Fairy Slutmother

Lucinda was a good witch. Long ago she’d majored at Coven College in the art of spellcasting. And now, 30  years later, her spells were the envy of many. Almost always, things worked out just as they should. Okay, there was that one incident with the cat and the dog, but they’d worked it out eventually.  So, the cat wasn’t her familiar anymore, whatever. When the Grand Poohbah of Witches, Warlock Michael had met with her, explaining a curious, yet burgeoning need in the fae world,  she’d thought at the time that it was a lateral move in her career. Yet,  he had thought that it was a role she was perfectly suited for. Becoming a fairy slutmother had become so fulfilling that she’d not accepted any other role ever since.   It seemed she had a real knack for hearing the heart-calls of men and women seeking an ‘alternate’ state.

The demands on her time were incredible. Sluts wanting Masters, Masters wanting sluts, Dommes seeking the perfect outfit–calls came to her constantly. It seemed that she rarely had a moment to herself. Stress wasn’t a thing most fairy god parents talked about, but she knew they all felt it.  Add to that being overtired by the new trend of having Sex Con’s ? She was definitely feeling the pressure. Her specialty was Needy Sluts; they all seemed to hold a special place in her heart, once she heard their lamentations. And all of them were pretty deserving of finding the One Big D, that one who would most match their needs.  Finding the perfect mate, or mates,  in this lifestyle was a constant challenge. Of course, she offered no guarantees; it was her job to get the connection, and *theirs* to keep it going.  Her mission last month, Slut B, for instance, had been one of her best matches this year. Of course, Bea and her new Dom would have to work out the finer details of their arrangement, which both seemed quite inclined to do. They were but one of the couples that she had touched with her magic fae wand. Smiling smugly to herself, she let her wings flutter for a moment; this work was tough, and she was simply exhausted. 

Preoccupied with thoughts of her latest group of “matched and pending” sluts, Lucinda wasn’t paying full attention to where she was flying. A sudden rush of air gave her seconds of warning before she went spiraling through the air. Her hat fell and tumbled into the trees far below, her wand whipped away in a shower of magical sparkles, which fell on the houses far below, permeating roofs and infecting everyone in its path to earth. Ohhhhnooooo, Lucinda moaned, as she herself twirled in the wind, falling, falling….fallllllinnnnng. Her last conscious words as she spiraled towards the ground was “fuuuuuuccckiinng bats…..”

Her wand bounced upon the rooftop of a large green house, skittered down the shingles, tipped off the edge of the gutter, and being filled with magickal abilities, fairly leapt to the house next door.  Zigging and zagging, it bounced off eaves, window sills, door lintels, front porches, and sidewalks before coming to rest in a pile of leaves, just inches away from an unconscious Lucinda, who had fallen, by pure happenstance, into the deep pile under the large maple tree. In the darkness, if one was looking carefully, ziggles and zazzles of magical fireworks lit up the neighborhood as the Fairy Slutmother lay deep in the cushioning leaves, unaware.

*******        *******        *********         *********         *********

At  Seven Erstwhile Way, Charlie Paxton felt his cock, age 83, spring to life as if he were twenty. Mrs. Paxton, busy cleaning up the kitchen from supper, felt the sudden surge in her pussy as if she’d been shocked. Hands still holding her washcloth and a pan, her legs clamped tightly together at the sudden upwelling of need that she’d not felt in decades. At 82, she was as shocked by the heat making her nether regions quiver, and raising her nipples. They poked insistently against her bra.  Consumed by the plethora of sensations, she didn’t hear Charlie stalk into the kitchen. Hot,  soapy water was flung in every direction as he twirled her away from the sink, his gnarled fingers grabbing at her sagging boobs with something akin to desperation. Her mouth fused to his, growls and grunts the only sounds in the room as the couple locked into each others arms. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Later, she would find her support bra in the sink with her saute pan and her panties half under the fridge. But for now, it was pure, raw sexual need that clawed at them.

Over on Maple Street, Chrissy Cinqfoil was tucking her youngest son into bed. Again. Some days she swore all she did was the same task over. And over. And over again. Being a stay at home  mom was not restful. Was not glamorous. Was exhausting. Each night for the last month she’d fallen into bed, fallen into a slumber that never seemed to be quite enough.  Her husband hadn’t been any more interested in sex than she had. He worked hard each day, then came home and helped her fight the good fight. Three kids under age six took their toll on a relationship, but she had to admit he was amazing with them.  Amazing with her, too.

Their sex life–she laughed darkly to herself as she slipped into the hallway, hoping that their son would finally stay asleep, and in bed. What sex life? They’d no more than fallen into bed then they were overcome by the visceral need for sleep.

