Sea Shore

yes, this is one of *those* stories…but still a *good* story…    🙂

The day was ending, the cup of the sky over the ocean was reminiscent of navy-blue velvet, dotted with the glowing wink of stars. The moon had yet to rise, though the last fireworks of sunset hovered around the horizon, painting the tips of the dune grass in shades of vermillion, russet, and violet.

This far up the beach, there was no one, and she enjoyed the solitude. Behind her, far back, stood the pier, lights burning into the darkness, the smell of pizza and fried dough finally falling away as she walked northward. Beside her was the folding of the sea, the hiss of foam sliding onto land, the cool roughness of sand between her toes and under her heels, the little kick of breeze stirred by each rolling wave.  Despite the shortness of her  sundress, the hem was wet from splashing waves-the tide had turned and water crept ever higher up the beach. Every so often a forceful wave would rush in, the churning crest a white shadow in the darkness, and catch her mid-thigh, almost knocking her down.

She laughed at each fumble-footed attempt to stay upright. She and the sea had an affinity for one another. The rocking waves sang to her soul, ageless songs of birth and life and death, and the sea, always the sea, hissing up to the shore.

She moved up the beach as the gloaming faded into full-dark, the ebb and flow of the waves to her right. Walking at night before heading into bed soothed her spirit, lulled her into a deep calm, helping her to sleep. Far off into the distance came the repetitive flash, blink, flash of a lighthouse.

Lost in thought, she tripped over something in the sand, unfortunately at just the moment a larger wave crashed onshore. She was tossed, tumbled, rolled. Trying to regain her feet, the sucking tug of the outflow tipped her over and a second wave rolled her again.

Her sandal flipped from her hand, hitting her cheek as the water crashed down. Struggling to stand,  she realized that she was in deeper water than she’d imagined. There was no bottom to stand upon. Realizing she was caught in a rip current, she began to stroke parallel to shore, the only sure way to break out of the relentless tug of water.

Eventually, she broke free of the strong counter-current, but found she couldn’t clearly see the shore. Eyes streaming with salt-water, breath gasping in and out, she fought panic as much as the tide. She’d been tugged far out, and was tiring fast. Her arms felt like lead-weights.  She coughed as a slap of salt-water punched into her mouth, trickling down her throat. For a moment that familiar queasy feeling engulfed her, and she realized how easy it would be to drown while vomiting. She tamped it down, accepted the sharp saline sting, treaded water as she tried to get her bearings.

Something brushed against one kicking calf. She hated when fish did that. She stroked away a bit, willing her arms to lose the heavy feeling so that she could ease herself back to shore on the incoming tide.

It wrapped around her waist suddenly, pulling her under as she thrashed with panic. Then she was above the water, sucking in breaths of cool evening air, as the thing, whatever it was, twined up her ankle.

She knew.

She knew what the monster in the dark water was. Tales were told, of course, of the sex-starved monster that lived in the cool ocean waters. Those stories made the rounds every few years, of pretty young girls being pulled out to sea, their bodies invaded by twisting, turning, relentless tentacles.

She’d lived here for decades, didn’t believe in fairy tales, nor of the hysteria of girls having sex on the beach with their boyfriends, creating fairy tales to convince their parents that they’d not willingly engaged in the dance of decadence.

She had been wrong, she realized as one cold tentacle slithered quickly from ankle to knee to thigh. It held her, head just above the water, as it teased her. Her arms were tangled, and she felt the squeezing embrace around her waist, curling up to circle one of her heavy breasts.

Though she tried to struggle, it was impossible. He–it–countered her every move, almost, it seemed to her, to be toying with her. She was tired, cold, energy draining fast. As if sensing this, she was tugged close, her head made to look into the incredible blue eye of the creature holding her. Big as a dinner plate, as beautiful as a sapphire, it studied her. One tentacle rose from the water, tracing her face, her lips. She clenched her jaw, but the tiny tip pressed against the corner of her lips, prying her mouth open. Such strength in such a small piece of it…she hadn’t that much strength in her pinky finger. Her breast was throbbing from the tight grip of the tentacle circling it, her nipple being rubbed by another seeking tip. She felt pressure between her pussy lips and realized she was being invaded in all her openings simultaneously.

