much appreciated that you were all so supportive. Today is a hectic day for me, so I won’t get to comments most likely until Tuesday, but know I appreciated every one of them.

Glad you appreciated my stories, and the real life stuff–you always gratify me with your kindness–and it makes me smile.

Wishing I had a bit more D/s to add in here, or a wee story –but I don’t have much of anything. How about a few snippets?


*sound of crickets*


I got nuthin’.


saving it up for a lovely dreadful tale later.

how about a sexy haiku?

*sound of tree frogs*

Three attempts. all sucked. sorry.

Hmmm, I really have nothing but a collection of dirty words, you know-cock, cunt, fucking…but they have no context and no way to morph from bald words to full luscious sensuality.


Soon, my pretty pervies. Soon my cauldron will bubble and boil…and send deliciously naughty tales to make you smile during your morning cuppa.

But for today? Nope. Not going to happen. I think it’s because I actually wrote this during the waning hours of “Lazy Day”.

Does it help to know I wrote this topless? That I took a whole slew of titty pix before sitting to write this? And that even now I’m contemplating masturbating per Master’s orders?

Maybe a little bit?


Ya’ll come back tomorrow. I’ll catch you then!


You want to see one of the pix?  *sigh* I dunno–it seems like that could be “work” and this is still Lazy Day…let’s see if I can muster the energy to push that button and then this one here, and then…

*makes sounds like a plumber crawling under the sink without moving pots n pans first*

*a clink as something falls over, a muffled swear, sound of a dinged elbow and a louder curse*

*sounds of mechanical buzzing and whirring*



*sound of person extricating themselves from pans and pots and extra bottles of dishwashing soap*

….ya go…

empirical proof of “da Lazy” sunburn.

I dunno you guys…making me work like that on Lazy Day seems kinda… sadistic you know?

Good for YOU that I like that!

Happy Monday Pervies!

*sounds of wicked laughter as nilla shuts down her computer and prepares to work some more…on her pussy…*



So, get your cuppa (coffee, tea, confection of juice blenders, whatever), and let’s chat a bit, eh? I’m leanin’ on you today. Today was gonna be the day, you know? Lotsa fucking around, being beaten, kissing and being with my Master.


You know, I’ve been down this road before. Usually it’s fucking mother nature (sorry mother nature–but you know you’ve been a bitch to me sometimes) who dumps 20 inches of snow, or throws up a hurricane to bollux plans.

This time, it was Master’s family. His kids are grown, and he is unattached…except for this one persistent slut who keeps hanging around him (yes, me!).  But his daughter had surgery this week unbeknownst to him. She needs her daddy to be there for her this weekend, as she is still very much recovering; much sleeping, no lifting of things etcetera–all the things that happen post-surgery. She can’t be alone, and everyone in the extended family (mom, brother, friend) have helped out–and Dad got the weekend.

It is what it fucking is, right?

*takes a deep drink of tea*


Here I am, with an open runaway day and no Master to play with. He told me as soon as he knew this might be a possibility, the day of her surgery (he found out when his son let it be known that she was having a hard time coming out of the anesthesia which freaked him out, understandably enough), and since then he’s been trying to get updates as to when his “tour of duty” would occur. He did let them know he’d had plans, but we both agree that our families must come first.


So–I’m miserable company today.  Be glad you’re not sitting beside me right now. 🙂 I’d alternate between telling you how His eyes sparkle when He’s fucking with me, and how fucking annoying He can be sometimes.

And I’d likely moan a little more than a wee bit, about not having had a playday in a while and yanno, it’s gonna be fuckin’ forever before we get another chance for one; unless He is free on Memorial Day weekend at some point, it’ll be mid-June. And it’s not even HIS fault–my family obligations peak in May. If I recall correctly, HE has obligations on that holiday weekend, so really I think it will be 7 weeks before another play time can be attempted.


We did get a tiny bit of face time Saturday night after work. It wasn’t a long time, less than 30 minutes, but gosh His eyes DO gleam and sparkle when He fucks with me.

