Whine, Bitch, Moan….

…and complain.

Yup, that’s nilla, to be sure.

I’m feeling surly. I’m just annoyed with several things in vanilla life and can’t express them *anywhere* so you all get the brunt of it this time. *shakes head* It is just so…annoying.

On top of not being able to vent anyplace, I was busy all damn day and didn’t have a single moment to write. I knew my a.m. would be full, but I figured that I’d set aside time in the afternoon and that never happened. So that makes me double frustrated. I’m in a need-t0-write mode, but as I sit and pound out my tale of grrr here, it’s 930 at night, I’m tired and cross and plan on going to bed soon, and pounding my pussy.

That may help some–I’ve been horny and *denied* for several days. I’m glad He has some control over me, because just now He’s not talking all that much. I know, I know, greedy fucking slut. But He’s busy and I’m….I’m just fucking needy.

So what?

This is my role, my life, my choice to be a slut. Okay–maybe part choice and part “really-who-I-am-inside”. And being owned is part of what I like about this gig. And not getting attention makes me needy.

I think He likes me needy but I don’t know because HE WON”T FUCKING TALK TO ME!!!

Dang I hate when He’s so fucking busy. Dang I hate being so fucking needy. Dang I am in SUCH a shitty mood.

I’m reminded of a thing I saw on facebook recently. A guy was doing “man on the street” style interviews with people. Asked them “do gay people choose to be gay or are they born that way.”

To the people who said they “chose to be that way”…he nods and says, “And at what age did you choose to be heterosexual…”

And that flummoxed people. “I–I didn’t choose. I was born this…oh. Yeah. I get it. Hmmmm….”

It was a great piece.

And for me it translates at a deeper level–when did you realize you were a slut nilla…

“I’ve always been this way…”

(But you used to be a good girl?)

I played the role. And I was naturally shy. And I wanted to please people.  And I wanted to be tied up and fucked and used and made to cum, and suck cock. I wanted all of that, too. I fantasized about being tied up a ton as a girl.

I also fantasized about women, so I really am a born-bi-sexual. 🙂


On another stupid note.

When I take off my boot at night? My foot is so stinky. And my leg is all dented from the fuzzy sock I wear…it comes out looking like a dino leg. And I’m fretting because there is a very visible difference in calf size between my two legs now. The broken ankle leg is shrinking and at my age it is VERY hard to get muscle back.  I’m in next to zero pain these days, not that it was ever very bad after the initial break happened. If I do too much it hurts some, but sometimes I *swear* I can feel the bone and tendons healing. It’s a strange thing. Go ahead and laugh – you’re allowed.

And I’m also grumpy because it was TOO FUCKING HUMID up here these last two days. The temp has fallen at last, and there’s a chill in the air, but wow, was it sticky and gross today. I don’t do humid at all well. It makes me…(you know I’m gonna say it again) ….grumpy!

So to recap. . .

I’m mad at the humidity.

I’m fretful about my leg/ankle/muscle.

I’m annoyed with Master for not taking my phone call NOR texting me.

I’m annoyed with TW, and my teen.

My bathtub drains slowly and my home remedy didn’t work.

And I haven’t had an orgasm in days.

At least I can rectify that last one. So I’m going off now, heh…going off to get off…funnah.

I’m going to take my crabby ass to bed, now that I’m done dumping on you all, and when I return on the morrow, I’ll be ready and willing AND with time at hand to sit and write and drain some of this biliousness from my spirit.


Being Alexa (2)

His phone rang at 11:01 p.m. He debated answering it but decided to make her wait instead. In his mind he could almost picture her, pacing around her bedroom, likely, her long mane tossing in her annoyance. For it was a certainty that she’d be annoyed that she was actually making the call.

At 11:04 the phone rang again, and once more he smiled at the readout. Same number. Good, let her stew in her own juices.  Likely she’d thrown her phone on her bed in a fit of pique, likely she’d be stomping around growling. He’d researched her a bit since coming home. Her tantrums on various sets were increasingly frequent.

She had a serious case of “spoiled”.

He picked up the phone when it rang again at 11:36, but said nothing.

“I know you’re there.”


“I know you’re listening to this. I don’t need your bullshit crap. I don’t need to be told how to behave.  I don’t need your “I can fix you” bullshit lines. ”


“Why aren’t you answering me?”


“Why are you doing this to me?”