And then it-he- was inside her. In her mouth, down her throat, making her gag. In her pussy, a twirling tip followed by a brutal thickness, filling her, stuffing her cunt. And in her ass, her anus no stronger than her lips had been at keeping the twining tentacles out. There was a grunt. Had she grunted? He thrust, she felt the coiling of the flexible tips in her body, the rubbing of her sensitive bits. The orgasm caught her unaware, the sudden shocking onslaught of sensation almost making her black out as she fought for breath around the thing in her mouth. Plunging, fucking into her helpless body, she felt the fat tentacle slither from her as she orgasmed. Looking down her body, wrapped in tight green-yellow arms, she saw it. Protruding from his body, where she had assumed his eating orifice was. It was white, and big. Struggling furiously, she knew where it was headed. She tried to scream around the thing in her mouth, but it was too full.

It pressed against her pussy lips for one impossible moment, then pressed firmly up and into her. She screamed again, soundless but for a few escaping whimpers. Stretched beyond belief. The head of it was round, like a plum, and he was shoving deeply into her passage. Her body stretched to accommodate it, but still it was painful. Too full. Too much. There was a stinging jet of something inside her, cold and gooey. He couldn’t be cumming in her…could he?

She was filled, suddenly, with an incredible lust. Her breasts tightened, her nipples felt like fire was shooting into them, her clit engorged and throbbed. Her head fell back as the tentacle slid from her mouth, twining about her other breast, circling her nipple. It fucked her, withdrawing and plunging deep, and she writhed for more. Head bobbling on her neck, drool running from her mouth, she was capable only of incoherent babbling as he fucked her.

How long she was in the water, cumming, cumming, filling the sea around them with her juices, his, she had no idea. She remembered the blanket of stars overhead, the feeling of things sucking at her, of the ache of nipples and cunt and ass.

She woke on the beach as the sun rose from the ocean. The brilliant golden rays threw spears of light into the darkness, turning the few clouds on the horizon into brilliant flags of pink, purple, and rose-gold. The sea was gilded, the sand sparkled as the new day dawned. Covered in sand, she was sore, stiff, cold. Her dress had come off, apparently when she had fallen in the wave. She had bruises from the tumbling fall, and a skinned knee. Rising, wobbling, she donned her cold, sandy dress, and made her way home.

She’d not fallen asleep on the beach in ages. She had no recollection of getting out of the rogue wave, no idea how she’d swum up on the beach, no memory of getting so close to home, only to fall asleep on the beach. She needed a hot shower, and coffee.


In the ocean not far away, the beast watched his new lover make her way to her domicile. Tonight he would call her back to the beach. With a splash, he set out to the depths. He was hungry for other things now. Tonight he would sate the driving need for a human female. Again.

Museum (3)


His words were crisp, and brooked no argument. But she was so fucking close. Her hips wanted to continue that hot slick glide, building to that intoxicating crescendo.  Her nipples were aching buds of hot need, her clit had a drumbeat that felt so loud she was amazed He didn’t hear it.

“please…” she whispered. “oh gods please…i’m so so close…”

“I know.” There was a smile in the dry tone.

There was a click and the picture went dark. Her pussy no longer on view, but still wanton.

“Rise, and dismount.” His hands guided her carefully down from the statue. She was embarrassed by the amount of wetness there.

“Clean that, please. I’m sure you know how.”

She blushed. Her skirt fell down over her ass, but her tits hung bare before Him. His hand reached out and flicked one nipple, startling her with the sharp erotic nip of pain.

“It is very hard to remove cum once it dries. I’d suggest you get on with your task.”

For a moment she considered using her hands, but then the devil got into her. She decided that she would show him just how good her oral skills were.