And despite being –okay–annoyed with the upset in our plans (not AT Him, just at circumstances) I remember, when I see Him.

I remember His magnetism.

He is charming. He is mean. He is devilish. He is SUCH  a Dom.  He’s sexy, and He lights me up. There’s just this energy between us that is palpable. He tickles me and sneak-pinches me, so that I have a quarter-sized bruise on my arm. He pours a little bit of His magical elixir into me– pain and love and giggles- and it goes into the empty place where I was lonely and annoyed and needy. It’s a bandaid, but you know what happens under a bandaid, right?

You heal.

I heal.

And after the keen-edge of disappointment is blunted, I’ll go on through my busy May, happily (lustily, needily)looking forward to June and being with the one who hurts me so fine.

Thanks for coming by and having tea with me. I feel better having talked this all out with you.  I’m going to go off and have a hike, the weather is fine, and heading towards wonderful. You enjoy your Sunday, too.



The Museum (4)

“Follow me.”

Again, his words were brusque, and the tone didn’t allow for discussion, nor argument. She had a feeling that any “discussion” she would attempt would only be greeted with that rise of his eyebrow and the “really?” look. Yet, despite her inner struggle for independent thought, she found herself following him.

He’d said nothing about the blowjob she’d given the statue, hidden under the guise of “cleaning” it. That, frankly, rankled.

They wound through a statuary collection that would have most people swooning. Here the scenes were much more graphic. Some were tiny, able to fit in the palm of her hand, should he allow her to touch one. One, cut from fine jade, showed a woman entwined in an octopus’ embrace, tentacles clearly invading pussy, ass, mouth, twining around full and heavy breasts. She shivered, but could not look away from it, which is why she bumped into him.

“Oh! Sorry…I…”

“It’s fascinating. I imagine that many naughty girls fantasize about being so helpless before such an onslaught. Some postulate that the beast injects its victims with a sexual venom, allowing them to surrender with full abandon to such perverse intrusions.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. She had read stories just of that ilk. They alway made her puddle-gooey.

“Come along, girl,” he said, turning back.

He paused before a closed door, turning to look at her before gracing her with an inexplicable smile, before entering. Stairs. Going up, not down as she had supposed. They were narrow, and likely at some time in the history of the house, had been used by servants, the better to keep hidden from view of the more illustrious guest who had purportedly come here over the decades.

Willow House, it had been called then, she remembered, so named for the giant weeping willows that had graced the front area, lining the long sweep of drive. A hurricane and its attendant tornado’s had decimated them in the 60’s and now the name “Willow House” had mostly been forgotten. Now it was just the Opheim Gallery-or at least part of it was. The rest was Leo’s personal space-those two rooms of eccentric exotic art they had just passed through, and now, whatever lay ahead.

At the top of the stairs another door opened to an open room. Or  perhaps it was just a spacious hallway, she wasn’t certain.  Several wide windows let light into the wood panelled area. She could see the city from this side, all tall spires and rushing hubbub, yet grand from this distance. Crossing to the other windows, she looked down upon the rich array of gardens. Patrons of the arts milled around out there, some holding glasses of champagne as they sat at small bistro tables. She could imagine the conversations going on down there now, all the titters and twitters of the things they had just been exposed to. Erotic art, or pornography, she wondered which headlines would be on tomorrow’s papers.

He watched her taking it all in, she could feel his gaze on her. She slanted him a look.


“Why? Why not?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I saw that. It’s such a teenage gesture, this eye thing. A form of flippancy. You’re well past such things, yes?”

“Obviously…not.” She felt a serious case of wise-ass coming on.

“Lucky for you I enjoy piquant women. Doormats bore the fuck out of me. You’re a good writer.”

“Three compliments in a row.” ‘yet,’ she thought to herself, ‘you say nothing about the blow job I just gave a statue. This is freaking surreal.’  She thought about pinching herself to see if she was awake or dreaming, but the tang of bronze still haunted her tongue.