She didn’t see the sparkles that slid through the attic floor, couldn’t see them break into two distinct arrows. Didn’t know that one arrow was  hovering as the second winged down to the living room where Jake sat, idly flicking through the channels. At some signal, both arrows darted into their victims.

One moment, she stood in the hallway, waiting to see if JC had really fallen asleep. The next she was reeling with an upwelling of sex-need so intense it brought her to her knees. Forehead to the floor, hands clasping her aching pussy through her yoga pants, she whimpered. In moments, Jake’s sock-covered toes were standing in front of her, his fingers wrapped into her ponytail, pulling her upright.

His engorged shaft thrust from his dress slacks like an angry sword. Precum oozed from the hole in the center of the swollen hood, a long silver trail that hung in space a moment before touching the floor between his dark socks.

She didn’t even think before tugging herself forward against his hand holding her hair. She felt the pull on her scalp, but  her tongue dove into that small dot on her floor; her open mouth captured the trailing string until her lips were around the bulbous tip and sucking his semen into her mouth.

The door behind them remained shut, and some vague remembrance of parenthood kept them quiet, even as his hips shoved forward and buried the length of his cock in her throat. A gag, a gasp, and then he was out again, rubbing the wet silky tip of his cock along her cheek, teasing at her grasping mouth. He took a step back, she crawled a step forward. He stuffed her throat again, then pulled back, repeating the back-stepping until they were in front of their bedroom door.

“Whore, come into our room. Crawl like the needy bitch you are.”

His voice was quiet and dark. Ages it had been since he had last spoken so to her, and the sudden sodden crotch of her pants had her squirming–in embarrassment and raw need.

She crawled.

He directed her over the chest at the end of their bed, her hands up in the air as he tugged the old sweatshirt, and tee beneath it, up and over her head. He tugged the bra up and off as well, his cock throbbing as she gasped.  He was brutal in his need to possess, to hurt. His beast ran rampant, enjoying the three red scratches up her neck from the clasp of her bra. Reaching around her, he pinched her enlarged nipples until she whimpered and tried to tug away.

“Puss is so wet I can smell you, wanton cunt. Smell the seeping of your hole, wetting itself for my cock. Tell me you want me to fuck your empty cunt. Tell me!”

Her pussy throbbed. Her clit lurched a little at his tone, as it always had when they’d played in the past. The meaner he was, the more she oozed.

“My empty pussy needs your cock, Master.”

“Your cunt. Say cunt.”

“My…cunt…wants your cock.”

“Your cunt wants to be pounded by my cock?”

“My cunt needs to be pounded by your cock, Master.”

“As you wish, princess.”

Suiting actions to words, he lifted her hips, presenting her sweet round bottom, her dripping cunt to his reach. He slid inside, a taking, a raw and deep need to possess her from inside and out raging through him. It wasn’t long before he could feel her squirting, the clench of her pussy his undoing. Fingers digging into her softly rounded hips, he drove deep as his balls tightened, then spewed their thick load into her belly.

Young CJ would have a baby sister come summer.


On Maple Avenue, Laura and Diane were sharing a bottle of champagne and celebrating a major coup. Their young bakery would be making the wedding cake for the Mayor’s daughter.  They had been friends for years, and both loved to bake. Going into business in this day and age was a risk, but with their husbands support, they had made a go of it.

“This will get us in the papers, for sure!”

“Best free advertising ever!”

They toasted, the clink of their glasses a clear chime.  At that moment, magical sparkles danced through the window and into the raised glasses. They sipped, and eyes widened, nearly simultaneously.

Leaping from the table, they nearly fell into each other’s embrace, tongues tangling and tasting of Dom.




There was the wet sound of tongue upon sloppy pussy, the slither of sheets, the squeak of a mattress as bodies writhed upon it.





Fingers caressed, plucked, pinched. Lips met, sucked, teeth nibbled, then bit. Cunts were filled with digits, orgasms tugged relentlessly from each other’s bodies as sexual need poured through their veins.


The trail of clothing would have led their spouses to the bedroom, where the two lay entangled. Thankfully their husbands were spending the evening together, watching the World Series at the local sports bar.

They never spoke of the incident, but there were many long heated looks in the bake shop that had nothing to do with what was cooking in the oven. And perhaps someday, when the timing was right, a hand might caress an ass under an apron, or tug a ponytail, or flick across a rounded tit.



Lucinda came awake slowly. Her arm hurt where a branch was poking it, and there were leaves scratching her thigh. Why were leaves even on her thigh? Groggy, totally disoriented, she shook herself. She was in one piece, but laying flat on her back…in a leaf pile. A single bat whirled around her head. Funny, but the fucking rat with wings seemed to be…laughing. 

