4 Years…

WordPress just sent me a note congratulating me on 4 years of blogging…and I forgot it was today! silly slut!

Thanks for making the last 4 years fun. I’m so glad to have met you, chatted with you, amused you…and turned you on.

The Annoyed Master

If you’re like me, you spend your mornings eating you breakfast, drinking your tea/coffee/smoothie, while trolling the interwebs for slutty, sexy blogposts. You go to a site…oh. nothing new. blah. Oh…nope she’s not posted either. Well fuck.

That was me, yesterday. Not only did *I* not have a new blogpost…but virtually none of my subsisters did. It’s the end of summer. Okay not by the calendar, those rigid equinoxes and solstice days…but by all else? Yes.  Maples are turning red, trees are dropping fruits and nuts like crazy, the geese are on the move south…and the chicadees are back from the north country. School began today–not for my homeschooled kids–but for my, and surrounding, cities. We are going on our traditional end-of-summer camping trip to the beach; I’m gathering last minute things, even as a school bus rolls past my house.  But everyone must be super busy as the “lazy” summer days roll to an end, because there was very little reading material for this slut to gobble down. So what the fuck should I write about, I wondered yesterday, knowing I’d have this little window of time before we drove north for our vaca. And then there was last night’s conversation with Master.

A very….displeased…Master. A pissed Master? No, not pissed but not happy Master.


He’s an annoyed Master.  And He shows His annoyance in the *meanest* of ways…let me explain. It’s a long-winded tale (most of mine are, had you noticed that?) So go fetch another cuppa, I’ll wait.

Here we go…(she says, as if this was a *fun* tale. It isn’t. It’s a sad tale, filled with woe and sorrow…and a distinct lack of orgasms. That is truly sad.)

Yesterday was “like day” for Master and I.

However, Master is…a bit annoyed. (That may be an understatement but I’ll let you decide that.).  And it all has to do (are you ready?) with my hair.

Part of my end of summer is getting my haircolor “refreshed”…that is, the hairdresser doesn’t only do the new growth at the scalp, but puts the color on ALL of my hair to brighten it up after it has faded from being outside all season.

Something went horribly wrong.

I went in a redhead…and came out a brunette.

Brunette with undertones of red…but red–MY red…my sassy-assed so THERE red? Gone.

I have a good dose of vanity. I’m NOT hot in the “hollywood” sense–but I’m pretty in my own way…and my hair is a part of that. And it was –so fucking ugly.

I cried.

Yeah, okay. It takes a *lot* to make me cry. Master usually has to annoy me for several weeks to drive me to that point. 🙂  My kids have to be *super* horrid all day to drive me over the edge. My hairdresser did it in 90 minutes.

It was wet when I went home…so I thought..you know…once it dried it would be lighter. But it wasn’t. Here is a before. It’s been brighter than this, but Master isn’t a fan of the more “neon” (for lack of a better word) reds..He thinks they look ‘cheap’…This is His PREFERRED color of red..

hntNow, stop looking at the tits…focus people. It’s the hair.

Here is my hair last week (it’s taken me a week to write this. Every time I tried, I cried. Yeah. Vain. Told you.)

disasterThis is the after…it doesn’t photograph all that well, this is *right* after I dried it. I sent this to Master (the full version, not this cropped one)…His reply was “that is NOT a happy face. What happened?”

And of course, He hates the color. (IRL it is really, really ugly. In this pic you can see the hint of plum-red. But mostly it’s like muddy water brown.)

This, by the way, is NOT a diatribe against brunettes. I have many brunette friends. Hell, my MOM was a brunette. What this is about is that Master likes a “hot redheaded slut. This ain’t it.” (When He slides down into the vernacular of His youth rather than the cultured man He is now? He is seriously upset.)

We met over the weekend for lunch. He took one look at me and shook His head. Right there in Panera He grabs a fistful and tells me how bad it is. And has been teasing me mercilessly about it…not in a hurtful way…but just to yank my chain in that asshole way that Dom’s do.

(and they do this all the time, don’t they? find our weak spot and exploit the fuck out of it? Bastards!)

He decided that since I wasn’t the “real nilla” as a brunette, “Like Day rules do not apply”…ergo…NO O.

That rat BASTARD! I was primed for it. I’m going camping for 6 nights…no WAY to have an O with my kids right fucking there….I whined. I begged. He’s holding it out pending my getting my hair fixed next week. (Yes, I called my hairdresser. I NEVER do that…but it was bad enough to give me the gumption to complain…and she’ll fix it for free. Thank the goddess.)

Isn’t that just the *saddest* tale? No O for the “fake” nilla on Like Day.

What’s the foundation of “Like Day” you ask? Well–for 3 years now, we’ve ‘celebrated’ that we officially got back together on a Tuesday after nearly breaking up…HIS idea, too. See? He’s really sweet under the thick coating of Badass Bastard He wears.

Not that I noted any hint of “sweet” when He refused to relent about my O. We talked for over an hour, and then He put me to bed with one terse order.

“Sleep, slut, capiche?”

What’s a slut to do (fake or otherwise!)…?

I slept.

So…while there *is* sweet in Him…it’s truly well-hidden under His Rat Bastard suit.




It twined around her ankle as she swam. Thinking it was a stray bit of loose pond weed, she slowed in her strokes, shaking her foot. Somewhat surprised that it didn’t slide off, she kicked harder.

It slid up her calf.

That was odd. Using her other foot, treading water, she attempted to push the cold slimy thing off her leg. Her legs were jerked apart so quickly that she gasped, stopped treading water and sank just below the surface of the quiet lake for a moment. The large blob below the water was not a random piece of weed. Wrapped around each ankle was a rope-like thing. Her head popped above the water,  needing  to get away from the horror below her.

She tried to twist, to turn, to stroke away from it with her powerful arms. Yet it held her fast, held her still, despite her attempts to kick away. She would have screamed then, screamed until her throat bled but the thing in the water seemed to know this. The tip of yet another tentacle broke through the surface of the water, and plunged into her open mouth a nano-second before her scream could release.

She fought then, thrashing and punching and clawing at it, blind panic driving her to struggle for her survival.

All efforts to free herself left her hanging limply in the water, rubbery ropes around her wrists, her thighs, her waist. It kept her head out of the water, as if knowing that she’d drown if she sank. When there was no energy left to fight, she lay there, mouth stoppered with the slippery cold thing coiled against her tongue, the tips of the armatures around her body all stroking. Was it trying to soothe her?

She tried to shake her head, tried to spit out the contents of her mouth to no avail.

It held her gently, firmly. She looked up at the darkening sky, watching as stars popped out along the velvet edges, where sentinel pines cast dark silhouettes like spears poking into the night. Somewhere on the far side of the lake a loon called its haunting song.

She shivered.

A tentacle tip tickled the edge of her nose, another explored her ear. She would have laughed, her ears being supremely ticklish, though her mouth was full.  Her shoulder popped up, attempting to move it away.

It dug deeper, cutting off sound, the cold wet seeking tip sending animal waves of alarm. Here was the pathway to her brain. Here was danger. It poked against her eardrum and she thrashed, gurgling out a cry of pain.

It withdrew, as did the seeker at her nose.  Another poke against her belly button and she gurgled another cry, biting down on the thing in her mouth. It shoved hard against her teeth, overfilling her mouth and stretching her jaw, while the tip slid down the back of her throat making her gag. Barely able to draw breath, she saw stars of her own as she fought to remain conscious.

As suddenly as the thing had filled her mouth, it withdrew. A warning. The tentacle remained, tracing her lips, her cheeks. With barely a splash, the head of the thing broke water just in front of her, a giant blue eye looking at her.

Weighing her.

Examining her.

She wanted to look away, close her eyes, but the enormous sapphire eyeball, almost as big as her head, held her mesmerized. Eyes locked, entranced, she didn’t at first notice the tentacle moving from her calf to her thigh. She felt the tug on her bikini bottom. She startled back, shaking her head, fingers opening and closing helplessly as panic returned.

“no…” her voice a whispered raw croak.

“no…you can’t…ahhhhhh….”

It slid under the thin nylon and caressed the length of her slit. It was cold and rubbery and thick, hitting her clit. It wasn’t smooth, the little bumps and ridges making her jolt, just as her favorite dildo did.

“nononononono…” the chant was a sotto-voiced moan, her throat aching from his earlier invasion.

The twining tip found her swelling sex-bud, wrapping it, flicking it. Her body shook, held still in the water, her most sensitive organ touched and stroked and stimulated repeatedly. She’d heard that women could cum from having their clit touched, but that had never done it for her. She had always needed to finish the stimulation with a nice hard fuck.

The water between her legs was suddenly milky and hot, as if she’d peed, yet it wasn’t pee. Her head lolled, her body shook, wracked with the hot tremors of orgasm.

It slid into her cunt like a hot knife into butter. All unaware, her body still shaking with post-orgasmic tremors, the stupid tentacle still stroking her overly-sensitive clit made her feel blurred–and then the sudden slam of something fat and cold jammed up and into her belly. This was no gentle probing, this was…her mind jolted.


She was being raped by a fucking …squid? Octopus?

The thrusting thing in her pussy hit her cervix, the pain and wash of sensation bending her until her face was just above the water. She came like a bitch in heat. Something about that pain-pleasure sensation, her gut stabbed sexually made her horny as a goat. Growling, she squeezed the thing inside her with her cunt muscles, her body shaking, trembling with the onset of another wave of bliss.

It fucked her harder, the tentacles wrapping her body tightening then gentling, the way a man’s fist might open, close, open, as she ground against the surging cock in her belly. She didn’t notice the cold anymore, her body hot, raging with sex need. She came, came again.

Or maybe it was just one unending orgasm.

Eyes closed, rocking in the cool lake water, she gave juice until she was drained. Until there was only the husk of a woman, floating on the surface of the lake, painted with the light of stars.


When she woke, she was curled up on the end of the dock of the house she’d rented for the summer. Cold, as the morning mist danced upon the still water of the lake, she shivered, then rolled to her hands and knees, seeking warmth.

In the house, she got into the shower, turning the water to hot. At long last her shivers stopped, as she leaned against the shower wall. Soaping her arm, she saw the spiral of bruises moving up each arm. Each ankle wore the same marks.

She shuddered. It hadn’t been a dream after all.


Deep in the bottom of the pond, where even snapping turtles were afraid to go, the creature disgorged the juice from the human female. His mate opened her mating cavity, letting him inject it into her, then wrapping her tentacles around him as his cock sank into her. With the juice of the female inside of her, perhaps this time her eggs would become viable…..


Masturbation for Master

I was close.

I was soooo close…and it was 11-15 or 20 or 25…the clock was ticking and I was sooo slow to heat up…I was wet and horny from talking to you on the phone…but I just couldn’t quite …get there..

And then I was in a room with someone…blindfolded…being steadily fucked with a vibe, being told once I came, once I was wet and shaking and vulnerable…then I’d get it… an assfucking, rough and hard, while having my mouth used…

made to serve

made to cum

made to swallow

made to just take it, whore…

and I started to shake…fear…lust…and when I came?

It was with my entire body.

I shook and squirted and came apart…you saw the evidence of it…

It was one of *the* most powerful orgasms that I’ve had in a long while.  I’m not sure of the why of it, or the how of it…i just totally came apart.

I came so hard I was almost crying.

I fell asleep…like falling over a cliff…just *boom* and I was out, right after I texted you the evidence of that powerful explosion.



Written as an O report; posted per Master’s order

Bad Girl

this got darker with every revision…maybe you shouldn’t eat while reading it. It’s short but sometimes I even gross myself out. Even while I’m turning us all on… 🙂  ~nilla~



“No. No more. I’m tired of it.”

“I just…”

“That’s the entirety of your issue.”


“I. I this…I that…Frankly, slut, *I* don’t give a damn.”


“No. No more buts either. You’ve become very ego-centric. This is not a good slut scenario, when YOU come before me. When it’s all about you? We’re out of balance.”

“Wait! What are you…oh..oh gawd…Sir…that’s…oh…mflfhlf…”

“An apple a day keeps the sluts mouth shut. You wanted fruit salad. My fruit salad. I’m going to make you fruit salad.”


“Banana’s. I usually like them on my cereal…but this will work.”


“I know, it’s a big one isn’t it? Don’t lose that apple now. Well, actually you can’t, can you, with that strip of duct tape over it. That was pretty smart of me, eh? Yes, good girl. Nod. Yes. Now, let’s see.  I think I’m out of good fruit, since you ate it all….but you know what I thought of? No? You can add fruit to a regular salad and it adds to the flavor. So…speaking of ‘buts’…you’re in for a surprise, slut!”


“I can’t make out what you’re saying…you like being fucked by a banana? I have another one in the freezer if you get too hot. Those are the only two things I could find…you really did eat up all the fruit. Later I’ll take that frozen banana and give your cunt a nice cold fruit fuck.”

“IN the mean time, I had to do a quick change…you know…since we’re out of fruit and all. But what did I discover while rummaging in the fridge? Why, I found this Italian cucumber. They get so big, don’t they? Why, I’m guessing I’ll only get half of it up your ass…but we won’t have to worry about it getting lost up there, since it’s so very long…my goodness, my greedy little whore…you’re eyes are so big just now.  hahahaha…Well, let me unwrap this sucker. Er…fucker. You won’t be sucking on it. Yet.”


“You know what they say, slut. First in the butt, then bon appetite for you!”


Devious, Delightful, Dominant

He says these things to me…they kind of pop out of the blue, you know how “they” do it. Oh, pardon my lack of capitalization there… “They”…. 🙂

I was talking to Him about a spoon I’d seen someplace, had thought about getting, and then decided not to. We were outside at Starbucks, and His eyes did that….shift-change, from vanilla “date” to wicked Dom.

He shakes His head slowly, keeping eye contact. I cannot look away, though that look makes my breath hitch in my throat. I want to drop my eyes, I want to squirm and look away…but I  can not. He compels me without a word to hold this electric connection with Him.

“No, nilla,” He says, that…that thing glowing in His eyes growing sharper, more intense. There is this tiny, nasty smile blooming at the corner of His mouth. I know it well.

“Why, we’ve only explored about a third of the potential of the pink brush.”

He lets that hang there between us for a moment, and I flash back to the last time He used that fucking tool of ass destruction on me. The first second when I feel nothing—and the next when I feel like it’s melded to my flesh–and the next when the pain radiates out as if a detonation had occurred. The gasps as I desperately sought to bring air back into my lungs. There’s a shockwave kind of thing where there is the strike, the inhalation, the sound, and then the sudden bloom of  “OMYFUCKINGGAWD”…

And I think, there on the deck at Starbucks, “OHMYFUCKINGGAWD”….how could He not have explored that fucking thing in all it’s fullness…how could there be more?

He’s watching me, the predator watching His prey, soaking in every hitched breath, the dilating of my eyes, the open-close-open of my lips as I try to frame a response.

In all honesty?

I have no idea what I said. Or if I said anything at all. Maybe just I sat there…you know, like a fucking carp, opening and closing my mouth, trying (and failing) for rational thought.

Eventually He continues.

“No, nilla, I don’t need a wooden spoon. I still have much to explore with that brush.”

I blink, and blood rushes to my cheeks, my heart races as if I’d been running. Leaning back in His chair,  He laughs softly, wickedly, delighted at the mental mess He’s made of me, without even a touch.



HNT Pick me…

“High Summer” is the phrase I use at this time of year to describe the incredible rush  that one feels whenever venturing outside. All the signs are there that we’re falling headlong towards autumn. The natural world is working frenetically to finish growing every last fruit and veggie until first frost. The treetops are noticeably tinged with the first hint of red.  Already, most of the transient robins are gone from my area, and geese are gathering in the newly-shorn meadow. Outside my window, crickets are chirruping, desperate for a mate, humming madly from sunset to dawn. All of the northern hemisphere, it seems, is gearing up; the days are visibly shorter, and despite the warmth of the next few days, the evenings are cool.

In this time of full fruits and harvest I offer the fullness of who I am to my Master. He is the one that fills me, feeds me, nurtures me, honing me down to my purest slut self. I’m full, and ripe, and ready.

Pick this, Master.

Pick me.


The Package (4)

He was an asshole.

Unequivocally, unreservedly, an asshole.

The project that she’d given weeks to, gone. He’d sat through the presentation, her boss almost salivating as Drake Emerson crossed one calf over the opposing knee, elbow propped on the table, one finger pressed against his lips. There was a whisper of  a smile there, as he watched her explaining the ad campaign, her enthusiasm visible in her every move. She was wondering if her boss was going to offer a lap dance to Emerson;  he was that obsequious. At the end of her fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes that represented close to two hundred hours of effort, Emerson had tapped his lip.

She’d stood there, a smile on her face, counting the taps. One. Two. Three.

And then he shook his head, destroyed her  career with nine little words.

“No, that’s not what I’m looking for, sweetie.”

She blinked. Her boss frowned.

“Delia…” He began. Something volatile erupted inside of her.

“I’m not your “sweetie”.  Perhaps you could be so kind as to explain exactly what approach you were hoping for, since this one somehow falls short? I utilized all the thoughts you gave me in our initial meeting–”

His voice, still amused, cut through her speech.

“I changed my mind. It seems a bit juvenile, doesn’t it?”

“You wanted to appeal to a younger demographic.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to market to two-year olds.”

Her back teeth ground down so hard she thought she’d crack a molar. She was not going to let him shred her work without a fight. Her boss looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Fuck him. Fuck them all!  Her voice, however, was calm, measured, and meant to cut like broken glass.

“I can only create the images from what you give me. Perhaps if you’d been clearer. Or perhaps you are simply more juvenile than we both thought. They are your ideas, Mr. Emerson.”

She slapped her hand against the easel, knocking her presentation board to the floor, scooped up her laptop and turned on her heel, in one fluid motion. She had to get out of here before she burst into tears. She was angry, hurt. She knew clients changed their minds, it happened all the time. Delia had always taken that sort of thing in stride. Until today. Until her dragon had flown off without a bye-your-leave, until she had been left feeling bereft.

And alone.

She strode down the corridor, then almost threw her laptop onto her desk. She thought about slamming the door and locking it. Instead, she grabbed her purse, and left.

Somehow she’d gotten down to the street, no clear recollection of pushing buttons, waiting for the elevator while watching the conference room door. When it started to open, she abandoned her wait and bolted for the stairs. The sun beat down on her head, and the wash of tears blinded her.

“Breathe. It’s not the end of the world you know. One presentation in a career filled with highlights.” She took a breath, calming herself.

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

No. It couldn’t be him.

She whirled.

“You are an asshole!”

Delia hadn’t expected that to pop out first. He looked at her steadily, then threw back his head and roared out a laugh.

“See? This is what I like about you, Ms. Brennan. You’re not afraid to stand up for yourself. It’s refreshing, actually. Come, let’s walk.”

Taking her arm, he began walking down the street. Bemused, she allowed her feet to move along with him.


He paused, looking down at her. She might have refused, but truth was, she’d been too upset to even have coffee after her dragon had flown off, and then too nervous to even think of eating once she’d gotten to work.



“Why? You made it pretty clear that you hated my work.”

“I made it clear that I wasn’t a fan of that approach, once I saw how it played out. Your work was fine. And if you’d stayed in the conference room, you would have heard me say the same to your boss. Frankly, I wonder why you stay there. He’s a rather annoying fellow.”

She laughed. She didn’t want to, but it was the truth.

“I thought he was going to offer you a lap dance.”

“I’d have taken him up on it.”

She blinked.


He guffawed. Bent in half, palms on his thighs, he let his whole body laugh. She frowned. What the fuck?

“No…not him..” he paused, laughing harder at the expression on her face. “you!” he managed to get out before laughing again.

She punched him. Hard, right in the shoulder. A car pulled up at the sidewalk. A man got out, came around the front, opened the back door, smiling.

He pushed at her.

“In…” he managed. He’d wound down to rubbing his belly, then his shoulder.

“and Ow! vicious bitch. Marty, keep an eye on this one. She might hurt me.”

“I’m happy to keep my eyes on her, Sir. A pretty package. I’m guessing you deserved that.”