She was definitely awake.

“Come into my parlor,” he drawled, the smile a challenge on his face. As she entered, brushing past him as he stood holding the door, she saw she was in a room that was definitely NOT a parlor.

With a flick, he popped a switch, and the room became illuminated with candle sconces on the walls. She turned a slow circle, openmouthed.

He watched her for a moment, as that proverbial spider watched a tasty fly, then crossed the room. Face to face, he hooked his hands into the open vee of her blouse, and ripped. Buttons flew, pinging off walls, twirling across the floor, but her gaze stayed on his face. At long last, she saw the hunger, the fire burning in his eyes.

His hands followed the shirt over her shoulders, down her arms, using the fabric to twist her arms behind her. His fist closed tight, holding her, tugging her backwards across the room. What looked like wall panel was actually a closet, she could see. Inside were many different kinds of rope. She watched as he selected one hank, then felt it slither across her wrists. Time seemed to stand still as she heard and felt the kiss of rope over her skin-being tied up was such a turn on, and her lust was instantly rekindled. The tug and pull sent her brain spinning starward, any clear thoughts flying free.

He made her feel.

She yelped when he grabbed her hair, pulling a rough ponytail and tying her folded arms into it. Any struggle of her arms tugged her hair painfully. No one had ever done that to her before. Standing behind her, his arm slid around to squeeze one large tit. She gasped, moaning, as he roughly tugged her bra up, letting her breasts fall free. His hand slid down her belly, behind the waistband of her slacks, digging into the soft cleft.

“So fucking wet. Who knew sucking off a statue would make a slut that horny?”

She arched into his hand as he fingered her clit, crying out her need to cum.

“Not yet. Oh, we’re well and far away from that, yet.” He doused her fire, pulling away his hand, wiping it on her belly.  Pushing her to the center of the room, he reached up, and snagged a hook. Quickly he tethered her rope to it, fishing it through the back of her bra. There was a tug on her hair as well.

“On your knees slut. Show me what you reaaally can do with that talented mouth of yours.”

There was just enough slack in the rope to make it work, but it was very uncomfortable.

“My hair…my arms…” she stuttered.


“You already know…”

“That it hurts? But of course. This pleases me. And deep in your slut soul, it pleases you, too. This is where the fun begins.”

Someone to Watch Over Her

She thought she was “safe” he thought with a mental sneer. Up there on her umpty umpth floor, alone in the clouds. He’d watched her for months, amazed that she truly thought no one could see her as she touched, as she fucked herself, and as she was fucked by others.

He’d watched her watch porn.

Not just any porn, but the dark and dirty kind. The bondage and beating kind. The cum in her mouth and her ass and her tits kind.

In his bedroom was a telescope, hooked to a monitor, so that he could lay in his bed and watch her touching herself. He’d seen a few guys come through, never the same one twice. He’d watched as she’d been trussed open, her pussy spanked then fucked by one masked marauder, watched when the tall bald guy had come by and whipped her until juice drizzled down her thighs, watched as the black guy had fed his cock into her mouth, and later, between her ass cheeks as she had knelt, doggy style, on her big bed. It seemed she’d do just about anything, and with just about anyone.

Thankful that his gig was security, he began digging for information about her. He got her name, address,  phone number, the place where she worked, and the dungeon she frequented.  He knew that she lived alone now, but that she’d been married and divorced, no kids. She made a lot of money advising others how to handle their greenbacks, and her  taste in movies ranged from Up to Die Hard.

He’d been to one who had called the police the night a scene went bad, and had made sure the guy was paid back in kind, a task he attended to personally. Soon, very soon now, he’d meet her. With a tight smile, he continued to watch as she ran her vibe up and down her tight pussy, back arching as she pleasured herself. He stroked his cock as he watched, timing his orgam to spurt when she did.


Stacy Jo Keenan stepped out of her condo building, looking at her iphone and frowning in annoyance, when she walked-full on- into someone. She would have fallen flat on her ass, if strong arms hadn’t grabbed her, and held her upright.