“bumbleberry,” she muttered, and her wand fairly flew into her hand. “Oh damn. Discharged.”

AWOL discharges were heavily frowned upon. With a deep sigh she began uttering a charm to call them back. Sitting up, head throbbing, her wand arm fell to her side. Fuck it. It was time to go home and get some rest. With a groan, she rose, rubbing her rump.

The bat flew past her head, chittering it’s rancid little laugh. 

“An it harm none. And it harm none. Harm none.” she muttered under her breath. No one was more surprised than she, when the bat shimmered to the ground in front of her–and turned out to be Michael himself. 

“Come along, wench, you’ve done enough for tonight.” 

If she happened to note a particularly large bulge under his robe, she was certainly far too polite to mention it while they were flying. His hand fisted in her proper slutmother bun, she smiled as they flew home.


Leaning her forehead on the front wall of the shower, she let the needle-bright slash of water spray across her shoulders.


Utterly, completely, unequivocally, she was spent, worn down to a nubbin from the work week. Her boss was a tyrant, his secretary was a cunt from Hell, her coworkers were all scurrying around trying to protect their own asses, and she wanted nothing more than to be quit of the lot of them.

She yawned, shimmying her shoulders under the heated massage. So good, to be beaten like this, the heat uncoiling muscles that felt more like iron rods lodged in her back. She could almost doze off.

The bathroom fogged around her, the mist warm and soothing. The little something tickling around her ankle was cool, likely a bit of water just drooling down her thigh. She jiggled her foot a bit, moving the coolness away.

So warm.

Nestled in the corner, she breathed in slowly, the way her yoga teacher taught. The way she didn’t all week unless she was in class. She shivered as another cooler drop slid around her knee.

But it was going…up.

The anomaly made her rouse a bit. By then it was far too late, of course.

There was a faint slurp and pop from between her feet. Opening her eyes, she saw a gelatinous thing slithering out of the drain. One semi-solid tentacle was wrapped loosely around her ankle, around her calf, and was even now creeping up her thigh.

Her scream was loud, but drowned out by the beating of water. It had been a key selling point of the spiffy, brand new-acoustically attenuated condo she owned, that sound would not carry to her neighbors. Pushing away from the wall, she tried to pull free. Though it looked like jello, it was strong as steel cables. As she attempted to pull away, the thing tightened around her leg; she was unable to loosen its grip at all.

“Nooooo…” she moaned. It paused a moment, as if thinking about what she had said, then a faint hiss that sounded like ‘yesssss’ came from the center of the glob.

More tentacles were growing out of the bulging mass. It was disgusting, red and blue and purple and green, twisting in the air and reaching for her other legs, slapping and sticking to her belly. She tried pushing it off, thinking the hot water would loosen it. It was useless- in moments her hands, wrists, arms were covered in wriggling tentacles.

She’d read of this sort of thing. Read and looked away, embarrassed, though there was no one in the condo but her. Read and been turned on, her cunt heating as she read of these “alien invasions” of a sick, perverted kind.

Hell, what was the internet for if not for reading and watching porn privately?

But that was fantasy.


Maybe she was asleep.  Maybe this was all a sick dream, and she had nodded off in the shower after all. The sudden probing against her pussy and anus proved that she was, very much, awake.

“Oh NO!” she yelped, trying in earnest to get away. She struggled, panting with the effort. Suddenly the bathroom was too hot. Too humid. The stuffing of her bottom-most holes was swift and uncaring. In moments she was quivering and cumming. What the hell? The jolt of sex-need was intense, violent. Her nipples flared to life, throbbing with an ache that was inexplicable, and echoed in her clit. Her head fell back as she groaned through another orgasm. She could feel her pussy juice squirting down her leg, mixing with the water. Her ass clenched, as the thing withdrew, then jutted back into her.

Jeezuz…it felt like the biggest shit in her life as it left her body…the relief was incredible, albeit short-lived. Somewhere in the jolting twining stuffing, she felt her legs quiver and give out, as another jettison of cum came from her pussy. The …thing…must have something on it, in it, that was making this happen. Never in her life had she been so sexually taut, so explosively used and taken.

It needed to stop.

She was shaking, quivering with the burning in pussy and ass, the raw desire pulsing through her blood. She was on fire from the inside out.  Another orgasm threatened to explode her…her eyes rolled up in her head, her teeth clamped so hard her jaw throbbed, and her pussy squeezed down on the coiling thing inside of her.


It was killing her with the heat, with the orgasms.