“You can clearly see that I’m doing nothing to you, nothing at all. All of these histrionics are coming from you, little one. Have you run down some now?”

“If you mean am I ready to sit here and play your fucking game, then NO!”

“Well, when you’re ready to have a conversation between adults, then do feel free to call me back. I don’t have time for the ravings of a child.”



He went to bed, putting the phone on mute.


His phone rang at 12:15 p.m. as he was working another speeding detail. He ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. He’d been on since 6, patrolling the Ventura hills area, and wouldn’t be off duty until 3 at the soonest. He did let a smile cross his face when he felt the vibe of the phone 30 minutes later.  And again thirty minutes after that. He sat in the cruiser under the shade of a redwood, relaxed.

By 430 he was at the gym, skin glowing with a sheen of sweat as he pumped his way through his workout. He did the final laps on the treadmill, then headed for the locker room. A shower first, he thought, though there was some appeal at showing up at Alexa’s all sweaty and damp, and making her lick him clean with that pert tongue of hers.

His cock tightened, thinking of that. Her mouth was beautiful, yet filled with bitter words. He knew just how to sweeten that hole. Fuck with the shower, he decided, and threw on his ratty tee-shirt. He left on his sweaty gym shorts.

By sheer coincidence, his phone buzzed as he picked up his bag, and headed out the door.

“If you’re ready to do this, meet me at the bar. You have 30 minutes, no more, no less. Wear a skirt.”

He disconnected, then slid into his car.


He was a rotten, fucking, asshole of a bastard. His mother had fucked a gorilla and birthed him. He’d been raised in a jungle by hyena’s. He was too damned sure of himself.

‘wear a skirt.’ She huffed out a breath as she slid out of her jeans, reached for the flared skirt she’d pulled out of her closet. Damn him.

He was a prick.

She applied her eyeliner thickly, a different look for her. It took away the “sweet face” look, and gave her a harder edge. She needed all the ‘edge’ she could get with that implacable fucker.  She knew his name was “Jeff” –maybe. Maybe he just made that up.

She was so fucking pissed that he didn’t answer his phone. In her world the phone was a lifeline connection…she didn’t know anyone who didn’t answer their ring quickly. Always desperate for the “reach out and touch” or the next movie to read. Maybe too much of her life revolved around the phone rather than actual people, but shit. This was HER world and HE’D intruded on it.

What was it about him? He was undeniably sexy. Not handsome the way her current co-star was, but there was just that compelling “it”…his eyes, gawd. They seared right into her mind. The way he looked at her, looked into her, looked through her. There were no facades with this guy. He didn’t give a shit how famous she was. He didn’t give a fuck if she was a movie star or a janitor.

There was this fucking….connection.

Why didn’t he answer his phone? She sighed, slid the diaphanous blouse over her tank top, slid into modest sandals. The bar she was going to was one step up from a dive, but he was going to be there, and for whatever reason, she felt safe. Maybe it was only about the “cop attraction” thing?

Shaking her head, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed out to the club.


He noted that she was in “movie star mode”. Perfect. The wolfish grin spread on his face as she came straight to his table. And frowned.

“What is that smell?”

He grinned.

“You got me after my workout. Look at you, all princessed up.”

“I’m NOT a princess. I thought we covered that last night. Though you do smell like a stable boy.”

Wrinkling her nose at him, she lifted her finger to her nose, turning her head.  He was amused. She was showing a bit of backbone rather than just expending emotional energy being pissed. She moved to sit. He blocked her with one foot.

“I didn’t give you permission to sit.”

Her mouth dropped open in an O of astonishment.

“Come here.”

He didn’t move, didn’t crook a finger at her, just the implacable tone of command. Hesitantly she moved closer.  He slid one ankle between hers.


Forced to part her legs, she moved a bit closer, his long limbs stretched between hers.

“Closer.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. He really was stinky. She moved closer, until she was almost straddling his hips. Her skirt settled over his lap, her bare inner thighs feeling the rubbing friction of his hairy legs. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed, and erotically excited.

“Lean down for a kiss, girl.”

As she leaned, he cupped her head with one large hand, then guided her down towards his mouth. At the last moment, he turned his head and her lips grazed his sweaty neck. He pulled harder, sliding her lips down his throat.

He tasted salty, smelled of hot man. It was strong, but not totally unpleasant. Yet he refused to release her. She pushed back against that hand.

“Lick it. Lick my neck, girl.”

