The Countdown Begins

Dateline: Thanksgiving evening

The house is cleaned up, the dishes are washed, pies and other foodstuffs have been divvied up. Things are back in their proper places and the house is poised for the sounds of young children to begin the exuberant task of “decking the halls”. I am happily weary as this day of Thanksgiving winds down. Truly this was one of the best days, ever.

Yet lurking in the back corners of my mind, the sound of a clock ticking down.

This brings a quick smile to my lips, a faint tingle to my pussy, a quick indrawn breath as the words boing around inside my head.

Date with Master.

Date with Master.

Date with Master.

Oh, did you feel that? A shiver. Quick, lightning quick it was.  The thought that dances in and out of my head–Big Red.

Kinda like poking your tongue into a cavity. NO! OUch! Don’t…but inevitably, that pokey tongue heads back there…and back there…and back there.

Big Fucking Red. *shiver*

And all these other, associative thoughts:





Fucked brainless.

New shoes.

So many intertwined thoughts. Feelings. Needs. Desires pushing themselves to the forefront of my brain. “Pick me! Pick me! I’m your biggest need. No I am!” I tell you it’s like a frigging chorus.

And wrapped through it all, a thin but present ribbon, is fear.

Freaky, eh? I’m not “afraid” of Him. I trust Him implicitly. He holds my life in His hands, so…ya. I do trust Him to not harm me. To not push beyond the boundaries of reasonability. (whatever the fuck that means!)  But fear of the pain, mostly. Not Him inflicting it.


It’s fear of my receiving it. Of “handling it” appropriately. Not being a wuss. Or a weenie (I’m not, just for the record!).  Of being there and what rational, clear-thinking woman goes into a room with a man who is going to beat the snot out of her?

Well. Dammit.

This kind of woman. (points to self)

And this whole discussion is weird. Coz yanno…it just is. And some of it..most of it, perhaps ALL of it when you come down to it, is because it’s been MONTHS since our last playtime.

That’s IT!

I’m out of “pain practice”!!

Because really? You all know I’m a painslut. I like to be hurt. More—I need to be hurt. I need it sexually, I need it mentally. It breaks down my barriers, gives me release (again, sexually and mentally) and it makes me…i dunno…clean I guess. Maybe clean isn’t all of it either. Empty. He empties me of pent-up drek, and leaves me tethered back on terra firma, drained of all the bullshit that life throws at me and I store up like a hoarder of all things bullshit.


(that’s a pretty good analogy but it makes me laugh, too. A hoarder of all things bullshit…that’s a good one!)

His beatings release that in me. There are some tears…not many. I LOATHE that kind of crying (but I’m so sentimental/emo that I’ll cry when I read things on Facebook or some commercials on tv, or something tender my kids say–but those are different tears). Mostly I grunt, groan, moan…and *blush*…call my Master a mean Asshole/Bastard/Fucking Asshole. 🙂 (it makes Him laugh)

And when the release is occurring, as the gasps and moans are clearing my drek, there comes another epiphanal moment.


Subspace is pretty fuckin’ awesome too! Well worth the price of admission. Flying. Soaring. The feeling of being full of power–and utterly powerless.

And alive–so fucking, amazingly, alive.

Buuuuuut….between here and there. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it?  (for all of us, likely, right?)

It’s the getting there that brings those nerves to the fore. I *like* pain…but it also ….welllllll… it hurts, dammit! One must get through those first few blows, start to ride the adrenaline, the endorphins before all the good stuff kicks in. Once I’m over that first sharp smack, I’m good. I might fight or tense up for the next one, or the next…chanting “relax, breathe” through each blow…but eventually there is a total unclenching. The pain is there, oh hell yes. But suddenly it’s manageable and rideable and oh yes yesyesyes I’m frigging flying.

His words resonate in my head.

“This will be the most painful playdate you’ve ever experienced.”

There’s been a few tough ones, to be sure. Good tough. The last playdate was almost all pleasure. I loved it, who doesn’t like an overload of pleasure, right? But I craved (missed) the pain too. He was recovering from an injury and gave me what He could.

But I wanted more.


Craven whore that I am, I wanted to be beat to a pulp. I wanted to be savaged, bitten, hit, marked, used. There have been playdates in the past where the following week is a dead-blur to me, all I can do is get up out of bed and move through my day as best as possible.

And I like it.

You know, I’ll take whatever Master-time I can get. I’ll take whatever He gives me. I want it, need it, crave it. He’s created this need in me, fostered it, developed it, whetted my appetite for it. But there is no script, no playbook. Our time together flows from one whim of His to the next.

Will He use the brush, the cane, my shoe? No way to know. Only the sharp smack of some implement on my flesh, my yelp, the sudden spark and heat of that impact on my skin. When the time comes for us to part, for me to open that door, to leave Him, it is with regret that it is over. How could it be over? The time goes so quickly, when the countdown to a meeting goes so slowly. Not fair.

So, for now I plan to savor the moments between now and then, to be happy and accepting and fun and giggly and…His.