“No one takes care of me anymore.” He sighed dramatically, sliding into the limo after Delia.

She didn’t ask where they were going. As if sensing that she needed a moment, Marty and Drake continued their banter. She was looking out the window, trying to see where she’d lost control and wound up here, in Drake Emerson’s limo, fercrissakes. It wasn’t long before they pulled up in front of another building, before the door was opened, before Marty took her hand and helped her out of the vehicle.

He leaned close to her for a moment.

“Don’t let him bamboozle you, girl. He has a fierce reputation–but he’s a good man.”

“Don’t you go smearing my rep,” Drake replied, sliding out of the limo. “You’re going to destroy all my street cred when you tell people that. I’m a dirty rotten bastard.”

“Yes SIR!”  Marty snapped a quick salute, which managed to be sarcastic rather than subservient. She laughed. This was so far removed from her idea of how the rich interacted with their staff.

“This way, Ms. Brennan.”

In moments he’d whisked her into the building. Not a hotel, as she’d assumed. The doorman opened the door, palming the bill that he’d been slipped. Striding across the lobby, he bypassed the row of elevators. Through a set of double doors, three more doors awaited. Withdrawing a key from his pocket, he opened the furthest door, revealing another elevator door. This too opened with his key. Once again he took her arm, guiding her inside.

“You have your own elevator.”

“I designed the building that way. Each of the top three floors have a private egress.”

“Convenient,” she murmured, trying to quell the nerves that rose almost as fast as the sleek box they were in. She was alone. With Drake Emerson.

The door opened to a simple foyer. Where she had expected cold stainless steel and hard glass, there was warm and homey bead-board.

“I grew up in Vermont. I like the country farm feel.” He shrugged.

“It’s good. It’s better than good. It’s an…oasis, I guess. Totally unexpected. She moved away from him, looking around. If she hadn’t known that she was 25 floors up, she’d have sworn that she was in a shabby chic Vermont home. The soft chintz couch, covered in overblown pink and mauve roses was dated, to be sure, but beckoned one to sit, to pick up one of the Down East magazines, and read. A hand-knit blanket was thrown carelessly over the back, rumpled as if he’d just gotten up from there. The fireplace was also rose, the bricks old, likely reclaimed. On the mantle, a collection of family photo’s smiled back at her. She picked up one, obviously him as a teen, holding a bushel of apples, while a little girl hugged him around his waist.

“My sister, LG. She was seven, I was 16. She was supposed to help pick apples, but she was too busy dancing around the trees.”

Delia smiled at that image. He looked carefree, his hair longer than he wore it now, a long fetlock of bangs almost hanging into his eyes. Her eyes moved to an older couple, sitting on the front steps of a porch, her head on his shoulder. Reaching around her, he took the picture, tapping the glass.

“House has been in the family for over a hundred years. It came to Mom through her parents, and so on. They’re still there, still working in the garden. I go home every September to help around the house, get things ready for winter. They refuse to be snow birds, thought I bought them a home in the Florida Keys.”

He shook his head, smiling down at the picture in his hands before replacing it on the mantle.

“Come, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

Tugging her hand, he pulled her through the living area, into another space, with a piano and drum set, and wide windows to look out at the city below. The space could have been so cold. So raw. Instead, it was homey and friendly and welcoming.

“Wait…” she tugged at his hand.

“Wait? For what?”


“Ah. Going to look through my medicine chest for condoms?”

She blinked. “Actually, I need to pee.”

He laughed.

“I like you Delia.”

“I’m thrilled.”

Her tone was droll.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he led her down a hallway lined with photographs of the northeast. She recognized Coney Island, Mount Washington, and the apple orchard which must be on the family property. Her bladder would not allow her to linger to look at the ocean crashing against a rocky shore, a photo of Plymouth rock, or the snow-capped peaks that were unfamiliar to her. They stepped into what must be his bedroom. The four-poster bed was beautiful, the dressers obviously antique.

There was a small fireplace in here, but her entire attention was drawn to the goblet on the mantle. A crystal dragon twined around the bowl, it’s sapphire eyes glowing in the midday sun that poured into the room. She froze, despite Drake’s arm moving her forward, when the creature winked at her.