“Careful,” a voice spoke far above her, despite her 5-inch stiletto’s.  Her head tilted back and back.

“You be careful. You walked into me. And dammit!” She teetered, realizing her left heel had broken. “Now I’m going to be late,” she huffed, fuming.

“I was just walking down the street when a sassy-assed girl slammed into me. Good thing I have good balance or I would have fallen and hurt my dainty ass.”

She narrowed her eyes, glaring up at him.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Whyever would I do such a thing? You’re such a sweet little thing.”

“You are making fun of me. . . and it’s not my fault you’re a frikking giant.”

She muttered under her breath “and a clumsy oaf”.

“Did you just call me an … oaf?” His voice, amazed, caught her attention, as did the little shake he gave her.

“I did. Sorry.”

“Now you’re being terse, and it was all your fault, too. Calling me such an archaic name, and hurting my feelings. I could sit right here and cry.” He whined.

She bit her lip. She was not going to laugh. She wasn’t.

The giggle escaped. Clapping a hand over her mouth her blue eyes clashed with his tawny ones.

“Stop. You’re being silly.” She managed, swallowing her smile.

“I can’t help being silly. I’m an oaf!”

Now she was embarrassed.  And giggled again. “I’m sorry I called you an oaf. Really.” Her phone chimed in her hand, but he took it, turned it off.

“Let me help you upstairs so you don’t tip over and knock down any other oafs.” Taking her arm he turned her back towards her door before she could protest. They passed the doorman, who smiled at their exchange once they were inside the thick glass doors.

They were in the elevator before she even thought about what was happening.

“Wait…you can’t come to my apartment…I…”

“I’m not the first guy you’ve had up there, I imagine.” His tone was dry.

She wasn’t sure how to answer that one, really. Her cheeks turned rosy and her brows tugged into a frown.

“I promise to be a good oaf.”

She rolled her eyes. He was like an oversized puppy…but puppies could bite. The doors slid smoothly open and he helped her towards her door. She opened the three locks quickly, then kicked off both her shoes. As she bent to retrieve them, his hands landed on her hips, tugging her back against his legs.

“HEY!” She yelped.

“Little girl, you need a keeper. What the fuck were you thinking, letting a strange man come into your apartment with you? How can you be that complaisant in this city…anywhere? I could kill you. I could rape you. I could tie you up and feed you corn flakes. You have no idea.”

He shook his head, spinning her around to face him. His large hands moved to her shoulders, giving her another shake.

“This was your stupidest idea yet.”

“I…I beg your pardon?” Her tone was frosty, but he heard the thick sound of fear behind the words.

“You’re right about that-you will beg.”

HNT-Spring Tee-ser

Sent this to Master the other day when I was feeling ignored. 🙂 The things us subs need to do to “catch” our Top’s attention….

I know He has tons of meetings on Monday, so I sent this to Him in the late afternoon to “liven up” His next meeting.

Hey, I’m only here to help… (grins naughtily)


Flitting Through nilla’s Head…


I just started the most boring blog post EVER. Really. Thank goodness for delete keys. :)…and I’ll say that I’m not all that sure this one will be better! *laughs*

Truth to tell? I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself. I don’t have the post I was going to publish as it hasn’t been approved by Master yet. I don’t have time to write a sexy story today, and I don’t have one in my head quite yet. (hard to write sexy naughties, when your 6-year-old daughter is growling and pouting and generally being a tiny ass-ache.)

As I was puttering around the house this morning I was thinking about Master and I getting together this weekend. Sunday, actually. And I’m so needy. And a bit nervous. And if I think too much about it, I get all wet and horny.



And horny.

And you know what? I’m on lockdown as far as O’s go from here on out (that’s my best guess…you KNOW I’m not going to ask HIM that question.)…unless I can squeeze one more out of Him, perhaps tonight or Friday. But one never knows with a devious Master, so there is some trepidation in asking.