Looking at him, she let her mood reflect in her eyes. She was feeling decidedly naughty, her throbbing pussy spurring her into taunting him.

He sat, doing that little tug of pants over the knee that men do when they sit. His eyes stayed locked on hers as she gave a half-smile, then slowly slid her tongue between her lips. She teased the flared head of the statue’s cock, swirling over and around the bulging shape of it. Her fingers teased the hole where the cam was hidden, sucking at it, and tasting herself there.  Her eyes rose to his, and he cocked his head, brow raised in a half-smirk. Calmly He crossed one ankle over the other knee, hands almost primly folded together, low on his belly, the way men do. Helena focused. Her juices had pooled at the groin area of the statue, she should start there, but she was aiming to make Mr. Opheim twitch.

Her lips circled the head, and she moved down the shaft, trying to take as much as possible. Jaws stretched impossibly wide, she wondered if the artist had been true to life here, if Leo Opheim’s cock was truly as big as this. Last time she’d seen a dick this large she’d been sitting in front of her computer watching a porno with that Deen guy.

Slowly rising up the shaft, her lips left a thin trail of red of lipstick as she moved slowly upwards. The bronze torso was still warm under her hands. There was heat, too, from the rigid bronze penis in her mouth, from the hot wet place between her lips. She felt the heat where her breasts pressed against the metal figure, and in her empty, needy pussy.

“Focus,” she reminded herself. Her mouth popped off with an audible sound, then her tongue slid from tip to base. Eyes half closed, she lapped carefully, over the rough places where the statue’s hair was scrupulously formed in the bronze, and then around, lower, to where his balls lay. Her busy mouth sucked, her roving tongue flicked and fluttered carefully around the tumescent organ. Again her eyes flashed to him.

He was immobile in the chair, a half-smile on his face as he watched her. Did his hands hide the mate to this statue’s fine cock? Her mouth hungered to taste not herself, nor the sharp tang of metal on her tongue, but him.






Writing has been going well, thankfully the days of quiet have rekindled the fire in my own dragon’s belly. Things are good with Master and nilla, though the teasing has ramped up a bit between us-a play day is in the offing, less than 2 weeks now. He was away last week, driving in the car–well He was a passenger for part of the trek, so I sent Him a series of naughty tit shots to cheer Him up. You know, just doin’ my part as the slut, right? 🙂

And we’re all trying to find a balance these days, though I’ve met more who are angry and unwilling to be fearful than not. Quite a different philosophy here, now, than that after Sept 11th, when everyone was scared. It’s not that they (ah that ubiquitous ‘they’) can’t scare us…they do…but they won’t keep us down. So, in the vein of keeping life normal…here in slut land, normal is tits on Thursday.

Snapshot_20130416_10I’ve not played with my webcam all that much of late, and the lighting in my wee room is *terrible*…but it sure made an interesting photo. My hair IS red-though it doesn’t look it in this shot. My tits don’t usually glow like pearls, either. 🙂

And in the interest of total honesty, I have my waist cincher on (yay it fits again!) and a bra which you can sorta kinda see there, giving the girls a boost. Ya’ll know about middle age sag, so this crone will take her boosts where she can get ’em. 🙂


Here’s another shot in this series, cincher and allllll….including clamps since this was done just just just before I headed to bed to masturbate (and OH it was SO good!)


Today (Wednesday) was a gorgeous day in the northeast, one of those rare, top 10 days. Low humidity, cloudless blue skies, temps hovering just below 70 (which is why many wouldn’t quite call it “top ten). A great day for yardwork, and gardening and living our lives.

Here’s another shot just because. Different lighting, taken last week with my phone. I like the moodiness of it. Call me weird, but if I’m embracing my inner joy, that includes my inner perv, and part of that (for me) is flashing the girls. 🙂 It pleases Master, and that pleases me.

Happy Half-nekkid Thursday!




“Your body is not your body any longer. It now belongs to me. It is mine to do with as I please-to hurt, to fuck, to use. You will find pleasure as well as discomfort in this, but it is what you have agreed to for these weeks.”