Jesus. He didn’t just say that, did he? He wanted her to…lick his neck? Fucking weird. Yet her tongue slipped between her lips and touched his skin. The taste was stronger here, but good.

Her pussy lurched, awakened by his scent, his taste. She wasn’t sure that her g-string would absorb her juices if he got her any more excited. This was humiliating. Despite their being in the back of the room, in the dimmest part of it, surely someone could see what they were doing.

“Keep licking. Don’t stop.”

He craned his neck away, giving her access to where his neck and shoulder joined. Her tongue teased at the flesh, her lips pressed little kissed where her tongue had passed.

His free hand slid between her legs, slid into her cleft. His finger circled around her clit, making her gasp against his neck. He only played ‘rotary’ with that sensitive nub twice, before gliding deeper into her quivery valley. Unerringly, his fingers found her cunt, and slid inside.

Her eyes closed, and she buried the squeal that threatened to erupt against his neck.

“I said lick.”

She licked. His fingers twirled inside of her.

“I won’t be here long,” he murmured. “Just mapping you.”

He pressed against her cushiony g-spot, and she tensed, pressing her hips forward, attempting to keep him right there. 

He laughed.

“Oh now, little girl, it’s just not going to be that easy for you. You may stop licking now.”

His fingers slid from her body. She stood up, holding his shoulder for stability. She swore she could feel his cock seeking her, through the thin fabric of his shorts. She wondered how it would feel, to have him inside of her. His cock, rather than his fingers.

Frankly, she would take any part of him just now.



Busy weekend done? Check

Busy Monday ahead? Check

Time to write? *er…no*

sorry perv’s. This weekend was AWESOME. Work was good on Saturday, and I had a blast with family time on Sunday. Got a bit of gardening in before the rain rolled in, which was also nice. It is going to rain all fucking week.

Of *course* it is, because I just committed to working outside for 15 minutes each morning. It’s not tons of time but it sure is better than NO time, right? And 15 is the start. Gardening is like crack for us outside junkies. :O  You start with a little bit, then suddenly the garden gnomes get you, tie you up and make you work slavishly for two, three, more hours…and when you try to stand up you realize that you’ve been be-spelled and whoa…how’d it get to be lunch time already?


Really, it’s like that.

But this week, rain. So not slavish obesience to the gnomes, the yard fae or any of that. I’ll be housebound.

I do like being bound…but when it’s the house? Not so much always. Though there is a bit of peace and calming to making the nest tidy.

What else?

Master and nilla? No meet this past weekend. Sad face. Not pouting–just didn’t work out and we didn’t think it would. Then this upcoming weekend, who knows. Holiday forthcoming, and a busy weekend on tap once again. And then we’ll be rolling into June and who knows. I am SO hoping that we will get our playtime–truthfully? I’m feeling a bit desperate for Him. I still have my pinchy bruises but they are fading…and gosh, hell, damn and fuck…it’s not a BAD thing to be wanting Him.


I have no more ramble in my head. It’s late and I’m tired and need to be abed.  We’ll catch up again soon, okay?


Being Alexa

This happens sometimes…a story falls into my head from nowhere. Well…from the Muse, but comes to me in the most mundane times. Like, you know, while putting on my seatbelt at Home Depot. 🙂 

He recognized her instantly. Her cherry red Ferrari was almost an oxymoron-young blonde starlet, red convertible car. Too much money, not enough common sense. He was sure, as he strode towards the driver’s side, that she thought fluffing her hair and smiling would get her off. He had little patience for young bimbo’s who used their looks to avoid responsibility for their actions.

His Ray Bans hid his expression, his blues were crisp and not a little daunting.

“License and registration.”

“Officer.” Her voice was soft, wispy, and attractive.  “I can explain.”

“You can give me your license and registration miss.”


“Miss, do I need to have you step out of the vehicle?”

She fumbled with her micro purse on the seat beside her. Leaning a bit, she showed a fair amount of ass cheek as she searched the glove box for the information. He stood implacably beside the car. At long last she found the paper, and shoved both at him.

He was sure that she thought her pout was every bit as cute as her smile. He had a cure for pouts.

“You were driving 60.”

“No I wasn’t!”

“Radar clocked you at 60.”

“It didn’t seem to be that fast. I’m sorry?”