Shaking as though palsied, she reached out, past the one eye staring at her, as she knelt in the bottom of the tub where she’d fallen.  Hot. Too. Fucking. Hot. Instinct took over, then. She needed to cool down. Fast. Trembling, she flicked off the hot water.

She screamed as the cold hit her. From between her splayed knees came a squealing hiss. Sensations pummelled her, as the thing pulled out and away from her body. She felt as if she were melting. No…as if it was melting from her body. Her rectum was voided, a thin drizzle of fluids falling onto the tub between her knees, a mix of thing-juice and shit, only to be washed away with the cold spray.

In moments, it was gone, as if it had never been there.

Shaking, she turned off the water, and flopped out of the tub. Shaking, she wrapped a towel around her dripping, chilled body, and crawled into her bedroom. Wet, naked, she eased into her bed, covering herself tightly and slept.


The Realtor walked the young couple through the condo, touting its virtues.

“Priced to sell, this unit will go fast,” she smiled at the two newlyweds, who gawked at every modern feature she showed them. “The owner is moving across the country, as I understand it, and she wants to be shed of this last entanglement here.”

They nodded, taking in the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the ocean which sparkled far below.

“And here’s another benefit: this unit is practically soundproofed, so you’ll never hear your neighbors having a party, and they won’t hear yours!” Her overly perky voice turned just a bit sly as she headed into the bathroom. The wife oohed and aahed over the glass and chrome wonder.

“Yes, the tub is warm, the water supply is constant; you’ll never run out of hot water…it’s an amazing experience…”


She muttered to herself as she shuffle papers. Didn’t matter that everyone else was gone for the night, home to family, out with friends. Some to watch the World Series on tv, some off to a run.

Maybe some were having sex.

She wished she was having sex. With some hot stud. Maybe Michael from bookkeeping. He was a sexy guy, tall, built, and what hinted at an impressive package under his khakis. She sighed, reached for her antacid pills, banged her phone with her elbow, and in catching it, managed to drop almost half her papers to the floor.

“Well FUCK!” 

She swiveled back in her chair, surveying the damage. Squatting on the floor trying to find the order of the fucking things, she let out an impatient sigh when the lights went out.


She squatted, waiting.


Was that a footstep? Isn’t this the scene where the girl gets offed, in a horror flick, because she doesn’t beat feet and get out of there in a hurry?

There was a noise behind her. Before she could move, something came over her head. In seconds, she was tugged up to her feet, shoved into a chair. Her chair, from the lingering warmth under her butt. Struggling, flailing out with her hands, trying to get the thing off her head, she felt the cuff slap on her left wrist, her wrist tugged behind her back, behind the support of the chair. It only took a moment for her right wrist to be cuffed too. She yelled. Tried shaking her head to loosen her blindfold, nothing.

To her distress, she heard the unmistakable sound of duct tape being ripped.

“What are you doing? Stop! Let me go. NOW!”

The steady peel and rip of duct tape was the only sound.


No one came.

No one was there, in the building.

Except her.

And him.

She trembled. A few minutes ago she’d been dreaming of having sex with some one. And now she was being — well, she didn’t know what was happening. She hated the fearful tone in her voice as she pleaded with him to let her go.

Her ankle was caught, her leg hooked up and over the chair arm and wrapped with tape. Kicking out with her free foot, that too was caught. He held it under his arm as she struggled and whimpered and screamed. Her foot was freed.

He pulled off her shoe, and rubbed the sole of her foot over his pants. She felt the thick bulge pressing against her foot. Obviously her struggles were turning him on.

“You sick bastard.”

He laughed then, the first sound he’d made, as he secured her ankle over the opposite chair arm. She was open, vulnerable.

Her cunt lurched as his palm cupped her through her panty hose. His thumbnail rasped against the fabric, making a pleasant little hmmm against her sensitive flesh.

There was  a metallic click, then the cool rush of air on her pussy.


Though she twisted and writhed, in moments, her shirt had also been cut apart. His hands on her tits were rough, pinching and pulling on her soft skin. Grasping her nipples, she was tugged forward.


The tug on her nipples was almost too much to bear. She cried out, begging for him to stop.


His thumb slid into her slick cunt.

“Hurts? Very wet.”

She tried to place the voice, but the thumb in her pussy was distracting her. She didn’t want this. She…


More fingers inside her, wiggling insidiously, rubbing her sensitive folds, making her belly quiver. She would not cum. She would not cum. She would not…

The hum of a motor startled her, even more so when something pushed hard against her pussy.

Her head fell back, helpless at the assault on her senses. Too much, too good, too terrible. Whimpers and moans came faster, as her cunt clenched on the probing fingers, as the buzzing vibe did it’s best to coax a reaction from her.