Her teeth bit into her bottom lip. He’d made it clear she was not to speak, and she bore the marks of that learning on her thighs. She would not forget again.

She was tied securely to the frame in his play room, arms above her head, feet splayed apart. The tapping of the ruler against his palm as he stared at her made her nervous. It struck her breast once, twice, more. Light taps, but after 6 or more they began to sting. And he increased the pressure, and the speed of the blows, making her wince. She bit her lip harder, determined not to cry. She had signed up for this, after all, to be a sex toy for two weeks.

“You will cry, when it hurts bad enough.”

His smile was tight, predatory. It made her nervous. His hand kept slapping the ruler on her nipple, while the other touched between her legs. He wiped the wetness of his fingers on her belly, nodding knowingly as he stared into her eyes.

He kept hitting the one nipple, until the heat of it burned through her inhibitions, until the pain was nearly unbearable, until the first glistening tear fell like a crystal, down her cheek.

He caught it on his fingertip, lifted it to her line of sight.

“The first of many.”

He slid his finger into his mouth, sucked it hard, cheeks concaving as he swallowed the small salty drop.

Then returned to beating her nipple.


(short story or moar? I can leave this one–or run with it.)


i <3 you guys…

sitting here before bed reading comments…greengirl…you made me cry my eyes out…in a very good way.

thank you. thank you all of you. The ones with silent support and you more vocal ones.

seriously, you all …i can *feel* the caring and love from you…and your words filled my heart to overflowing (hence the deeply moved tears)…

going to bed with a much lighter spirit. bless you one and all (oh I can’t use that–been done)…okay how about…sending my love and caring back to you, redoubled. Yeah. That’ll work.


(and hugs and fistbumps for you ‘untouchy feely” folks)





Comments, and Guilt

Let me get to the 2nd part of the title first. I woke up early, got started on my chores. I have a ton of things to do, after all. As a mom to 4, a homeschooler, and holder of multiple jobs, every moment is filled.

But I turned on the news while I ate.

An 8-year old lost his life minutes after hugging his dad as he crossed the finish line at the Marathon; he went back to the viewing area and the bomb exploded. His sister is gravely wounded, as is his mom.  I have an 8-year old, so this hit me right in the heart. Stole my breath, drew me to tears. And I…I was smacked upside the head with guilt. There I was, bossing my kids into their chores, and this family had been literally ripped apart.

And yet.

And yet.

Life must move forward. I can experience this grief, this loss, as a fellow human, cry for that family and the others who have been affected by this devastation. But –I need to push past my guilt at rushing to get my tasks done, right? I need to honor life by living mine.

Which includes chores.

It will also include praising my kids for their working so well together to accomplish a major task, hugging them, and sending prayers to the goddess that she hold them safely in her care.

But there is yet more guilt (is this where I should insert that infamous infomercial chant–“But wait! There’s MORE!”) to be had here today.

And frankly dear friends and pervie readers, it’s about you all.  I’m pretty behind on comments you have all left. Thank you, every single one of you, for the thoughts you’ve left on my last three posts…I’m glad you enjoyed “The Question” and “The Stranger”, and yesterday’s “The Good Outnumber You”….it touches me deeply when you take the time to write and tell me that my words made you feel.

That is the point of writing, after all, to evoke a response in the reader…and if you felt something -lust, joy, nervous- then I did my task well.

But I’m … *sigh*…I’m not going to write back to each of you this time. I’m feeling guilty about that, too. But it is one of the few things I can let go of today. So please accept this as my thanks for taking time to comment and make me smile.

Life does indeed move on-it must as it has through time-and death, however horrific, is part of that wheel. As one responder said to my earlier post, to some, this type of carnage is the ultimate goal. I don’t understand a philosophy that engenders hate to that level, but there is some truth to that. Yet I still believe that their wiring is faulty, that our ultimate purpose here is to learn to love. That is the essential purpose of the universe. You can pish-tosh me all you want on that, but really, in all religions in the world, is not love (of some sort) the key ingredient? All the rest is just window dressing.