That the end was a question made it all the more insincere. He’d heard all the rumors. One didn’t live in SoCal and not read the rags that passed for papers here. Alexa Winston, 25, recently separated from boyfriend number whatever, was busy playing the wild child. Late on set for the movie she was shooting, disturbing the peace for her neighbors, partying hard in the clubs…she was well on her way to the kind of notoriety that would take years to recover from–if ever.

He wrote the ticket purposefully.

He handed her papers back to her, reminded her to follow the speed limit and not be driving 25 miles over as she had done. He walked back to the cruiser, then pulled out. A quick glance in the rear-view showed him that she was, as expected, bemused by what he’d written on the ‘ticket’.

You are getting out of hand and out of control. Rumors grow daily about you and your issues. I can help you with them–but only if you agree to my terms.

If you choose to listen to what I have to offer, meet me at Blue Shoes Bar on Silverman Drive at 930 tonight. If you choose to not show, you can pay the $500 ticket.



He sat in the back corner of the bar watching the door. The clock edged ever closer to showtime. And there she was. She’d dressed for the part, jeans, a black tee-shirt, sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail, with a backwards ball cap rooting for the Dodgers. Without make-up she looked even younger than 25.

She made her way through the noisy room, coming to the bar and subtly checking people out. He moved around until he came up behind her, placing a propriety hand at the small of her back.

“Right on time.”

She turned with a small, almost imperceptible gasp.

“You….startled me.”

He looked back at her, face solemn.

“Come with me,” and he guided her back to where his table was, in the dimly lit corner.


“I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“We both know you could easily afford the ticket.”

“Yes. But…”


“What you said…took a shitload of nerve.”

“To speak to someone as famous as you, you mean, and be firm with you about limits?”

She flushed. Even in the darkness he could tell his words found targets.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” He spoke easily, with a hint of humor. “You have been treated as exceptional by others…and have started believing it, even if only a little bit. That you’re above the law. That you’re something special because your face shows up in a large box where lots of people get to oogle you.”

Her words stuttered from her.

“Why you…how … that’s just…gawd…you bastard…I’m not…”

“You are. You know this is truth. But the reality is, Alexa, that you’re just a girl. You have tits, and a cunt, and an ass, and an admittedly pretty face. But you’re just a female, a woman, like any of the rest here.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times but no sound came out. He wondered which part affected her most, his casual use of the dirty words, or humanizing her.

“I am not put off by your celebrity, nor by your looks. I’ve seen criminals as beautiful, more beautiful than you. I’ve seen angelic women without the same kind of physical assets that you have, but who are more attractive than you.”

Her mouth was open now, in shock, he thought.

“You could change that.”

He looked at her, his gaze firm and steady. He captured her eyes with his, as his finger pressed her jaw upwards, closing her gaping mouth.

“I can help you. It won’t cost you a cent, and I’m not in this for the fame of it. I could give a fuck if you’re on television, the movies, or in the porno’s the guys next door are watching. You need me.”

“I don’t need anything.”

He laughed, the sound rich and inviting.

“Of course you don’t.” He threw a fiver on the table to cover the beer he’d had.

“Thanks for coming by, Miss.”

Rising, he moved past her; her hand snaked out grasping his forearm. He paused, looking down at the pale fingers against his denim shirt.


He looked at her, saw her confusion clearly. He took a step back, reaching for his chair and scootching it closer to hers.

“Come closer.”

She moved her chair until they sat nearly knee-to-knee.

“Good girl.”

The smile flickered across her face, and was gone in an instant. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed it.

“It is my belief that you need –” here he paused.


“You responded to positive reinforcement.”

“Well, duh, doesn’t everybody?”

“You’d be surprised,” he answered drolly.

“Stand up.”

She rose to her feet. Something in his voice compelled. There was something about him. His sea-green eyes, reminiscent of the ocean of her home state of New Hampshire, and its tiny portion of the Atlantic coastline sucked her in, just as a rip-tide might.

“Tell me you want me.”

Her pulse jumped. There was a huge difference between standing up and feeling sex need. Yet she couldn’t deny that he turned her on. She had thought, as she’d read his ticket, that it was the whole “cop/guy in uniform” syndrome. But he wasn’t in cop dress tonight. He was in faded jeans and denim shirt. A white tee-shirt was visible where the top button ended. Yet still she obeyed, and still she was forced to admit that she was attracted.

“Do you do this to every pretty girl you give a ticket to?”

“You’d be the first. Say it.”


“You want me to fuck you. And it annoys you because you’re the princess and I’m the stable hand.”