He could give me a partial O—that is –play with myself until I’m all juiced up and ready to pop…and then I have to stop.

I hate those.

Love the control, but hate the doing. Then I’m all horny to the nth degree. (That’s algebra talk for a lot. 🙂 *laughs* )

Where was I going with that? (see? see what my brain is doing? confuddled and confused.) Oh, right, lockdown, and neediness. It’s my biggest conundrum…ask for an O and have Him remember that He likes to torment me the few days before we meet? Or don’t ask for an O and suffer in need anyway? See? It’s a –my mind blanks as I try to find a good metaphor…a see saw…and both ends are mired in quicksand! (He’s gonna get me either way.)

Gods it seems like everyone is in such a funk. I am, friends are…I wonder if it’s the season, or the aftermath of living after a traumatic event? I’m not happy, nor sad, just kinda stuck in neutral. NOT that neutral is a bad place, not at all.

Holding the tension. That’s what aisha used to call it…that delicate balance between too much and not enough. Okay, which of us sluts EVER get “enough” right? But you all know what I mean. I’m not close enough to Sunday to be too worried or excited, but not so far away that I’m not feeling anything (coz just ask my pussy…she is *feelin’*…!!)

I have potential for stories but time is so fluid of late. My 9-year-old just said this morning “Can you believe it Mom, April is almost over?” Time is just blowing past at an alarming rate. Soon I’ll brave the allergies and go outside and putter in my garden for a bit. (with a box of tissues at my side!) That always helps to clear the clutter in my mind.

Well, that and a good spanking. 🙂

I’ll be back tomorrow…it is Titty Thursday after all, and hopefully time to let my mind rest and get back to some really good smut.

Happy Hump Day!


So there I was, writing my happy nilla post for Sunday. I did that on…Thursday? Friday? I forget. I could go back and check but it’s late, I’m tired so I’m not going to bother. If such details keep you awake at night, feel free to look. 🙂

So I waited a long time for a Thursday evening text from Master.

It never came.

I went to bed, understanding that the strange day up here in Boston had everyone feeling all confuddly. Many of us glued to our local tv stations, and it only got worse come Friday with the drama of the two men being found, one killed, one running, and eventually captured. It made for literally, 24+ hours of live tv and radio (they were playing the live tv news on sports radio on my way home from work on Friday night)…there was literally no getting away from it short of shutting everything off.

Yeah, I likes sports radio. So?

To back up a bit though, my pissyness started at work later Friday afternoon. I had a lot of stuff to do, and USUALLY I text Him when I have a chance–aaaand…this night I didn’t. And he didn’t text me. And I felt like…didn’t He even notice  that I’d been uber quiet? Did He miss me? And all I could think of was “that fucker. Can’t even text me more than 5 fucking words all day.”

Now, in fairness, I had NO idea about the showdown in Watertown after 5 p.m. I was already at work and sequestered from the world. I have my ipod music and that’s it. Zen.

So he’s glued to the tv watching the drama, no idea that I was getting pissier.

And pissier.

You know how it is when you start to play a drama scene in your head. In your mind, you write the text of the exchanges. You create your own vision of “could-a, should-a, would-a”…and all the responses. You imagine things that just aren’t happening. You can create your very own drama triangle ALL BY YOURSELF!

And I realized I was doing it and just fucking stopped. I was actually able to stop it. I sigh, and wrap up my work, and head out to my car.

But I was still exasperated.

I turn on the engine, the radio pops on….and then I hear the news…while the reporter is talking about what’s going on, he’s moved by police because he’s in danger of crossfire. Seconds later we hear POP POP POP….gunfire being exchanged.

(feel bad about that poor guys boat)

And I’m as riveted as everyone else. Running into the house from my car to turn on the news and see what the FUCK is going on.

And when it is resolved, cheering and jubilation.

And I go to bed.

And no text from Master.

I send my Goodnight Master as required.

Fucking required.

Woulda given HIM the cold shoulder, but I must comply. I am an obedient, if sullen slut.