She was going to cum. She was so close. So close.

Yet, abruptly, the vibe was pulled away, the fingers left her pussy.

“oh, nooooo…” she moaned.

His cock filled her. Hard, thick, deep up into her belly, he drove hard enough to push her chair back. And back again. Until it fetched up against some immovable object.

“Going to fill you…”

She moaned.

“With my baby-makers…”

She moaned.

“Fill you with those swimmers…”

Oh god she didn’t want..she shuddered…

“Fill your belly with my baby…”

She came, hard, as his cock parried her every contraction, stabbing into her with rapier skill. Over and again he sheathed into her hot slickness, banging hard on the entrance to her innermost secret place.

“Going to push my seeds right up to your front door….

Her head rolled from side to side, her hands, still behind her, clenched into fists as the pleasure rolled through her. Fuck, fuck, fuck, her mind screamed, though what came from her mouth was more “ughn, ungh, ungh…”.

She swore she could feel the pulsing jettison of his semen into her body. His head leaned against hers as he shimmied his hips driving deeper into her, as if he could shoot his load straight through her.

How many times her body convulsed around him, she had no idea. She must have fainted.


She woke, forehead on her desk.

Blinking, yawning, she wondered why she was sleeping at work. Her papers…yet, looking around she saw them all neatly stacked on her desk. Her pussy throbbed, and she remembered, with a sudden rush, her dream. Her hand went to her blouse, but all her buttons were buttoned. In her dream “he” had cut them off, she recalled. Geezus. It was time to call it a night. The clock on her phone said “2:01 a.m.”  No wonder she’d fallen asleep!

She rose, then, and took a wobbly step. One shoe was off. Must’ve come off in my sleep, she mused, bending over to retrieve it from under her desk.

She felt the breeze on her pussy as she bent, and froze. Her hand reached up under her skirt. There was a large hole in her pantyhose. Maybe it had been there all day? The crotch of her panties were soaked.

“Fucking wet dream,” she muttered, but her heart raced. Quickly she gathered up her belongings and almost ran outside to her car.  Fumbling with the keys, she threw her purse on the passenger seat, and slid into the driver’s side. Moving to adjust the rear view, her hand touched the roll of silver duct tape hanging there.


A “Dear John” Letter

This was simply too amusing to NOT share with ya’ll…

I didn’t think I’d have time to write a blogpost today, and here is John, helping me out. 🙂 Hope you enjoy the chuckle…I sure did!

So, I open my email at lunch and see this:


I work for a company called Discover Media, acting on behalf of a casino client who like to advertise on your website.

I am interested in publishing a short article (around 300+ words) on your website, to stay live for a 12 month period.

We tailor each article to suit individual websites, and are able to provide the content if necessary and can ensure that it is unique, up to date and relevant to the theme of your website.

Alternatively if you feel more comfortable creating your own content, we would be more than happy to work with you creating a piece that works for both of us.

If you are interested please reply and we can discuss it further.

Best regards,


Now, I’ve been alternating from the Viking to just feeling pissy today. But this? This just amused the fuck out of me. Me, a sex blogger. Me, who writes sultry tales of BDSM fantasy–and shares my personal forays into this dark and lovely life we live…ad-hosting for a frigging casino? I’m sure–NOT!  So rather than letting the Viking out to play, rather than just *ignoring* the silly man…I decided to respond:

Dear John

(and oh, isn’t that funny. A “Dear John” letter…to John)
Have you *looked* at my blog? Hmmmm? C’mon, let’s be honest here. Who in their right mind would keep a post ‘live” for 12 months? Why not start your own blog?
And why, why, why, would a casino, a CASINO, man, want to advertise on *my* blog?
Which goes back to …have you READ my blog?
It’s a sex blog.
Specifically about BDSM sex.
50 shades of gray kind of sex.
*shaking my head*
John, John, John…tsk.  Next time check before you ask. Your client would shit a brick if you said “hell, yeah! Nilla will host your ad…and she’s writing PORN! Neat, eh?”
bye bye, John,

So—while I’m having a metza-metza kind of day? John will be having his tongue surgically removed from his throat after swallowing it.

That amuses me, somehow.

hmmm…perhaps the Viking is out to play after all….



Short, but Sweet

Monday night here–and you’re up eating Tuesday breakfast, I’ll bet. Oh, huge assumption there….when I actually have a global readership. Sorry. Well, it’s Tuesday morning *somewhere* after this publishes. 🙂

Master and nilla had a brief but oh-so-wonderful face time on Sunday. I craved Him. And you know…no–wait–you don’t know.

I had 4 days of half-orgasms.