Today I’m working towards releasing my guilt out to the stars, working on the things I need to do. Not retreating into a shell and hiding from the world, but going out today and consciously being kind to people. It’s something I’ve been working on a while now, it’s nilla’s “nice” project. Say thank you. Pat someone on the back. Be patient with those learning a new skill (I will never forget my fledgling attempts to conquer the computer at work…and how kind my customers were to me learning this huge new thing), and forgiving of their mistakes.

Yeah, I’m not perfect at it yet. I think that’s the point, don’t you? You keep playing the “game” until you don’t have any days left…and you leave the world just a bit better than you came into it.

*nilla bends over (stop right there you pervies!)…and picks up her soapbox and puts it away*

(I know what you all were thinking…after all, I likely put those ideas in your head in the first place. 🙂  )

Another day with no perv. But worry not…I’m even now working on a new little tail.


Now, go on out and spread a smile to the world.


“The Good Outnumber You…”

These are not my words, but via a friend on facebook. It sums up beautifully where my head is at. No porn today, friends, just a moment of quiet reflection. Although my personal belief is that in times of horror and grief, life continues its inexorable path onward, and sex is a wonderful curative, today hit close to home. I and my friends and family are all safe, rest assured.
So today I bring you wisdom for those who may tremble just a bit when you think of going out today, and carrying on.
Love and peace,
Boston. Fucking horrible.I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, “Well, I’ve had it with humanity.”

But I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.

But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness.

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We’d have eaten ourselves alive long ago.

So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.”

The Visitor (8)

Suddenly, spring spread across the rolling hills of western Massachusetts like a blanket. The grass turned green almost overnight, snowdrops, pussy willows, and daffodil shoots sprang up, breaking the colorless back of winter with shades of yellow, pink, purple.

The unexpected warmth after the late-winter blizzard was typical of spring weather in New England. Already Sarah had sprouts popping up in peat-pots in her small greenhouse, peppers, tomatoes, and other long-season veggies getting a jump on the last frost date. The air was redolent with the scent of damp earth, and rang with the calls of birds. Each night the calls of geese moving northward came through her just-barely-open window. Each morning she woke to the perky churp churp of robins, the squabbling of sparrows, and the flash of bluebirds whizzing along the hedge, hyperactive with nest-building fervor.

There hadn’t been much time for dating, what with the sudden warmth rushing into the highlands, and a late-season outbreak of some stomach virus. Those two factors kept Sarah and Zac apart far more than she wanted.

She had gone into the clinic to see the obgyn, since he had been so insistent, but although her uterus had been sensitive, and a bit swollen, nothing out of the ordinary have been found. She’d passed on the hormone test. It was frightfully expensive, she wasn’t sick enough to warrant it, and until Zach, she hadn’t had sex with a penis in so long that there was no way she was pregnant. Mostly she could ignore the discomfort, and did. Occasionally she felt like her prior meal was swimming around in her belly, but other than those quick hits of nausea, life was too busy and demanding just now to even worry about it.

Wiping a dirty forearm across her face, she swiped at sweat. It was annoying how one day it was 35, the next 75. She was roasting. Work on the tractor took both her and Larry, as they  tuned, tightened, and  Rube Goldberged the thing together for another season. Sweat trickled down her neck and she wanted nothing more than to dive headfirst into the cold water of the pond behind them.  Wanting to jump into the farm pond and doing it were two widely different things, despite the heat of the late April day. She was tempted, she was so frigging hot, but since the ice had only just melted in the last 10 days, the water was as yet far too frigid to make it sensible. Instead, she walked to the edge so that she could splash some water on her face. The pond was still as glass, and she saw her face reflected there, hair coming wildly out of her braid, the big smudge of dirt across her cheek. She pulled off her glove, and dipped her hand into the water, sending ripples across the pool. Closing her eyes, she swiped her steaming cheeks, her boiling neck.

