The phone chimes.

He’s gone downstairs, left me alone in the room with instructions to chill — and find something on the television to cover the sounds of my screams.

*insert delighted shiver*

*insert suddenly moist pussy*

A bit of time passes, and I find myself enthralled in an NCIS marathon. Mark Harmon…mmmmmm… 🙂

The text chime goes off 30 minutes later.

“Get dressed. Put on the Whore Shoes. You have 30 minutes.”


Whore Shoes = Company

My heart races. I paint my lips crimson. My hand trembles.


The guest proves to be a no-show, and our day commences, with all the growling and biting and orgasms — and hungry kisses, hard hugs. Do I tell you enough that He is hard on me?

Do I tell you often enough that He is also tender?  The brush of His hand over my hair, the soft kiss on my bruised lips, the way He holds me tightly as we lay together, recovering.

The weeks after a visit move quickly, and I send him texts, a few random nilla thoughts. Not so much fantasies, though I suppose I should, right? 🙂 I do send Him teasing titty pix like this:

hairBut when I do?

I’m really thinking about this: