Farm Plan (5)

Mid-Summer Spectacular

Cum One, Cum All!

Farm Workweek One

Are you into “kink”? Are you into camping? Are you willing to brave the wilds of Maine in the middle of July and help to create a one-of-a-kind kinky outdoor experience for you and your play partner? Consider joining us for our very first work week. This camp week will give you hands on experience at the Farm, preparing for the second half of the season, yet will still give you lots of time to experience the kink you crave. Mornings will be spent working  on carefully chosen tasks, while afternoons and evenings are yours to indulge. Sign up quickly! Spaces at these reduced rates will fill fast!


Bill scratched his neck, reading over Tim’s shoulder.  He nodded along with the words, until he got to “reduced”.

“What? How reduced?”

“I’m thinking 30% off the regular rate.”

“We could do it ourselves for free.” Bill teetered on the edge of outrage. Thirty percent off for one or two would be fine, but for a shitload of campers?

“Here’s a few things to think about. One-we would have zero campers this week, which actually gives us a profit that we would not have had before, at 70% of our regular rate. They are, essentially, paying us for the privilege of working for us. Two, we get to, most likely, see a bunch of nekkid people do this work for us, for free, except that they will be paying us. We only have to run the electric on some sites, no heaters in frikking July in the barn, unlike the end of May when we had that rainy spell. It’s a fucking win!”

Bill ran his hand through his white hair, tousling it. He looked like the winds had blown him down from Katahdin, his face frowning as he mentally calculated.

“We’d still have to lay in the supplies.”

“We only have to get them here–we can keep them in the trucks, or just dump them on the porch.”

“Next year we need to have a camp store. The living room just ain’t working well for that.”

“Agreed. But you never know. We could put that out to bid on Fetchannel and give someone a break on their camping next year.”

That was a valid thought as well, Bill mused. And if they had a going enterprise here, they could order their damned supplies online and get them shipped here. No more trekking south for 3 fucking hours into Portland, or taking their chances that they could find what they needed in Orono. It might be a college town, but the kink factor was kind of low.

“Okay,” he said at last. Plans for next year blossomed daily, it seemed.  A tweek here, a twist there. All in all, they were creating a damned fine enterprise. “Okay,” he repeated. “Thirty percent off, and they STILL pay us for working here. Gotta say, the thought of some nekkid slut swinging a hammer, titties bobbling makes me hard.”

“Everything about this makes me hard. It’s a hard, hard life, my friend.”

Tim slapped the table, guffawing. It was apparent that boat-building was far from his mind these days.


Work week and their campground wasn’t empty. Work week, and every single fucking site was booked. Work week, and there were sluts running hither and yon, grabbing nails, running drills, washing, scrubbing-you name a task, and it was being handled by someone.

They’d decided, after great debate, to hire a Dom supervisor. The two men had made a list of all the work tasks, and handed it off to  “Sir” William.

It was up to William to go over the skills of the enrolled campers, divvy up the workload, and oversee the progress of the tasks. Giving him the tiny apartment in the barn where the hired hand used to sleep gave him his own private space for the next 8 weeks, since he would stay on through the end of camp.

The two-way radio crackled. Tim could never figure out what the fuck they were saying but it appeared that their final guests had arrived, one day late.  Minutes later, he saw the kick of dust heading off to the Woods sites. He and Bill had made it a habit to go out and greet every camper-Lord knew they’d gotten a shit-load of blow jobs that way. No job he’d ever had in his life had given him more pleasure. He grinned at his own joke.

He arrived at Site 18, to find Bill approaching from the other side. Two women were busily unloading a rust-bucket station wagon.

“Hey there,” waved Bill.

The taller of the two paused. She was young, her dark hair a swinging shoulder-length bob that was as sleek-looking as an otter’s coat. Her eyes were dark and dancing. Full-figured wasn’t a word Bill was overfond of–he much preferred the term “stacked”. He liked his women with curves.

“Hi. Are you camping here too?” As she greeted him, her companion paused, eyeing Tim cautiously, before sliding her eyes towards her friend.

“Actually, I’m Bill, and this is my partner in crime, Tim. Tim, say hi to our new guests!”

“Hi there ladies.”

“Oh, we’re not ladies!” The other woman shook her head quickly. “We’re sluts!”

They all laughed.

“Now that’s a hell of an ice-breaker, and one you don’t hear every day.”

“We hope to hear it everyday that we’re here, though! I’m Iris,” the dark-haired woman extended her hand to Bill, then Tim. “This is my friend Emma. Sorry we’re a day late. Somehow missed the turnpike exit and headed Down east. Wound up at Acadia, and discovered we were 100 miles away or more. Spent the night at a little motel off route 2, figured we’d be best arriving fresh today. And if you’re Tim and Bill, they you aren’t a gay couple, but the owners of Kinky Camp, and gawds I’m babbling.”

She blushed a pretty pink, something Tim felt was sweet and charming at the same time.

“Well, we’re glad to see you both made it in one piece.”

“I was excited about work week. I’m so glad you did this–we’d never have been able to afford to come this year! I hope you don’t mind teaching me about hammers and such. I’m not really that mechanically inclined, but I follow directions well.”

“I’ve heard that a time or two this summer.”  There was something about this girl that went right to Tim’s gut.

Okay, maybe lower.




thanks Will Crimson. First of several “ideas”…. ~nilla~


She humped her way down the hotel hallway. ‘humped’ indeed, she thought to herself, scowling furiously. Fucking broken ankle, anyway. She had thought of composing a million reasons how she’d managed this feat of ultimate klutzdom. She could compose an ode to a broken ankle, or create a Spy-Master persona, and pretend she’d done it escaping from a scientist gone mad, and his intelligent sea creature with all those invasive limbs…..

But no.