“Should be wearing a hat…sunstroke in April isn’t totally unheard of.”

She whirled, nearly falling backward into the pond. Zack! He grabbed her around the waist, sliding his palms up her back and cupping her head to kiss her soundly.

Larry ducked his head back to his work on changing the oil, hiding his smile. Moma, watching from the kitchen window felt no need to hide her own smile. This was going wonderfully well. She couldn’t wait to get to the phone and call Zach’s momma and share the news. The two were well matched, and very obviously fond of one another.

“You sound like a doctor or something.” Sarah whispered in his ear.

“Or something. And I think you need an immediate check up.”

She tilted her head back and laughed.

Zack swore his cock grew several inches at that laugh. She was so fucking sexy and was so clueless about it. Her exposed throat was too close to not take advantage of. Lips trailed hot fire down from ear to the slender hollow at the base of her neck. His tongue teased that little spot and he was pleased to hear her whimper.


His right hand slid around her side to surreptitiously allow his thumb to caress her nipple into hardness. He felt her tense, her breast arching into his touch, her faint quiver as desire was lit.

“Don’t you have something in the barn I need?” His lips murmured against her throat. Turning, taking her hand in his, he led her to the musty old barn. Tugging her into a vacant stall, he closed the door without looking, and backed her against the wall.

Skilled fingers were amazingly quick at unzipping both jeans, hers and his own, in lowering hers to her knees, in palming her mons, fingertip caressing her swollen and throbbing clit. Her eyes were wide, teeth biting her bottom lip at the sensual assault on her body.

He turned her, face to the wall, tugging her hips back and impaling her on his rampant shaft. Their moans mingled as his hot hardness filled her wet softness. Drawing back, thrusting deep, hands on her hips, he plummeted again, repeating the ancient dance. Fingers digging into the crossbeam in front of her, all she could do was take, be taken.

She came twice before he erupted with a muffled grunt, filling her emptiness with his rich cream. Pulling up her panties, her jeans, tucking his cock away, he turned her to face him. Nimble fingers moved to fasten the top button of her jeans with a tug, bringing her close to him. He took a kiss from her, smiling.

“I’ll think of you all day, out there working, your pussy slick and wet  with my semen.”

He turned and left her there, hand to her racing heart, a dreamy smile on her face. She heard the slam of his door, the purring hum of his car, the grating of tires on the loose gravel of her driveway as he headed down the mountain. She was still smiling when she came out of the barn, poking Larry as he grinned his gap-toothed, knowing, smile at her.


He’d watched her draw close to him, her fingers breaking the water and nearly touching one floating tentacle. He felt the warmth of her in the deep comfort of the cold water, felt the minute heat changes her penetration of the liquid engendered there.

He’d felt, too, the emotional barrage as the male biped gripped her, and, still tied to her, her release and response to his bumbling sexual assault. He did not worry, He did not feel the biped was a threat to him, nor to the eggbearer. His being with her was of  no matter, his seed was safe.

He coiled and uncoiled his nine arms, catching a small fish and squeezing it until it was lifeless, stuffing it into his feeding hole.

No one was there to see the ripples shaking the surface of the pond on the warm, windless day as the creature moved deeper into the cool depths to rest until moonrise.




The Question

Is it you?

The one with your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, panting open-mouthed as his cock touches lightly on your open and swollen cunt lips?

Is it you?

The one with your back arching as he presses the full length of his hard thickness deep into your belly?

Is it you?

The one with eyes squeezed tight, as his fingers close upon your tits, drawing tears of pain from you as he uses them to pull himself ever deeper into your wet and throbbing pussy?

Is it you?

The one biting her bottom lip as he catches your nipples between his grasping fingers, making you ache with the pleasurable pain?

Is it you?

You? Crying out in ecstasy as your body writhes and contracts under him, jetting your sex juice around his plunging cock, lubricating your passage, filling the room with the liquid sounds of lust?