In a row.

And NO orgasm for 13 days (I’ll get one tonight). I was (and kind of am though i’m getting used to it now) SUPER horny when we met. Touching Him, kissing His bearded face…all made me even more squirmy.

And I was…twitchy. Couldn’t sit still. Jiggling my leg. Tapping my fingers, rubbing my legs through my jeans, shifting in my seat. Days n days without orgasms and being kept in a near-constant state of “turned on” will do that to a needy gal.

I was a very needy gal.

I AM a very needy slut.

Tonight–in mere minutes after setting this to post on Tuesday in the midnight hours of the Northeast–I’ll be ‘pounding the pussy’ and having a ginormous orgasm.

Or falling asleep.



No fucking way.

I’m soooooo horny. Did I mention that up there? I am sure I did.

So, we’re standing at the counter at our newest coffee shop, and He comes up behind me. I lean my head back against His shoulder, just SO happy to be with Him…

My hair cascades between us, and creates a perfect shield. His hand slips up under my arm and He pinches the tender bit of skin just in front of my armpit, that tender bit right underneath there?


That hurt. And I stood there with suddenly erect posture, trying to look ‘normal’. Trying to look like the fucker was tickling me instead of pinching the fuck out of my under arm area.

And then He does tickle me.

So I’m giggly and trying to not moan…coz it fucking hurts.

So fucking good, that pain.

I wrote to Him later, when I told Him about the “bonus” half-O that I did to please Him (He said I was stupid, then laughed. I think that meant He enjoyed the idea of my self-torturing myself to please Him when He didn’t call for it…)…and confessed that I was )*( that close to cumming when He pinched me the third time. It was bitingly intense, a sharp hard hurt…and I felt my pussy clench and lurch…and was right there on the edge, throbbing clit and all.

I’m not sure how I managed to hold that orgasm back. But I didn’t volunteer for a half-o last night…I think we both knew that there’d be a major “oops” if I’d tried that one.

And the best part? Tonight (yes, your tonight, Tuesday)…I’ll get *another* orgasm…and if the Sox OR Bruins win Wednesday, I could get ANOTHER one.

I’m a lucky (bruised and horny) slut.



But–nilla never does memes….

I know, rest easy, pervy readers. Time…(ah, time)…has been fleeting quickly. Family obligations this weekend (and next) are insane just now, and…the leaves are falling. You know what that means…raking parties every day at my house. So–my time to write and amuse you all with dastardly sexy tales, is limited until Tuesday. To tied you over…oops, tide you over, (Freudian slip there!), here’s a vanilla meme from Fiona, and Sophia, and Wordwitch…and now, me.

The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?

No one. I hate talking on the phone. 

When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
Yes. I did it before I had wee babies, didn’t while I had them, and do it now that they’re older. I was paranoid that someone would try to steal them if I left them to put the cart away. 🙂

In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener?

Depends. In family, I’m usually yelling the loudest. In other situations? I try to avoid social situations. I’m a huge introvert.

Do you take compliments well?
I’ve learned to. It was verrrah hard until Master came into my life.


Are you an active person?
I’m always moving. I don’t sit much except in the late evening. I have recently started getting up 30 minutes early to walk.

If abandoned alone in the wilderness, do you survive?
Is there a 7-11 around? Which wilderness? Is it summer or winter? How long am I lost? I think there’s a story here….

Did you ever go to camp as a kid?
I went once. Wasn’t a fan. Now? I love camping.

What was your favorite game as a kid?
Whiffle ball.

A sexy person is pursuing you, but you know that he/she is married, would you? 
Am I single? (as in not with Master?) If I was with Master, no. I learnt my lesson there.  🙂

Are you judgmental?
Depends–if someone is being mean to a kid (even not my kid), then I’m going to judge them to be an asshole. But I try to give most people the benefit of the doubt. It’s an ongoing process for me, but mostly I accept people as they are. (remember, not a perfectionist!)

Do you like to pursue or be pursued?
Yes. (this is ww’s answer and it made me laugh out loud. Keeping it)

Use three words to describe yourself.
Creative. Loyal. Hardworking.

If you had to choose, would you rather be deaf or blind?
geezuz. I can’t choose. To never hear Beethoven again? To not see the brilliant contrast of snow on dark tree bark, the tender pink of apple blossoms? Oh No. I can’t choose.

Are you continuing your education? 
Life is *full* of opportunities for learning. I like to read and explore and find out “why”…

Do you know how to shoot a gun?
No. I don’t like guns. I prefer poison. 🙂

How often do you read books?
I have finished two books in the last 10 months. I tend to re-read favorites. I’m trying to read King’s The Dome…but time is not my friend. And I fall asleep when I read, so I use it as an insomnia buster.

Do you think more about the past, present or future?
I’ve lived the past, and try to NOT harken back to it unless the kiddo’s ask me something. I am very busy in the Now. The future is uncertain and I try to not plan (I used to *always* look ahead–and worked hard to stop that and be more now-centered).

What is your favorite children’s book?
So many. Are You My Mother. Goodnight Moon. Horton Hears a Who. The Lorax.

Where is your ideal house located?
Somewhere where I can get excellent internet and no neighbors. In the mountains. So I can smell that rich loamy smell when it rains, and see the deep hues of green. With a woodstove and off the grid (except for the wifi. I know, dreaming)

Boxers, briefs, thongs, panties or grannies?
Grannies under the jeans for work. All other times? Commando.

Last person you talked to?
the wife

Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth?

What are your keys on your keychain for?
House, car, wifes car, the clamshell that goes on top of the car during vacation, and my BFF’s house.

Where was the furthest place you traveled today?
To the City to meet with Master.

Where is your current pain?

The most annoying pain is the sciatic nerve in my ass. Seriously, I have a pain in my ass. *laughing*

Do you like mustard?

eeehh…well..mostly? No. Occasionally I will have a dab of it. But won’t seek it out.

Do you prefer to sleep or eat?

Sleep at this point. Unless I am stressed then I can’t sleep, so I eat.

Do you look like your mom or dad

My Dad. I have the shape of my mom’s eyes, but not her lovely face.


How long does it take you in the shower?
Depends on how long since my last one, what I have to do next, how cold it is, and time of day. (did you know showers could be *that* complicated?!)

What movie do you want to see right now?
the one where there is singing. And you can only see it on HBO. And I don’t have HBO. It’s a girl chorus thing. You know the one. (see, I don’t do movies much either–but I know every episode of NCIS)

What did you do for New Year’s?
Each year we choose a country, study it, and take traditions, games, and  foods  from it for our celebration. And I usually go to bed early but this year I saw the new year in. First time in 20 years.

What was the cause of your last accident?
like a real accident? I bang and bump myself all the time. I’m a serial klutz, always bruised from self-inflicted clumsyness. My last serious injury was breaking my ankle this spring. But my last accident was slicing my finger while cutting bread into slices.


And there you have it..some vanilla nilla stuff.

The Pains of Taking Master for Granted

Yanno, I’m the kind of girl who usually appreciates the things around her. I love the slant of sunlight through the golden leaves outside my window. I notice the sound of the birds passing overhead, a flock of geese winging their way south. I appreciate the bright blue of the sky as the gray clouds melt away.

But sometimes–I presume. And primarily?  It happens in my relationship with Master. (Ironically, I tend to NOT do so in my vanilla relationships…perhaps because I have little expectation that my needs will be met there, anyway? But back to Master….)

I try to not “read into” the fact that He doesn’t respond right away to emails or texts. I try not to presume that I’m being ‘ignored’. It’s easy for me to fall into the habit, you see. That, if I don’t get feedback, I slack off on doing a required task. As many of you have said…if they (the Big D’s) don’t give reward or punishment, what is the purpose of something? Where is the payoff? What is it to us?


Rereading that last paragraph–it  sounds like there is an “expectation”…

And I know–down deep inside,  that He will “feed” me, that He knows exactly what I need, and how to dole it out to fulfill me.

And I know that He is just as capable of putting me in a little compartment and forgetting me while He is off doing His other stuff.

And I–well–here’s the thing.

I’m an attention whore.

I think that in all honesty, we all kind of are. We want our Dominants to notice us. Are we being good and need a treat? Are we in trouble and need a hand to set us to rights? Are we being snarky and in need of correction?

I like to think I’m pretty low maintenance. I do like a text a few times a day to know that He is okay. And to check in. Not so much for attention as for connection. We can’t touch IRL most days…and the touch of a text has become a substitute for His hand brushing down my hair, or poking at me.

I take for granted that He will respond to me.

I take for granted that He will always be there…and sometimes get pissy if there is a long lag. Sometimes it is a pissyness born of an innate fear of losing Him. We are, after all, far apart, and I wouldn’t know right away if He was in an accident or injured…

That’s the love/caring part, for me at any rate. I do it with my vanilla family, too. Checking on them, checking in, reaching out. It’s what I do.

I connect.

And then there are those rules.

I have very few.

Ask permission before taking an Orgasm.

Send a morning and evening text.

Write a report of the Orgasm the next day, due sometime before bedtime (He’s lenient of this because my schedule is often crazy, but only to the extent of the hour it must be done–it is always due before the end of the next day…)

That’s pretty much it.