The reality was, she was a klutz. And now was sounding like Peg-Leg the Pirate as she galumped down the hallway. Somewhere behind one of the endless doors was her Master. And wasn’t this going to be so fucking fun? Sex in a boot. Not a thigh-high patent leather with heels up to the sky boot. But a stocky, thick, heavy, support-the-broken-ankle boot.

He opened the door as she approached, crooked his finger to come in. Eyes gleaming, he pulled her close, kissing her hard. Her angst began to evaporate under the upsurge of feelings for this man.  The ankle was forgotten as her body remembered all the delightful pains He could, and would, inflict.

“Sit.” He pushed her into the chair in the corner. Taking her leg into his hands, he began unfastening each velcro strap. Each released with a zzzzzzp, breaking the silence of the room. Her breathing deepened as, one by one, the ties binding the boot to her foot were released. Three weeks of healing had passed, swelling and bruising had faded, and all that was left were a few more weeks for the bones to knit.

Looking at her, he eased her foot from its protective gear.

“Not too bad. Hurt?”

“no Sir.”

“No hurt?”

“ummm…a little bit. From time to time, Sir.”

“Like when you’ve been overdoing things?”

“yes, Sir.”

“Would you take my car out and bring it back devoid of oil and gasoline?”

She knew where this was going.

“No Sir.”

“Would you take my dog, and not feed him? Not give him water?”

“No Sir.”

“Then why would you overdo and harm yourself? You are as much mine as my car, as my dog. And not only do I expect you to take care of yourself–I demand it.”

“yes…Sir. I–”

He cocked his head. She dropped her gaze. She hadn’t taken perfect care, that was the truth. Pushing a bit too hard at times. Maybe setting progress back. She sighed.

“I’m sorry Sir.”

He nodded curtly. “Good.”

He rose, crossing to the black bag on the bed. She couldn’t see what he had in his hand, but as he knelt in front of her, she could see that he was holding something bright pink.


“So I remember and you still have protection.” He wrapped the neon bandage around her ankle with precision. “This is what they use for horses.”

That should have been warning.

Somehow it slipped by her, with his hands tenderly ministering to her sore leg. Rising again, he took something else out of the bag.

“I had this made for your foot.” It was a thick slipper-like thing, that looked a bit like a horse’s hoof. “Of course there is a mate for your good foot. Not exactly sexy–but we’ll fix that.”

His smile sent shivers straight to her pussy. Again his hands dove into the black bag. He pulled out a shiny thick collar, and a long length of black silk rope.

Somehow she was naked but for the pink tape and the slippers. He wound the rope around her breasts, tugging, drawing it tight, weaving it through the silver ring in the collar and around to the back of her. He patted the bed beside him, helped her kneel.

“Close your eyes, slut.”

He slipped a mask over her eyes, stealing her sight, then took each wrist. She felt the heft and jingle of wrist cuffs, the unmistakable scent of leather. With a tug, he lifted her right hand; the clink of hardware as he fastened it to the wide collar around her throat made her pussy drool. Moments later her other wrist was contained. Hands at her throat, blind, she could only respond.

She was definitely responding.

There was a shuffling sound as he moved the bag from the bed, the mattress shifting as he moved away. His hands guided her so that she lay face down on the bed, then stroked down her bottom. She felt exposed–and oh so vulnerable.

Wetness drizzled onto her asscrack, his fingers smearing the lube. Still she was shocked when he began to push something very large into her bottom.

“Oh!” she gasped.

“Ankle hurt?”


“This hurts more than your ankle did when you broke it?”


“Well then, I think you can bear it.”

He pushed harder and she felt her anus grudgingly giving way. Her ass felt full, distended. She shifted, seeking relief, but the shocking feeling of something swishing against her thighs made her freeze in place.

“What? What the fuck  is that Master?”

“Horse tail. For my sweet little pony.” He pulled on the rope which had been loosely tied around her back. The rope stretched taut around her tits, making her whimper.

He jiggled the rope.

“Almost forgot. Up, ponygirl.”

He pulled her up to her knees. The feeling of the tail pooling around her calves, swishing against her ass and feet distracted her. A sharp pinch on each nipple drew moans from her. His fingers  flicked the aching nubbins, creating jingles. He’d put bells on her nipples? That bastard! She hated stuff like that. It was…inane.

It was also, shockingly, erotic.

His hand on the back of her head eased her back down, head and wrists on the bed, ass in the air. He tugged the rope again, setting her nipple bells to jingling wildly.  There was a warm chuckle from behind her. Even as she began to protest the humiliation, there was sharp sting on her bottom.


“Riders up,” he said, cropping her again. The bed shifted as she felt the warmth of Him behind her. “It’s time” came His voice from what seemed like far away,  “to take my pony for a ride.”

She was already riding, off into the mists of subspace.

Farm Plan (4)

” You know, the first time I saw that butt hook contraption? I thought we’d have some sort of legal shit hitting the fan.”

“Hahaha…shit…that’s a good one. I gotta tell you…watching it?”

“I know! Seeing her teeny asshole swallow the fucking thing?”

“and the way she squirmed and squealed?”

“My dick may be 65 years old, but that fucker was hard as good Maine granite!”

“Mine too! geezuz I’ve never seen nuthing like that. I’ve seen a lot of shit on the internet but never watched one of those silver ball hook things being inserted like that.”

“I wondered what it felt like when he fucked her cunt. He had to have felt it…rubbing against the underside of his johnson?”

“You’d think.”

“I gotta get me some of that shit.” Bill slapped at a mosquito that buzzed near his ear. He rarely got bit, but this one was persistent. Then again, the two of them were sitting at the end of the dock in the dusk, allegedly fishing.

“We need a few gals to keep our dicks warm in winter.”

“Was wondering if you want to spend the winter up here-you’ve been here for weeks…might as well stop paying rent on that shit apartment in Orono. That way we can start planning the 2014 season. I was kind of thinking of themed weeks and…”

Bill flushed a bit under his grizzled beard as Tim stared at him. Then the two of them laughed. Camp had proven to be an embarrassment of riches, even after taxes and fees. A lot of nekkid people had tramped through the woods and pastures over the last four weeks. They’d spaced a weekend free for any fix-ups that needed attending to, and to give the two men a breather. Running a camp for nekked people was a challenge–but for kinky nekkid people? It was a bucket load of work.

“Tell you what, I’ll think about it.”

“Well, I don’t have an ocean…but I got the lake, and maybe we’ll get a few unattached single sluts who might consider bunking in.”

“That happens and I’m all in.” Tim laughed again. A bite on his line took his attention for a bit, until he landed the medium-sized trout. He dropped it into the bucket with the other two he’d caught.

“I win,” he said casually, as he replaced the lid.


Tim packed in his gear, grinning at the casual insult.

“Told you I would whip your ass–in fishing!”

Bill wheezed out a laugh. Every joke these days carried a double edge to it. One of those ‘entended” things. Whatever the fuck they were called.

Tomorrow they’d work through the buildings and campsites, tidying and fixing anything that needed it. Mini camp would begin on Thursday, for those people who couldn’t spare time enough to come for a full week of camp. That idea had been Tim’s, whose insane work schedule when he’d worked at the shipyard had given him the thought. He wasn’t the only guy who worked like a fucking dog. And there were some highfalutin women who wore power suits during the  work week, and nipple clamps during their off time. A mini camp suited the two codgers–and their clientele–perfectly.


Bill wiped sweat from his brow, swearing under his breath. It was fuck-all hot in here. And while he might’ve worked the farm every day for the last –well…. forever– he’d definitely softened up some since old Bessie had given up the ghost last fall. Fuck all, he’d gotten lazy, unused to having to throw bales of hay around. Shrugging his shoulders to loosen them a bit, he gripped the bale hook and stabbed it into the next bale. With a quick flick, he hooked the other baler into the side, and hefted the cube of hay out of the storage bay and into the barn proper. Those D/s folks liked the realism of hay around their ‘cow’s’–and it was sure easier to clean out the cum soiled grasses than steam cleaning a carpet. He imagined his compost pile would be steaming in January with all the jizz-coated hay he’d be tossing in there.  Done at last, he decided a beer wouldn’t come amiss. Putting the baler hooks away, because gawd knew what those kink-asses could do with those fuckers, and locking the storage door, he ambled up to the house.

Watching his friend make his way slowly from the barn, it was apparent to Tim that they were going to need to extra hands to help out. Not that they were incapable, but it was fucking hard work. While the campers were responsible for cleaning up after themselves, a certain amount of preparation and care was taken so that the environment was safe for all.

Wait a minute. Wait one fucking minute! The lightbulb going off in his head might just blind someone, he thought with a grin.

“Yo!” Rising from his chair, he met Bill at the end of the walkway with a cold brew. “Been thinking. How about we advertise a “special” camp…for that work-break we built-in for July?”

“What kind of special? How could we get everything prepped–“

Tim punched him on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up and let me explain!” Hooking his arm over Bills shoulder, they walked up to the porch heads together.

“Fucking ingenious. Fucking BRILLIANT!” Bill stopped, his gap-toothed grin splitting his face. “Fucking-A Genius.”

“Thanks buddy…I dunno about you, but I’m beat. And not in a kinky way.”

The two codgers laughed, then walked into their kitchen-cum-office to plan a very special camp week.



“Needs work.”


“Gonna be a shitload of fun.”

“Gonna be shitload of work–for them!”

“Better them than me!”




hope you all are having fun at camp. i hope you consider emailing me if you have a secret fantasy that you’d LOVE to see/experience if YOU were coming to Farm Camp… please? You can send tons of details, or just a few words. Gmail will let you create a persona for your private mail if you want to be totally anonymous. I may not use your name, but your idea? That’d be golden. I’m working a ton of hours this weekend, straight through Monday–I’ll catch up with your emails and comments starting on Tuesday…and hopefully you will have mailed me a shitload of ideas so I can write my fingers off then….riiiight? 🙂 ~nilla~


In this space you’d normally find a sexy tale, right?

But I’m struggling. Fretting. Maybe even a bit — um–freaked out.

I only need to say one word (I think) to help you understand:


You’ve likely seen/heard/read about the three girls taken from the streets of their neighborhoods. Stolen away on their way to their homes and schools and workplaces. Three girls, 14, 16, 21 who were *stolen* from their streets and *forced* to be sexual slaves to three men. Held against their will inside a home for ten years. TEN YEARS full of torture chamber devices, raped, beaten, tormented, impregnated.

In a sex blog –in MY sex blog — I write stories like this all the time-well, except I NEVER write about children. The darker tales are on Dark Fantasies, which gets way less traffic than here. There are people who are really into the darker tales–and frankly? I’m one of them. Not into snuff, NOT into kiddy porn, not into kids getting kidnapped and brought into sexual slavery. This is shocking. Horrifying. And yet.

Some of this stuff is the very same thing that *I* fantasize about. That I write about because others fantasize about it. But I do it under the auspices of TTWD…as people who are into the whole D/s experience, whether as an old hand, or someone learning their way, or someone curious –who might discover that this weird thing they think about has a name. D/s.

The D/s element that is missing from what happened to those kids is the oft spoken “consensual non-consent”…that is…for me as a submissive, I have consented to leave my fate in His hands. He can do as he chooses to me. He can make me stand on my head, He can make me piss in a cup and drink it, He can beat me, fuck me, whatever. I say “make” because His word is law–I obey because I’ve given Him my consent that I will…which makes it, at its root, a choice.

I think it stands to reason that within the bounds of “normal” discretion,  I don’t need to sit and write a 17 page document that spells out what He can and cannot do to/with me. Right? I don’t need to lay there and worry that I’ll come out of the hotel room dead. Or armless. Or with my toes in His black bag. It’s just not going to happen. Oh, I might not *like* some of the things He does to me. But I’ll do them and get off on it simply because He MAKES me…that’s part of my kink. But it doesn’t involve limb removal, murdering my children or other insanites.

Trust is the key element between Master and nilla. The essential element.

Trust is also an element that I write with here. I trust that you, my readers, will understand that my stories are fairy tales. Some are dark and some are funny–but all of them are just fantasy.

They are not permission to go out and capture your neighbor and chain her or him in your basement to make them your sextoy. It makes a good story–because its base, and squicky, and I try to make it sexy as hell for you.

It is NOT consent to go out into the world and do this to others who are not a part of TTWD.

My stories are not guidelines. They are not roadmaps to non-consensual kidnapping.

And it horrifies me that there could be one twisted mind out there doing just that.

The odds are against it. I know that. But while the shock and horror are so new? It’s hard for me to move past it.  I lay in bed the other night and considered shutting this down. Just…stopping.


*heavy sigh*

*I* need this outlet.

Just because some sick fuck went out there and did this…doesn’t stop this from being exactly the fantasy fodder that speaks to my own sexual perversions.

My fantasies are shared by many of you. We’re perverted, that’s true.



  1. (of a person or their actions) Characterized by sexually abnormal and unacceptable practices or tendencies.
  2. (of a thing) Having been corrupted or distorted from its original course, meaning, or state.

Sexually deviant? Well, ya.

I like to be hit. Spanked. Slapped with spoons, FSCT, His hands. I love to be marked and bitten and hurt. I *LIKE* it when He hurts me.

I like it when He forces me to orgasm beyond what I thought was ever possible.

I LIKE it when He stabs into my pussy, my tired, sore, achy, swollen, exhausted pussy, and finger fucks me to another orgasm.

The pain is pleasure, amplified.

This is my fantasy, which He crafts into my reality. This is what turns me on, makes my motor hum, makes me, me. It’s not ALL of who I am, but it is a viable, real part of me.

I would not be fully who I am without Dominance, without submission as part of my life. Could I live without Master? I’d like to think so (but then again, i’m the same slut who gets all worried and fretful when we go days without talking to one another-is that co-dependence? I prefer the term “love”, actually). But I’d be less of who I am. I’d be that unhappy creature who first started blogging 3.5 years ago,when I was confused about what I fantasized about, alone and uncertain.

I’m NOT uncertain any more.

I am not ashamed of being perverted–because it is ME. Not 14-year-old kids. Not some woman taken off the streets all unknowing.  This is my fantasy, from my head.

I can live with who I am. I can be happy to know that I am not alone in my perversions. I AM happy to have friends who are subs, who enjoy the dance of lust and pain.

And I know that I am not alone in these strange, twisted, sordid fantasies.

But do not make me a tool in your arsenal if you are up to no good. This is not a guide-book to creating a submissive sex slave.


Leave little girls to grow up as they should-in the school yard, in their backyards, out in the sunshine. Live your perverted fantasies as the rest of us D/s freaks do…consensually.

HNT-Full Busted and Lopsided Too!

Bearing in mind all the lovely comments both here on the blog and sent to me privately (and thank you for sharing your stories with me, all of you who did)…it seems that we ALL struggle with our body images.

I have to give some credit for my growth to a fellow blogger named Dee. She is curvaceous, Rubenesque, glowingly happy, beautiful, charming, and damned fucking incredible! Her blog is here at Curvaceous and I recommend scrolling through…she writes really great sexy tales, and has a huge collection of pix of her outside in normal places, showing her beautiful bosom. (this series is my favorite.)

She makes NO apologies for being a large woman, embraces her sexuality as a switch, and generally? She’s enjoying every day of her life.

I so envied that. She taught me by example that self-acceptance is priceless. Then Master came along and sealed the deal.  And while I’m not always happy with myself, I’m working towards being more self-accepting. I cut everyone else a break–why not me?

Yes, my tits are uneven, one is bigger than the other. (guess what? that’s a true statistic for a TON of women…not just me!)

Without further ado? I share with you the lopsided nilla girls!

fullI like this pic coz it shows you i’m a round girl (and okay, it’s from the front and not low enough to show you my lopsided lower belly, courtesy of other surgery).

Here’s another pic in better light of the girls – and you can clearly see that i’m not “equal”…but who gives a fuck, right? I can honestly say, in 3 years of doing HNT? No one has ever “complained” to me about my being “off”. They may have “gotten off”…but I think that’s different, right? *naughty giggles*



It’s Tuesday as I write and…I’m feeling listless and moody. Part of it is my ankle–there is not much pain, and it’s not “bothering” me per se–but my body is definitely feeling it-back is kinda knotty and I’m so frigging tired all the time. That is really annoying!

I’ve had to give up some things for this summer and I haven’t seen Master in 2 weeks, and I’m just…cranky.

I’m not feeling sexy, like–at all. I fell and broke my ankle not my pussy. But not feeling the horny that is part of nilla normal.

And this is so much self-pity whining that I feel like just dumping this entire post-but I already dumped the first 300 words…hard to imagine that they were worse than this but they were.

If I was in agony? I could understand better or be kinder to myself. But I’m not in agony. I’m in a boot. I can walk. I can work. I can do most of what needs doing.




It’s my perfection streak isn’t it?

Rearing it’s ugly little head–nilla can’t do everything she *wants* to do so it must be time to whine.

Oh shit I hope it’s not that. That’s so fucking shallow.

Some of my mood is–this maybe sounds weird, maybe–but a mini-grief? I have to give up my garden for the summer (my veggie plot) since it’s located in the middle of a field and the terrain is uneven, with lots of typical New England rocky soil. Perfect for re-breaking an ankle, which I wouldn’t be pleased about. So I let it go. *sad sigh* And my seedling tomato’s are coming along so nicely, too.

I was supposed to go to the BIG city, New York City, next month with a group–and now I can’t. We’re only there Sat/Sun–and there is NO way I can keep up walking for 11 hours with a group of vibrant teenagers.

Definitely learning my limits, but sad all the same. It kinda sucks that doing the right thing hurts–even more than the broken bone does.

I need time with Master—somehow He makes everything right again. A good beating, some wall time, orgasm overload–all the good stuff. Unfortunately, wearing stiletto’s isn’t in my immediate future, either, maybe not even when we have our scheduled play time in early June. I may still be needing to wear my incredibly ugly but definitely necessary black boot.

Enough whining! Seriously. This is depressing shit, isn’t it? Definitely not normal nilla. *sigh*

bootI’m too sexah for my boot? um. no. my boot suits my mood. I feel like a Sith warrior. blerg.

072212144521Although, truth to tell, it’s apparent that I’m not doing much walking in these stiletto’s….

(searching for this pic cheered me up. Let’s try that again!)


And of course, my very first pair of shoes…unique, black n white, sexy. I always feel so sexy in these…

Okay, I’m feeling better. Nothing better than a bit of “shoe therapy” to help cheer a slut up!

Oh, and I was out at Michael’s last night, looking for some jewelry findings, and what did I spy? This:

cotoIt’s a pendant. I came “that” close to getting it, too. Didn’t coz I was trying to get home, and I wasn’t sure where I’d ever wear such a thing, but I did drool over it a little bit.

Well, I wasn’t sure that sitting here and moping about my little issues would make me feel better, but apparently it has. 🙂 Thanks for reading this far, if you have. I’m sure I’ll be ready to write more tomorrow. As for now? I need to go take a nap. Whining takes a lot of energy out of a gal.



Farm Plan (3)

Tim didn’t think he’d smiled this much in the last ten years. His frikking jaw hurt from the grin that seemed permanently etched on his face these days.

Gals, lots and lots of gals. All sizes. All shapes. Almost all nekkid as jay birds. And if they weren’t nekkid, they were near enough to it. Enticing. That was a dictionary word that surely fit his world these days. He’d walked down to Barn 2 to check things out earlier today. He’d opened the door and been greeted by the most gorgeous rotund ass that he’d ever seen. Forget those fucking skinny porno chicks, with their fake tits-these were real women, who really got a groove on by being hit, tied up, slapped, pinched, clamped, you name it. He’d been invited to stroke rosy bums, the heat and sensually warmed flesh making his tired old cock rise like he was 15 again.

He’d had multiple “thank you” blowjobs. He never turned one down, even if he’d had one earlier in the day. The feeling of hot lips on his shaft? Nope, wouldn’t say no to that until he was cold and in the ground.

Indeed, he’d even seen several “decoration” sluts, hanging on the hooks in some of the campsites. Next year he might suggest putting electricity in the camps; he’d been asked several times about it. He needed to remember to ask Bill to put it into their planning calendar for when they discussed next year’s camp. For there was definitely going to be a next year! Profit margin had surpassed their wildest expectations, and they had a frigging waiting list!

“Yo!” He hollered, spying Bill in the distance. Bill waved, but didn’t move from where he stood. AS he drew closer, Tim noticed that he was taking a piss-on a gal sitting in one of those blue plastic kiddie pools they’d been asked to supply. Well, didn’t that beat all?

Her hands were tied behind her back, clamps tight on her nipples, tiny silver bells hanging down from them. Her mouth was caged open with one of those “spider” gags. Piss dripped down her hair, her cheeks, rolling in yellow streams down her tits and torso. She  knelt there in the center of the pool, where a puddle of what must now be cold piss was forming around her knees and legs. Bill was shifting his stream between her mouth, and making those tit-clamp bells ring. She shivered as his hot piss washed over her in the chilly morning air. Or maybe it was the big-assed vibe in her cunt that made her shiver. He was alternately grossed out, and excited by the show. The sign on the ground in front of her said “Piss on my slut”.

He tugged his zipper down. He could always shake out a few drops–and he’d had his morning coffee and oj. As Bill finished up, he began his own release, first in a few stuttering spurts, then one powerful jetting gout of urine. He missed her mouth, splashing her eyes, which make her whimper, then down along the line of her throat to her tits. He figured he might as well douse her good, but he couldn’t quite make himself squirt into her mouth. The idea of that was pretty fucking gross.

A large, hairy man ambled over.

“She’s gonna smell like fuck-all soon enough,” he said, as he pulled out his thick cock and began pissing on the girl. Small puffs of steam rose from the heat of his urine as his thick morning piss splattered her. He played it down her tits, making the bells ring madly. A cheer went up in the tent nearby.

Tim put his own cock away, shaking his head at the peculiar games these people played.


At 4 p.m. the two men sauntered into the barn. This was the grand opening of the new milking equipment. The barn carried the scent of cows, even now. Hay, thankfully fresh, lined the stalls, and around the milking platforms. The crew had gone to a lot of effort to make the experience “authentic”.  The girls, all five of them, were yoked into position, heads and hands captive in the metal slots. Bare bottoms wiggled, setting tits to jiggling. One girl had small tits, and Tim wondered how that would go. To his surprise she was hooked up with the original teat suckers. The motor hummed and her tits were suctioned into the skinny tubes. Nipples flared and distended, her head pulled back as she moaned.

“That’s gotta fucking hurt,” Tim said in an aside.

“You betcha! That fucking thing pulls like a bitch.”

“I’d be happy to stick your cock in one to see how hard it sucks.” The purring voice came from a Dominatrix. She was unnerving, frankly, in her jet-black corset, rose-tipped breasts peaking from the lace. Bill looked at her, licked his lips.

“You’re purty as all get out, miss, but definitely think we’d be fighting about which of us would be leading the other in any kind of dance.”

She threw back her head and let out a laugh, loud and lusty. She ran her finger down his chest, and damned if his cock didn’t lurch to life.

“I like you, farmer Bill.”

“That worries me, Ma’am.” His tone was dry.

She laughed yet their attention was drawn to the third slut. Her tits were fucking huge. Her Master had pulled her long red hair into a crude ponytail so that everyone could see. His hand pinched and tugged at her nipples, making her moan. He slapped them as they hung there, then affixed the milking cups. She whimpered, moaned, cried out as the incredible suction began sucking her tits deeply into the cup. Bill’s hard-on grew as her body quivered with the sensations of her tit-flesh being relentlessly tugged down into the cups by the force of the machine.

A thin line of milk began leaking into the long funnel tube from the girl on her left, and the crowd leaned forward, craning for a glance. Bill knew that each girl had her own collection container, and that the amount of milk that might come from any of them would be mere ounces if that. Far less than he’d ever gotten from any of his girls. Cows. He shook his head. Had to be clear now, which was who. The redhead’s tits were turning purple from the suction, a steady moaning coming from her.

To his shock, her Master stood behind her, holding what looked like a ping-pong paddle. He took a vicious looking swipe across her ripe round ass, and she yelped. He repeated the strike on her bum, and again she yelped. The sight made Bills cock stiffen, and he swore he felt a wet spot growing in his boxers. He’d watched this stuff on Porn Channel but fuck it was something entirely different in real life.

He was amazed to find himself standing beside the Master…he had no clear memory of crossing the room.

“May I?” Damned if he wasn’t clear about what he wanted.

The man stopped, handing the paddle to Tim. “Go ahead. Feel her dirty cunt. She’s dripping.”

Tim wondered if the man thought he was ending the scene by showing up here-as the COO of Boone’s Fucking Farm he carried a lot of heft for one old coot. His hand smoothed over her glowing ass. The heat was incredible, and bruises speckled the once white bottom. His fingers slid down the slick channel between her thighs. The sound of the milking machine was intense down here, and he could feel the girl jolting as it sucked madly away at her tits.

Her pussy was like a blast furnace. Molten heat poured from her, juice gleamed wetly on her swollen lower lips.

“Want to fuck her?”

He turned, looking at the Dom. “Do bears shit in the woods?”

Laughing, Master B responded.

“Last I heard, yes.”

Bill dug in his pocket for a condom. They were everywhere, boxes of condoms. Hanging on trees, in every play area. Handed out to campers when they first arrived, and for sale in the gift shop. He’d never seen more condoms in one place in his life!

He slipped it on, then lined up behind her.

“Give it to her rough. She wants to be used hard this week.” The Dom’s voice dropped. “This is as much about her fantasy as mine.”

Bill smiled. He was all about fulfilling this little gals fantasy!

His cock slid deep, buried in her succulent hot flesh. His hands took her hips, bucking into her like a rutting dog. The girl moaned, groaned, the sounds both guttural and primeval. Never before had fucking been just this simple. A cock and an available cunt. He pounded to the rhythm of the sucking machine, her sounds growing more desperate as he punched into her soaking chasm. She came with her cunt squeezing his cock like a fucking vice clamp. He pulled out and rutted into her, making the girl whimper and squirt beneath his assaulting dick. He heard the splash between his feet, felt the sudden gush as her pussy convulsed on him. It sent him over the edge. Panting, he felt his cum explode from his balls, his fingers pinching into her flesh as he filled the condom, his cock buried fully in her stuttering snatch. He’d find bruises on those hips later, he knew. He also suspected that she wouldn’t mind that a bit.

He no longer had a single doubt that these people had a head up on everyone else when it came to sex.

Under the Sheets

for andi, whose “random” picture here inspired this bit of fantasy…~nilla~

He took her by her hair, tugging her face to the bed, exposing her pale bottom…

mmmmm, she moaned, her clit throbbing with a little lurch as she imagined the scene, hair pulling and bottom baring was so thrilling!

….to his gaze, and as she soon discovered, to his hand. The slaps he gave her weren’t all that uncomfortable-but the humiliation of him doing it in the first place, and the slight sting on her ass had her wiggling.

She’d wiggle if her ass was getting hit. She’d done it before. And while she loved the idea, and the actuality of being spanked…she could never keep still on her own. The story she read was so hot, so intense. Her other hand was busy with the vibe she kept on low, pressed against her clit. She wanted to prolong the pleasure, wanted to spin out the fantasy, then close her eyes and let it cum. Her lips curved, bow-shaped, at her double entendre.

Of a sudden, the slaps grew harder, as if the prior blows had only been a warm up. A steady, hard whallop had her squirming in earnest now and her little whimpers became mewlings of pain.

gods…something about that word… “mewlings” ….set her to mind of the animatistic sounds she gave off when being spanked. Whimpers, growls, moans-so unlike her happy-day-to-day self. When she played, she let that part of her-the civilized business woman- fade away, and let the raw and needy whore loose. She needed so hard sometimes that she scared herself. What if she never found the one who answered that need with his own greedy wants and desires?

But for now there were these stories on the internet…her attention drifted back to her monitor as her fingers pushed aside her lower lips, and played the vibe up and down her wetness.

….fingers slid deep and his voice was  a husky, sexual growl when he spoke. “you’re wet. soaked. you filthy little whore. MY filthy whore likes her bottom spanked.”

She moaned, her pussy starting to drool, the hummmmm vibrations making her hips press harder, seeking more. She reread that hot passage–the part where he called her a filthy whore was her secret pleasure.

The IM on her open internet chimed. Eyes half-closed in pleasure, she almost ignored it, but with a growl she clicked from her story to her yahoo.

hey babe, whatcha up 2? was sitting here stroking Mr. Big when I thought of you. wonder if your fingers are buried in your cunt, wet and sticky and needing to be filled with something big, hot, and hard?

It was G, her sometime fuckbuddy. He had such big hands, and an equally big cock.  He was good in bed, varying between rough and forceful, and tender. He wasn’t as much into the D/s scene as she wished he was–but just now he added shape and texture to the story she was reading. Quickly she composed a response:  “G, i am stroking ms puss. she’s wet and sticky as you thought, but you’re not here, so I’m makin do with Black Beauty. He’s purring along my valley….”

It never failed to arouse, sexting. She clicked off IM and returned to the story.

A heavy dull thudding on her bottom made her jolt with shock. The flogger? He’d not flogged her in forever, and his fingers teased at her pussy but only at the outer edges. She pushed back, entreating him to enter her. He responded by flogging her harder.


babe,  you know Mr. Big would love to be sliding between your pussy lips, parting them like moses did the  red sea…i’d spread your pink pussy wide, getting all lubed up with your pussy juices . The head of my cock is dripping with precum, and would press deeper between your rosy lips, finding your fuckhole and spearing slowly (o so slo) into it.

She shivered, reading the flogging and G’s IM. She was on fire now, her sheets pushed down by her feet, her thighs spread, head canted back on the pillow so she could read the computer screen. Her cunt was begging to be fucked yet still she held off. There was need, there was desire…and she wanted it to last.

She couldn’t take much more. Shivers raced through her, her thighs wet with her urgent lust.

Gawd she could relate to that! Her sheet below her was wet; she felt the hot sticky goo against her ass as it ran down her sex groove.

“When I fuck you, I will be merciless. You will cum for me..and cum for me…and cum for me. You’ll want to escape the relentlessness of orgasm overload–but you’ll be held here, held tight, until I’m done draining you.

And then I’ll fill your grasping, gasping, greedy pussy with thick ribbons of my jizm, fill you until you’re overflowing with my cum. And when I’m done, you’ll reach down between your soiled, sticky thighs with your greedy fingers, and scoop up our sex sauce, and lick it off.

Dear gawd…

*chime*I want to fuck you, a. I want to grab a fistful of your thick hair, making your back arch and your tits jut. You’ll be on your knees, and I’ll take you hard from behind, like a mare taken by a stallion, like a bitch in heat. Your legs spread wide, your ass up, and your dripping pussy right there for me to look at. And when I’m done looking, touching, opening? My cock will ram deep into your snatch, and your arched back will bow further, take me deeper, invite my invasion. Your mouth will open, your voice will howl, your nipples will be hard jutting pebbles. 

Shaking, she exploded, just from the words. Her vibe lay buzzzzing on the bed, against her thigh as her fingers rubbed madly at her clit. She bucked and whined as the orgasm saturated her sheet, falling back onto her pillows, trembling.




Her phone beeped. It took a minute to realize that her doorbell and her phone were both alerting her.

answer your door a. 

Farm Plan (2)

Sitting at the kitchen table, Tim and Bill cross referenced the applications with their calendars. They’d shopped at Home Depot in Lewiston, picking up hooks, chain, rope, supplies to finish off the floor in Barn Two. This barn was smaller, located at the edge of Pasture 6 and the woods break between that field and Pasture 8. The woods weren’t terribly dense here, but there were several small streams that flowed through from the wetlands 20 miles north at the base of Katahdin, eventually flowing into the small pond near the main house. Here was where they had set up a their secondary camping area. Their campers were of two types-open air and woods, just like ‘normal’ people- some preferred to camp in the trees. Not that they’d be hiding from anything– there was nothing for miles, just woods, water, and of course, the ubiquitous Maine blackflies. There would be neighbors, of course, but they had designed each campsite to give maximum room to each site. Fire pits had been dug in and lined with river rock, picnic tables, and a tree harness for hanging pesky subs who were not helping to set up camp–or were just there for decoration. Bill was hoping to see a few of those type of women hanging out in his woods.

Tim had refinished the flooring in Barn Two-it was one thing to have rustic and another to have liability- and now it was smooth as glass. The windows had been caulked, and a variety of those new hooks had been placed strategically around the walls. He’d constructed several crosses which were popular with this crowd, spanking benches, and trusses. If someone had told him that he’d be taking his woodworking/boat building knowledge and using it to create a BDSM playground? He’d have laughed until he pissed his pants. Coils of rope, from rough hemp to fine silk hung on the walls, as well as an assortment of paddles, floggers, whips, and canes. A case on the far side of the barn contained a large variety of handcuffs, collars, and similar restraint devices. Items could be purchased or rented, and would be signed out to users to try to avoid too much loss. And many would come with their own “fun kits”, or so they had been assured.

Five weeks of work had made the place safe, as well as kinky.  And the applications had begun to roll in. People would pay a lot of cash to have the opportunity to get away from it all, and have sex in public. Seemed kinda strange to him, but whatever. This was going to do more than pay the bills, to be sure.

All the permits were in for the private campground. And soon, very soon, the place would be filled with Masters and Mistresses dressed in all sorts of “Power clothing” from leathers to corsets, and lots and lots of naked “subs”.

“Hey Tim?”


“Whatta you call a sub sandwich?”

“Well, in the midwest they call it a hero. But I call it a sub.”

“Irene and Mary.” Bill slapped his thigh, laughing.

“Buddy? You’ve been reading too many porn stories.” But Tim laughed. ‘Irene and Mary’, indeed. “We’re ready. Hard to believe, but we did it.”

“Security will be onsite starting tomorrow night. Police Doms or somesuch. They’ll keep things under control. Whatever that means.”

“Just in case something goes down. We don’t want the reputation of an abuse thing.”

“Nope. These people are seriously kinky. Can’t hardly wait to see what – you know I can’t imagine some gal just moving around setting up camp all nekkid. It’s fucking May. In Maine. Don’t these people know about blackfly season?”