Is it you?

The one moaning in abandon as he continues to pound into your sensitive flesh, driving himself closer to his own eruption?

Is it you?

The one who cums again even as he does, pussy honey and cock liqueur mixed with each final pumping surge, his fingers rigidly grasping your tits, your nipples thrusting swollen through the gaps between his digits as your legs twine tighter, refusing to let go, even as your cunt releases.

Is it you?

Laying sated in the darkness, entwined?


This is the short story I woke up with in my head on Friday morning after several O-less days, after I’d sent my Master a text worrying that I was losing my sexual desire. “Don’t worry, you’re fine,” He responded, “just a little bubble in the slut pipes.” Guess He was right. Again. 🙂  ~nilla~




“Two of the meanest words are fuck YOU”

She stared at the screen a moment. Her essay on social norms, and the role of manners in society had seemed to write itself in her head. But now sitting here, writing this, she was thrust back into that world.

The one she’d found on her computer by accident when she’d started googling. Maybe she was too old for college. Maybe she shouldn’t have dropped her life to make a stab at her long-lost dream of being a writer.

Maybe, fucking maybe.

She’d always been such a good girl. “Vanilla,” they called it, those dirty websites. Yet. After every image, every nasty story, she found her pubes tingling, her clitoris throbbing, and a sticky spot in her panties.

How mortifying.

She wasn’t one of “them”…was she? Serena Howard of Stubens Illinois, a “kinkster”? Okay, she’d moved to New York to pursue her career in the market. She was good with numbers. She’d made a ton of money. She knew when to back out before a tumble. But the dream had persisted, and now here she was, sitting in the far reaches of the campus library and thinking about naughty sex instead of writing about social mores.

It was too bad her professor was so handsome. And aloof. She sat down front so that she could see better; some of the younger sluts…she corrected herself. Women. Some of the younger women sat near her, sweaters unbuttoned to almost their nipples, hoping to catch his eye.

And he did look, now and again. She’d rolled her eyes more than a time or two at their antics, and his smiling response. His grin had sharpened on those occasions when he’d caught her reaction, a raised brow letting her know that he understood her reaction-and didn’t care. The prick.

The sexy prick.

She deleted her first sentence and wrote instead, “Fuck YOU”

And stared at it.

“fuck who?”

The voice came from behind her and made her nearly leap out of her seat. She whirled around and looked up at the sardonic grin of Professor Maplewood.

“Surely not from my sweetest student? I find this shocking.”

That grin struck something in her and her brows drew into a frown.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I do believe I am, Rina.” He cocked his head at her. “Bet you came up with a host of….interesting…websites regarding that. I can hardly wait to see your references.”

She blushed. Dammit. She’d always turned bright pink at the slightest embarrassment, and that was just as true now as when she was younger.

“Surely some of those things didn’t…hmmmm. Excite? Would that be a good word? Yes. Didn’t excite my star student?”

She wasn’t sure if she was mortified by his comment or pleased with being called his star student. He gave with one and took away with the other. Her pussy gave a little lurch. Did he have to be that sexy?


He leaned closer, almost whispering now. There was no one here in this back corner which was why she had chosen it. And this late into the evening on a Friday night? All the ‘kids’ were out doing the college scene…the local bar, the music, the drinking games.  She, and her sexy professor, were very much alone here.

“Are you wet, thinking about those things, Rina?” The palm of his hand was warm on her knee as he reached out and touched her. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers slid upwards.



Was that question, she wondered, slightly panicked, or an answer.

“Perhaps your essay should be begin with different words…”

Reaching over, he backspaced her cursor until it had erased “you”. His eyes flicked to her face as his finger  typed out





“Yes.” Breathless now, as his fingers touched her through her panties, she knew this ‘yes’ was the right answer.


yes…it’s short. And you have to run with it from here. It’s a micro-tale. 🙂 Getting back into the groove of making time to write…I guess you could say I’m a work in progress!  ~nilla~