But then — I dunno. It’s not very flattering to say this, but I guess I figured…what the hell.

He doesn’t always reply to them (the O reports).

Maybe He’s not even *reading* them.

Why bother.



I said it out loud.

“Why bother…”

In fairness, sometimes I am forgetful. I live off my auxiliary brain, often (my large white board)…if it’s not on there, I may well forget. It’s the price I pay for juggling multiple jobs, multiple kids, multiple events.

But an O report has been part of our dynamic for forever.

“why bother”…

oh my.

Why, indeed.

This isn’t a vanilla relationship, where I get to pick and choose what I do and don’t do. I have to accept…to…submit…to doing as He says. While I’m not a slave, I’m definitely subservient to Him…and it’s always been that way.

So why balk now?




They all play a role. They all are a part of my internal dynamic. Despite being surrounded by people, I’m often very lonely. It’s been weeks since I managed get away time with Him, and I’m borrowing sadness from the future, when my son goes to college and I don’t have the excuse of being his taxi to arrange hook ups with Master.

Those face time events are really important to me. Necessary. And yes, I’m letting my tomorrow worries take away from my today happiness. *sigh*

If I’m submitting, then I’m giving Him all of me.

Then I’m going to do what He asks of me.

This — this need to give over to another, to hand Him my life and say “do with me what You will”–this was not a light, frivolous decision. I’d been dreaming of this for a year, before ever dabbling my toe in the water of submission.

He is perfect for me, even if He isn’t always perfect (He’ll smack me for that one!)…just as I believe that I’m perfect for Him, despite my lack of  being a perfect submissive.

You all know my stance on “perfection” anyway, right? There is no such critter. Perfection is a pipe dream, a seeking that it totally unattainable, and therefore, stupid. 🙂 Yes. Stupid to seek perfection. There is only the “perfection of now”–since we are all in a constant state of evolution and change. We experience, and we grow and adapt through those experiences.

Submission is not about perfection. It is about intent. It is about supplanting my wants for His. It is about…giving Him the all of me…even the not-so-pretty parts. The annoyance, the frustration, the fears I have. They’re just as much a part of me as the listening, creative, giggly slut.

I’ve learned a very valuable lesson at His direction last night. Following the rules is much better than the punishments He can create.

The text that He sent me was simple, direct and to the point.

Anal plug (the larger of the two that I have). Clothespins on my belly. Clamps on my nipples. Get as close to an orgasm without actually having one (and I’ve damn near perfected the timing on them, so it causes total wracking agony to stop…yet stop I do. I’m proud to say I’ve never had an “oops” and spilled over that fragile edge.)

I didn’t want to do it.

dreaded  doing it. The second night of a “half-orgasm” is so much worse than the first night. Add in an anal plug, which turns me on despite the discomfort, and all the other pain-points? And I’m torn between pain…and the pleasure of enduring it for Him. Ohmahgawd, the pain of taking Master for granted, in full, living Technicolor, writhing in my bed.

Add in a vibe on the clit?


It hurts.

It hurts so damn good. Pain, wrapped in pleasure. Desire, warring with the need to not get carried away. The need to “pay attention, slut”…”

And isn’t that the full lesson here?

I need to pay attention.

Because for real?

He does.

The Fun of Torture

This is just a short update.

I’ve got a writing assignment that takes precedence to all other blog posts because I will do allllll I can to avoid another night of punishment.


There was a 2nd night of punishment.

And I’m horny. And…a bit cranky. And so. Fucking. Turned. On.

By the control. By the attention (let’s face truth here…we sluts are attention whores, too…and when they give it, we love it). By the sheer meanness of the task.

And by not having an orgasm for TWO nights, despite playing with the pussy and comingsofuckingclosetothat…that…ooohhh…fuuuuucccckkkk.

I hate Him.

Okay, so I don’t really hate Him.

I just hate pulling the dildo out before I get to cum, leaving my body twisting and frustrated.

He sent me an email this morning, a response to my email of my half-O report (I’m learning…).

I find it hard to believe that it’s been that long between half Os for you – not that you fuck-up that much but because they’re such wonderful torture. Well, here’s to the next dozen – or so.

That’s a direct quote.

I’m so screwed. He loves this little …game?…of turn the slut on and watch her twirl in desperate need. And then deny.

If ever there was a reminder of the fact that we are SO not a vanilla couple? This is it.

And now, I’m off.

Well, not off…not getting off, to be sure….but I need to go do my assignment before He decides to …no. Not even looking down that dark and scary alleyway.

(see? tol’ ya I was smart (sometimes) !)