“I’m not a princess. And you’re not a stable boy, you’re a fucking cop. And who I fuck is my business.”

“Not if the person you want to fuck you is me.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I know.”

“Okay fine, I …might want you.”

He threaded his fingers around the back of her neck, tugging her down. She thought he was going to kiss her, secretly pleased that he would ‘take’ rather than ask.

Instead, his lips brushed her ear.

“When I fuck you, you’ll be tied to my bed and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with your body. And you’ll beg for it. For all of it.”

He let her go, then, and left the bar. Beside her fingers on the table was a black business card with white writing. There was a phone number on the front, and a “wink” emoticon on the back. She tucked the card into her bra, and turned to look for him, but he was gone.



50 Shades of nilla…

okay, it’s not really shades of nilla. I couldn’t resist after our conversations regarding “that’ book!  I’m mostly kind of excited…50 more posts and I’ll have reached 1,500 blog entries. Wow…that seems like a HUGE number to me.  Thems a lot of words! (I hear you grammarians wincing.     :0  can you see me giggling?!)

It sometimes seems like I *just* began this journey, but I’m really an “old hand” now,  heading into year 4 by summer’s end.

Remember yesterday I thought I might wake up with all kinds of energy for writing? Yeah, I did! Unfortunately, I didn’t have more than 10 minutes of “free time” as the rest of the day was spent getting ready for our weekend.  So there went any free porno writing–which means you’re just stuck with some more nilla ramblings… 🙂

I found out Friday night that Master and I won’t manage a hook up this weekend, as my window for seeing Him is very small, and it turns out He has a series of obligations today as well. *insert pouty face here*

Who knows what the holiday weekend (next weekend, Memorial Day here in the states)  holds for us. I’m trying to get some gardening done, I did some planting Friday mid-day but kind of overdid it and my ankle protested by night. Fucking thing. HEAL already willya? 🙂

But I feel like I’m making some headway on my yard, and that helps.  I went to a garden center too, as it’s that time of year to get flowers on gravestones at the cemetery for Memorial Day. Gods, do NOT let nilla near a garden center. It was…well, I had fun. 🙂 I didn’t go too overboard but man it was hard. Only came home with 3 plants I hadn’t planned on getting. I have a thing for hosta. Do you know hosta?

hostaHere are 4 varieties that I have in my yard (or ones very similar). I am especially fond of the gold-edged and the “blue” variety. I would love to have my front yard look like this:

hostagardenIt is very shady, and hosta does like shade. So my mission this year is to add a few new varieties, and to separate some of my other hosta’s and brush up the front yard. That’ll be easier to do once the frigging boot comes off. I think. But I have other things there as well, bleeding hearts, and English hyacinths, and a few other spring bloomers. Not so much summer stuff. (ergo, the hosta, which looks great year round, and dies back to the ground after a few frosts).

I’m sorry, am I boring you? This is a sex blog I know. But since I’m not having sex with Master for a while, you know, I need to diversify my interests.



I didn’t buy that either.


Worry not friends, I’ll be back sometime Monday, with pervy old men and museum curators and all sorts of ideas… until then? Be naughty, and enjoy the hosta.



I’m breaking the captioning mold here and actually writing my post, untitled. I’m sure something will come to me.



I had every intention of sitting today, a free day, no less, and writing my ass off. But everything distracted me. Whiny, overtired kiddo. Reading more 50 Shades. Responding to comments. Trucks trundling up my street. The temperature thingy on my web browser bar going from 48 to 78 in under 3 hours. The sunlight dancing through my prisms (I had to get up and catch those rainbows … on my tit, on my nose, in my hand…)

Basically, today was a full-on ADD day, emphasis on “distracted”. I am rarely bothered by it, I’ve learned to cope and compensate, but today? Today I was watching clouds, and reading blogs, and looking at cocks and cunts  and tits online, and not writing a damned fucking thing.

Imagine that?

And I’m not sure whether I’ll wake up tomorrow and be all hot to trot and get going writing, or if I’ll just take the weekend off. It promises to be a wild and crazy vanilla weekend, with a ton of stuff going on as far as my family goes. Some days are just like that. After this weekend, things calm down immensely, and I’m fine with that. 🙂

I did write part one and part two of something darker (Dark Fantasies, if you are thus inclined) but other than that naughty thing, I’ve not done much else. I have been reminded to get my ass back to work on “Signed” –remember the story about the woman who signs herself away to pay off her family debts? I need to finish that, and what’s that? Summer’s starting to warm up on the farm in the Berkshire’s? OH, something strange goin’ on up there.

What I just don’t have right now is focus.

You know what  nilla needs?

She needs a wicked hard beating.

No, wait. I’m not going to do this third person shit. Let’s be honest here. It’s not “she” and it’s not “her”…it’s “I”.

I need to be held down and spanked. I need to be whalloped with that fucking pink hairbrush, and the fucking silver cake thingy, and His hands.

I need to be reminded of what a sexual submissive is.

I need it.

As sofia said the other day, I crave it. It’s a need so visceral that I can almost taste the sweet juice of it in my mouth. I want that bittersweet fear/pain/hunger to consume me, to make me cry and giggle with the commingled dose of pain and pleasure my Master gives me.

I need to wear the marks of His passage across my body. I need the ache and throb of tired soreness, the swollen flesh of my labia, the thick beating within my pussy from overuse.

I need–and yet–it will be weeks yet before I get all of what I want. All of what I need.

The small doses I get of Him only serve to make me want Him more. To feel His dominance over me, when He looks at me, eyes dancing, as we do a silent war of wills across the coffee shop table, before my eyes fall with the sudden awareness  of the Beast looking back at me.


If I wrote that in a story I’d say my heroine was a desperate fuck. And that it was implausible to need someone that way, that much. Too unbelievable that an intelligent woman would want to subvert her id, desperate to assume the mantle of His will, cloaking herself with his desire, and making it hers.

Guess what?

I am a desperate fuck.

I am a desperate woman.

After 3+ years I still have the burning fire in my belly for him. OH, I’ve learned to bank that fire, to hold the coals to a slow and steady burn. It won’t go out, to be sure, but for certain? It is prone to flaring to life without a seconds warning. Suddenly that desperate flame is immolating me with the want  of this Man. Not only a sexual want, though of course that is a component. But it’s ALL of this….all of this thing we do, when we say we are “doing D/s”.

The obedience.

The obeisance.

The need for pain.

The desire for pleasure.

All rolled into one roiling fireball that, like our sun, shoots out flares that threaten to consume me.

What is a slut to do?

*deep, slow breath*

She does what He expects her to do.

She sits, she waits. She writes, she journals this raw feeling and puts it out there for the world to see. She goes to bed, and she rises with the new day. She is a good girl.

But she is such a hungry, greedy, wanton slut.

I am such a hungry, greedy, wanton slut.

But I’ll sit.

And wait.

As He would want expects me to.



HNT The Writer at Work




I sit at my keyboard almost every weekday for a few hours – reading, writing, perusing blogs, watching snippets of porn, catching up on facebook. But then I let everything sort of cogitate in my head so that my pervy tales can take root, sprout, and fly down my head and through my keyboard.


Thought you all would like to see nilla the writer, at work. 🙂



Farm Plan (6)

She knocked hesitantly on the back door of the house. She could hear voices inside, well, the rumbly pitch of a male voice, but not the words. They didn’t end with her timid knocking. Face pushed up against the screen, Iris projected her voice.


Now the voices paused. She called again.


“Yup, comin’…”

And there he was, the guy who sent shivers right through her. Her cunt contracted, her nipples tightened under her tee-shirt, and she swallowed quickly to clear her mouth of the sudden pool of saliva. Geezuz, she was practically drooling over this guy. She strove to keep her voice level, to be calm and collected.

“Um, we have our site all set up, but don’t know what we should be doing to help you out.”

Tim motioned her inside. She was nervous, he could read it in her body language. Too bad that body was covered by an over-large tee shirt and those stupid ‘not-long-but-not-shorts’ she was wearing.


“Sit. Hold onto that thought a minute. Coffee?”

Tim had never offered another camper coffee before today,Bill noted, as he entered the room.

“Hey there girl. It’s …some kind of flower…”

“Iris,” she interjected quickly.

“Right. You and Emma all settled now?” At her nod, Bill continued, as Tim poured coffee for the woman.  “So, you two come up here with no Masters? You’re not Emma’s mistress or visa versa?”

Funny how he remembered the other woman’s name.

“No, Sir, not at all. We’re single, unattached, and not sure what we’ll find here, but we’re kind of at loose ends just now. I’m from Louisiana, and Emma is from Atlanta. We’ve always talked of doing a road trip and doing something wild like this. We met at an online chat group for submissives, and have both played and stuff with others, but sometimes it is just hard to find the right match, you know?”

Tim passed the jug of milk to her, watched her pour it into the sturdy mug, watched it swirl around.

“I don’t know if we’ll find anyone to play with here, but it was worth the chance. Home was too…”

She frowned into her coffee, not noticing that Tim moved around to stand behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.

“Everyone comes from somewhere…and often discovers new things when the wind blows them someplace else.”

She looked up at him. He was older than her, to be sure, but she’d always had a thing for older men. His eyes twinkled with a wicked sparkle, and she could feel the strength in his hand.

“Now, it’s time for you to finish up that coffee and let me put your fine ass to work.”

He enjoyed watching the blush spread over her face.

“You know, I wouldn’t be minding helping you get …acclimated…to kink camp.”

He let the thought hang there for a moment. She was interested, he thought,  or she would have sought out the WorkMaster, as had been explained by the check in crew, and in her hand out when they came into camp. He watched as she bit the edge of her lip. Nervous, he judged, but definitely interested.


As simply as that, he had a sub.


He walked with her down to the edge of the pond. It had been a warm summer so far, but the spring-fed pond was usually pretty chilly year round.

“You’re overdressed.”

She could not pretend to not understand. She’d seen a woman with one hand cuffed to the other, and, of all things, painting a fence post that way. It looked laborious  and she had been sweaty.  Her Master held a water bottle, periodically squirting some of the liquid into her mouth, if she could catch the stream before he stopped.

She had been totally naked except for a battered pair of sneakers.

Tim cocked his head, waggled a finger at her. She knew what he wanted her to do. And others were doing it. But dammit! She was really …. Rubenesque.   She didn’t want to be naked. Outside. Except…why else had she signed up for this?

Tim watched her face. She’d have been surprised to know that he read every thought as it ran through her mind. She was body shy. She was nervous. She didn’t want to obey. She did want to obey. He was pleased when she finally tugged the tee-shirt off. His cock lurched as her pale upper body was exposed. He wanted to touch…but in good time. He motioned that her pants were to go as well. She bit her lip, he raised his eyebrow, and frowned. Her eyes dropped even as her hands rose to tug the capri’s down.

“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“It sure as hell was!”

“Aww, poor baby. Come give your new Sir a kiss.”

He tapped his cheek, but when she moved to kiss there, he turned his head while snaking his hand through her tousled dark tresses. In less than a heartbeat, his lips merged with hers, his tangled fingers holding her mouth steady. Her moan filled his mouth, even as his free hand filled with her breast.

He took a step back, holding onto his control with an iron fist.

He handed her the odd rake that he’d brought and left on the sandy beach.

“This here is a weed rake. You use it to pull up the “seaweed” that is growing in the shallows. It grows fast this time of year, and is easy to get out. Makes a nice wading area once it’s all mucked out.”

She turned and headed for the water, while he admired her large, round bottom. He could hardly wait to get his hands on that ass.  She squealed as her feet hit the water, and danced backward.

“OHMYGAWD!” He grinned as she yelped. Louisiana girl was getting a quick lesson on Maine. “That’s so fucking cold!”

“I know! It’s fucking awful isn’t it? Best get on with it. You’ll get used to it…eventually. And I’ll help warm you up…later.”

His wide grin left no doubt as to how he’d do that.

She tried not to grimace as she stepped slowly back into the water.

“You’re a real bastard, you know.”

“Don’t I know it.”

His chuckle left no doubt that he was well pleased by her comment..and her suffering. Stretching out her arms, she began to rake the muck out of the pond.


50 Shades Dissers…wat up?


How could *anyone* read about Ana’s loss of her virginity and diss this. Okay I’m not even halfway through it…but really?

i love the fuck out of this novel!

Really, you dissers…you can’t be *that* jaded about D/s can you?

(disclaimer–maybe by the end I’ll agree but that one scene made reading the  book totally worth it, no matter how ‘tormented’ Gray turns out to be.)

nilla, shutting of the puter to read more….

When One Doesn’t Know Exactly What to Caption a Blogpost About a Whole Bunch of Stuff

*laughs to self*

Sometimes I greatly amuse myself when I make up stupid titles for a blogpost. Because I know what I want to write about, but somehow it is important for me to “label” it via the title. Once that title is in the header box, it is like a knob opening a door, letting my fingers release all the stuff I want to say.