He texts back something inane.

I text back something snarky.

He texts back His amusement of my snark.

We go back and forth for a bit over it.

Saturday I’m up before the birds, ready for my other job, text Master my obligatory “good morning”. That was it. Terse, much? 🙂

Yeah, so?

After I’m at work I see His text come in. Something silly  and I’m fighting myself to not be amused. And tell Him that. And say something else a bit…not snarky, but maybe snippy.

He laughs.

Texts me that I’m WAY more fun pissy.

He LOVES me being pissy. I’m not sure why. I think He hates when I get all mushy and lovey dovey. He still wants me to be submissive, but it’s okay to not be a fawning doormat.


After 3 years and I’m only just getting this? Hello, someone cue the cosmic clue by 4. Coz it just whacked me over the head!

After my day is done, I manage to get a wee bit of face time with Him. And I’m still a bit sassy. He laughs. We play. I kiss His cheek. I’ve mentioned His beard is white, right?

I was wearing intensely red lipstick, as I know He likes it.


It leaves a lovely hard-to-remove red lip stain on His beard.


He got my shoe off, jeezuz He’s so fucking tricky…and tickled my foot right there in starbucks, made the girl sitting behind us giggle too. We’re like frigging teenagers, I swear.

We only have about an hour, and then I must go. But it was good to have face time. Good to get my pissy pushed away. Good to leave my mark on Him.

He’s gonna have a hella-time washing my lips off His face.


Tits for Tip

Sometimes it is what it is…a bad day catches us, or our good day is suddenly flipped over to reveal the dark underbelly. But sometimes? Sometimes you know that there will be a “bad day”…and for my faithful blog follower, Tip (you all know Tip from Maine, right? He’s got lots n lots of rope, or so I hear *wink*) such is the case (apparently) today.

He sent me a comment last week letting me know that His Monday was going to suck, and could I please consider posting a few titpix to cheer Him up.

So Tip–thanks for being one of my earliest followers, and a constant commenter….I sure hope Your Monday wasn’t as bad as You thought it would be…but even so, I hope this makes it a wee bit bearable.

Hugs, nilla



Snapshot_20121202_2(wow has my hair grown some since this was taken (dec 2012)!!)

Flitting around the Interwebz

It’s become a new thing of the ‘more relaxed nilla’ to spend time each week flitting around the internet and browsing other blogs, articles of interest, that sort of thing. I don’t always leave a comment, but the truth of the matter is that everything I read gets dumped into the giant stew-pot of my brain and may emerge in some form or other, as this is the way that stories get birthed in my head.

Yesterday (which was Thursday as I sit and write this on Friday morning) I spent an enjoyable hour or so watching snippets of porn. Oh, hell yes, some of it was bad, and it didn’t hit the exact thing I was looking for, but it was still…you know…hawt. There are some really, really big cocks out there…(they’re like weapons, I swear!)…and it worked well for the story I crafted later (which is on Dark Fantasies now).

Giving myself permission (why are we so hard on ourselves, anyway?) to cruise and flit through all sorts of things has done wonders for my head. With all the stuff going on in Boston this week, and the unfolding, fluid situation happening now, I need the escape. I shared a great cartoon on Facebook midweek:

fearSo right now, it’s blogs and the Weather Channel for my own sanity.

A week from today Master and I are supposed to hook up, to use the vernacular of the day. (5 points if you know what movie that’s from!) And as I’m cruising the internet I read jz’s post here (this is twice this week you’ve inspired my writing, jz!), which was echoed in similar vein in another blogpost by faerie here. To summarize (though I do encourage you to go visit the individual posts, they’re really well done!), they are about TTWD.

Like…. why?

What the fuck are we thinking when we (that would be the small “s”, whichever sexual orientation you claim) go to be with our Capital Letter (be it S, or M, or T, or D).

We not only let them beat us, we fucking encourage it!

Is this demented?

Well, fuck ya.