“Whip welts and blackfly bites. Who knows why. But I’m glad we’ve pulled it off! Jezuz, we’ve booked solid already through June. That’s eight weeks!”

The two men walked out to the dock, looking out at the sunset painting the sky, the looming hulk of the mountain to the north etched in gold. Two less likely candidates for a porn camp, but two cagey businessmen nonetheless, they stood watching the sun go down, and their last night of tranquility before campers began to descend upon their new venture. A loon broke the purple silence with its haunting call, the ripples dancing across the water, and letting the last light of day dance upon the surface.


Bill handed the sheaf of paperwork to the check -in guy. The man was a “freelance Dom” with impeccable references. Whatever. As long as people were paid up, and knew the rules, he was going to be happy enough to sit on the porch and watch nekkid gals roaming around the farm. Who would’ve thought?

“You had cows here?”

“yup. Years n years.”

“Milking machines or by hand?”

“machine. Got too tedious once the kids grew. Not too many kids wanted to come up from the village at 330 to start milking, so I had the system put in.”

“Still works?”

“yup. why?”

Marc smiled. “There are some subs who are into being milked.”

“No shit?!” Bill could not keep the amazement out of his voice. “You’re shittin’ me!”

“Truth. Some Doms are into making them do it, like the taste of tit milk. You can do it by tying  the tits nice and tight, but a milking machine is the top of the line as far as a D/s experience goes.”

“Well, I can accommodate a dozen heifers, and each of them has 4 milk teats.”

“Definitely should be in your advertising–you’ll be amazed.”

“I’m already amazed. Gals who wanna put their tits into milking machines? Course, the tubes for the cow udders are different.”

“There’s a few websites that have human udder attachments…I’ll email them to you.”

Email. Websites. Bill rolled his eyes. He was a dairy farmer, not some techie geek. That shit was for kids like his son, whooping it up in Simi Valley. Shaking his head, and trying to ignore the hard throb of his cock, he ambled back up to the farmhouse to tell Tim of this latest information.

Gals getting milked.

Damned if the idea of that didn’t make his cock rock-hard.

Farm Plan

This? This one is all Tips fault. He’s the one who made the offhand comment about an old farmer and milking machines. Dump that comment into my dirty brain, add my own fetish to the mix and voila! Instant story. And …it is camping season, well, almost. *naughty laugh*  ~nilla~

He paced the floor. At 65 he’d done his time here on Boone’s Farm. Up in the woods of north central Maine, his spread encompassed 25 acres of good land. Millinocket had changed plenty in the last 40 years, even more since his gramps had carved this spread out of the rocky Maine earth. Not far from the famed Baxter State Park and Mount Katahdin, on clear days he could see the tip of that peak from the dock on their small lake.

Away from the house and bunk house was Barn One, where the cows had been kept. They were gone now, Old Bess having passed on last fall. He lived on his military pension for the most part, his wife and kids gone too. She’d gone south to Florida. He couldn’t help the mental sneer over that. Florida? Sissy land. He could no more imagine himself laying in the sun than he could imagine one of his cows suddenly sprouting wings and flying around the pastures. Shaking his head, he continued to walk around the property, thinking about Betty with her new man, fanning themselves as they wandered around Disney. His kids were grown with families of their own, one in California doing fuck-all with computers, the other doing financial finaglings in Chicago. He remembered the years of the kids helping with the cows, hiking the 2 miles to the bus stop for school, the snowball fights in the front yard, and the baby robin his daughter had raised to adulthood. So many images flitted through his memories. Ah, those were the days. He wondered about putting everything up for sale; this area was getting pretty popular with tourists, the lifeblood of Maine it seemed.

He squinted as a beat up Jeep rumbled up the drive. It rumbled to a stop, a kick of dust swirling around. The door opened and his childhood friend Tim shifted out of the car.

“Fine day you got going on up here,” Tim greeted his friend. The door of the car slammed shut with a shove of his hand. He walked, bandy-legged,  to slap shoulders with Bill.

“Two old farts on the farm,” Bill laughed, delighted that his buddy had come up. “What brings you out of the sea-side?”

“I had a dream.”

“Me too. She was tall, big tits and -”



“We must be on the same wavelength.”

“You’ve been drinking turpentine rather than spreading it on decking at the boatyard?”

Tim laughed, the sound like rusty nails being shaken in a box. He looked at his friend and pointed one bent finger at him. Oh the years of rope knotting, of planing and shaping boards had done a number on his hands.  Boatworking was not easy work, yet it had been the vocation that spoke to his heart.

“Retirement sucks.” He began, pacing away. “The ‘yard was always like my second home. Alls I do at home now is turn on the computer and start searching porn.”

“I thought that’s why they invented the internet? So we could all watch porn in our kitchen?”

“Watch porn, read porn, look at tits…so many ways to go. Did you know that they even have places where you can take a vacation that are porn camps? Mostly for the crowd that likes ropes and whips and chains. . . BDSM they call it.”

“I call it fun. I’m not afraid to use some rope on a gal-”

“Yes! Exactly. And you have all this space here….”

Bill blinked. Turn Boone Farm into some sort of porn vacation? He turned in a slow circle. The barn, hell, needed a shitload of work. The bunk house only had room for 12. The house itself had some room. Down by the lake was a small cottage, not much more than four walls with windows. No plumbing, even.

“How the fuck?” Tugging off his cap, he scrubbed at his head. His shock of white hair stood up in every direction, and he looked like a puzzled, wizened gnome.

“C’mon into the house and let’s go looking for camps…trust me. You’ve got just about everything you need.”

“But nothing is updated. Tourists want updated.”

“Not this kind of tourist. The rougher, the better.”

Side by side, the two codgers moved into the house, plotting, planning and grinning.