Weird, I know. 🙂

The hard part now is where to begin. I have much to say! Not anything of deepest depth, but just a bunch of things I want to natter on about. You know how it is when friends sit down for tea and chatting. 🙂

I owe several of you return emails; I solemnly promise it IS on my to do list, but this week is pretty busy in my vanilla life. I’ve been flat-out busy with work this weekend. My teen had a special date with his g/f and I was the “return” driver– I had to stay up until after 11 to fetch him home. I finally tumbled into bed just after midnight, but had to be up before 5 a.m. to head back to work.

But I need to back up a bit.

Between the ending of work and the picking up of the teen was an open window of time. And in that window I managed to see Master!

I swear I’m like an addict when it comes to Him. I never get enough. In fairness it has been a few weeks…and I’ve not had any sexy pain from Him in a long, long while. And I’m being a good girl and not mewling about that.

So…I got my reward.

armThat’s my left arm, the backside/underside. All done subtly, in Starbucks. He pinched as he tickled me, making me laugh, then gasp then laugh some more. And the girls working there were smiling at our antics–the place was deserted–between the giggles and my kissing Him, and rubbing His beardy face…it was very obvious that two people who love one another were having a fine time together.

But all good things must end, and we parted ways, me to run home for a fast shower before fetching the lad, and He to his various obligations.

I keep touching the bruises, having watched them transform from light bruises to the deep ones you just looked at over the course of the last 48 hours.

They are like a heady dose of some magickal drug. Looking at them, touching them (OUCH!)…it all feeds some deep part of me that craves this sort of thing. And I’m ever so grateful that He knew what I needed.

I know in some way it fed Him, too. His texts today were just …I’m not sure I can describe them but they were hungrier, I guess. More…not more Dominant…He’s always dominant. But there was a sense that He was deeply pleased about marking me, and wanted more. And He teased me throughout the day, knowing how craven these episodes makes me.



I desire at such a deeper intensity, after His hands have touched my body, in any way, even the innocuous way He did at the coffee shop.

It’s the same way, I think, when we sluts don’t get orgasms for a while–we sort of “shut off” our sexuality, and it goes into hibernation mode, until something stirs it to wakefulness.  My need for Him is still present, but no one can sustain that level of need endlessly (else be driven mad for the wanting of that which is unattainable).

Or as I like to say…pulling up my big girl panties and dealing with the “what is”, is the only way to get through this sort of sexual drought.


I have a trazillion comments to reply to. I’m sorry I’m so behind, but I did warn you all that these next few weeks would be crazy–frankly, just making time to write blog posts is all I’m up for. When I got home Sunday late afternoon, I hung with the kids and the wife for a bit, then went upstairs for a nap.

For three hours.

Totally dead to the world, comatose.

Yeah, I’ve been overdoing the work, and overdoing the time on my ankle. I’m paying for some of that now, a bit achy, and still tired. I’m healing mostly pretty well, though. I’m *yearning* to go back to my walking routine that I’d just started again. The yards and gardens are gorgeous, the air is cool and sweet…*sigh*…sadly, this is not to be. Not tomorrow, for sure. But I’m still working out a way of getting into the garden without a) getting stuck on my hands and knees (cut that out, you perv! I know exactly where your brain was headed! LOL!) or b) getting dirt and stuff in my danged boot! (it’s open toed) Yeah, I could put a bag over it. I will likely wind up doing that.

Now if only I could squeeze some time out of my week to actually get out there and do it!


Again, I’ll work on responding to all of you personally, but I wanted to say thank you for the comments and responses on my blogpost about the nightmare in Cleveland…it totally blew my mind, freaked me out. I’ve been, and remain, very comfortable with my version of kink…and this just felt like kink, skewed so horribly badly. Your comments echoed my sentiments, that we can not hold ourselves and our choices hostage because we’re worried that some fucking nut job is going to usurp our pervy-ness and use it as a way to justify their illegal actions.

I’m grateful for the responses, and the affirmations. We ARE kinky, and that is okay.


Well, there were several other things I wanted to chat about, but it’s past my bedtime and I’m trying to be really good about being in bed around 10 p.m. while I’m healing. (being a grown up is hard work, isn’t it?!)

Happy Tuesday! (O-day for nilla! Woot Woot! Bruises and orgasms are a lovely combination!)