Of course it is. 🙂

It is also the very fundamental part of this thing we do, yes? We don’t merely want them to beat us. We don’t merely hope that they’ll beat us. We don’t only want them to want to beat us.

We fucking crave it.

As vital to so many of us subs (though there are those of you out there that are NOT pain sluts, who will NOT relate to this at all) as air. Okay, maybe not air. Water, then. We can live without ever drinking a glass of water…we get it via other means after all…but it’s not the same is it? (yeah yeah, I’m stretching that metaphor a bit…bear with me though…)

We who are pain sluts crave, deep in our bones, the feeling of hands on our bottoms, smacking hard. We crave the intense fiery burn of a whip or a cane or a paddle on our flesh.

Or goddess forgive me, even that fucking pink brush.

I hate it. Standing on the wall, laying on the bed, dreading the moment He asks me “Oh nillaaaa….where is MY hairbrush? Hmmmm?” and knowing that I must tell Him.

Dreading the first whack of it on my flesh. Where will it be? My ass? My hip? My thigh? My breast?

Yet deeeep inside me,  in that scary, deeply dark place in my spirit? There lives that craven desire for that slam of pain;  it co-exists at the very same time and place where there is that dread. It’s weird, I know, yet I need the gift of His pain, likely even more than He needs to give it. For there are many times, after a playday, when I wish He’d pushed further, hit harder, marked me deeper.


When I wish, actively, that He’d been even more “brutal” to me.

He, however, knows my limits. (and I’ll go out on a limb here and say that He knows my limits WAY better than I do!) Knows what my vanilla responsibilities are, and knows that I need to not be totally brutalized to be able to function once I leave Him to rejoin Vanilla life. He knows I’m a strong, capable woman, but that I’m also not a spry young chicka anymore. He takes all this into account when He plays with me. When He hits me. When He fucks me brainless.

Nonetheless, bearing all that in mind, I’ll spend next Saturday night nearly sleepless. I’ll toss and turn, pondering the outfit choice. Is that really what I want to wear? or should I change it? (sometimes I’ll leap out of bed at 2 a.m. to do just that!) And once I’m done with all the fiddling, the packing of my stuff, the wriggling around because I’ve been fucking O-less for days ….it happens.

My body quiets. I still can’t fall asleep. I will remember His voice whispering sweet and dark nasties into my ear. (who doesn’t get turned on with dirty talk, right? 🙂  Trust me, I am not immune!) I remember His hand striking me, then touching my cunt to find me soaked, remember too, His voice as He tells me how wet I am. What a slut I am. And that I’m His to do with as He pleases. For a few minutes I’ll smile at the memories…

And then…hanging onto the edge of sleep, the nerves kick in again. And I think to myself….yes, still, after over 3 years together….why am I doing this?

Am I fucking nuts?

Who does this shit?

What kind of woman lays awake anticipating a beating?  What woman lays awake, barely able to wait to see the face of the Man who will beat and fuck until she is practically raw?

What the fuck is wrong with this woman?

Yes, I will lay there in my bed and wonder. And somehow, just before I fall over the edge and into sleep at last, I’ll smile.

For there’s really nothing “wrong” with me…I’m just on a journey, and this is part of who I am, what I am, what I need. I’m a slut. A pain whore. I’ll do whatever He wants me to do…for all He needs to do to “make me” –is say “do it”…and I will. Part of that is submission. Part of that is love. All of it encompasses trust. They have mixed and mingled and morphed together these last 3+ years until I’m not clear where my submission starts and where the love begins…

And really?

I’m more than okay with that. I’m past needing to know that answer. I’m accepting. Of Him. Of His needs. Of His desires. And — too, of mine.

We spoke on the phone the other day–He bested me at something, and I “faux pouted”…”You win again, Master.”

“nilla,” He says, His voice firm, amused, and …just so Dommy…”I always win.”

And that is something that I’m totally and completely happy with.

I have an answer now, for this question, in the rational light of day. Remember the question: Who does this shit?


Well, hell.

I do.