Finding “Happy”

Today I’m getting my happy on…I guess I’m feeling pretty thankful for the many blessings in my life. Now, I’ve always, my entire life, hated Thanksgiving.

I know, I know. But –shrugs–there ya go. I felt (still feel) that we need to take stock of our blessings *regularly* and not just annually. The food was always out of proportion to the actual “being thankful for family and friends”part–usually with so many leftovers that the fridge barely had enough room. Perhaps that sounds ungrateful, but for a long time I felt it was yet another holiday geared to excess.

This is a different year for me. I have a family that I treasure, I have taken more time to regularly  “give thanks” throughout this year and I’m really happy with how my life is. Yes. I’m friggin’ happy, and proud to say it. 🙂

Mine isn’t a perfect life (if yours is, do share your secrets!)–the wife and I had a *major* blow-out argument just last week, and you know that Master is frequently the butt of some of my snark. But we get through those times, right? The hard times make the good times shine a bit brighter. And maybe that seems kind of “Pollyanna” of me,  but so what? It isn’t “bad” to be happy with my life!  You know, by focusing on the positives I have turned my mindset around from being a total pessimist, to a more balanced viewpoint. I call myself an “optimistic pessimist” these days. And blogging helped.

I for sure don’t come here just to write about the bad things. Why the fuck would you all come back if all I ever did was crab about my kids, my workload, my issues with my family? It would be boring as shit, right?  And that led me down another thought-path.

I was thinking about the impressions that we as bloggers make. You read my posts, and (hopefully) leave here smiling. Master and I have good times even in our face time. And I write it as if it happened slow-mo…and sometimes looking back it kind of feels that way from my perspective, as if the two of us are encased in a time bubble that stops the world from moving while we are together.

The reality is that most of our face times are only about an hour long. I have a drive to get to Him, I have a teenager to fetch, and a drive back to home. He has his own commitments to attend to.  Neither of us has oodles of free time. And I admit–nearly all the reason we haven’t had play time since late summer has been my fault. We both have lives outside of our kink, despite how much we love one another and want that play time, our commitments must come first. I have a complicated vanilla life between my kids and my business and my job. As does He. And as I was commenting to Jz about this regarding her post today (here) I realized how very, extremely lucky I am in my Dom.

We didn’t sit down and hammer out an ironclad contract to begin. We talked, and listened, and shared. We got to know each other really well before we met. He still chides me for meeting Him in the first place, reminds me that if I *ever* meet another Dom like that again He will kill me. 🙂 I have reassured Him that He is my only Dom, there won’t be another for me, ever.  But that’s another story for another day.

The thing is, we understand one another without having to get down to the tiniest of details. No, Master, I won’t give you my credit card numbers (He hasn’t asked).  No, nilla, I won’t move you into My home (I haven’t asked). We just know that…we’re an odd couple, I guess. *laughing* He told me early on that He got off on the control when we are together, when He can enjoy the fruits of His choices. (to butt plug or not to butt plug…that is the question)…so if He denies me an orgasm, or makes me wear nipple clamps while writing? That’s for *my* pleasure, not His.

Where was I going with this….*pauses, takes a sip of tea*

OH, right, my “happy”.


The thing is, there are always things to look at. *pauses to look at children arguing in the next room, sighs.* I could for sure come here and tell you about all the wee snarks that fill my days. But instead I choose to come here and be happy. This is my “happy place”. This is even, one might say, my “find my blessings” place. Where I can recount a tale of a face-to-face with Master, one of those micro-visits that leave me feeling that happy bliss-glow. Okay, it’s not a fuck-party. Okay, it’s not a beat-nilla’s-ass-purple date. But it’s time for us to be together. For me to see my Dom face to face, and remember that this thing we do comes in many forms.

This one works for me, yanno?

And to be sure, in the weeks ahead, there will be a date. There will be fucking. There will be horrid little stories of what we do together behind closed doors, and there will be equally  horrid tales that come out of my horrid little brain as a result of our playtime. Until then, I’ll enjoy our short one-hour visits, the teasing, the sex-talk, the vanilla sharing. I’ll enjoy Him walking me to the car and pinching me as I hurry to put the key in the ignition. 🙂

I’ll find my happy in any way I can, no matter the brevity. It’s not the minutes on the clock that matter, really, it’s what we do during those minutes that make an impact.

So to speak. 🙂

I’m happy. Not perfect, but perfectly happy.

I hope you are, too.





We had face-time last night.

So yummy.

So appreciative when He makes time for me. I know He pushed and pulled His schedule to accommodate me, so nice since I may not have time in the upcoming weekend.

I came in with my knitting bag. I know.  So fucking vanilla. But deadlines loom and I have several “must finish” projects on my docket. So, I knit. I am not *certain* but I think He likes it.

And the conversation was so very unvanilla.

So very Domly.

So very, very naughty. All about Big Red. All about Mr. Belt. About the two of them having a very important meeting …at my ass.  About the Wall, and our playtime and the words that sent a shiver of nerves through me.

“This is going to be a very painful playtime for you, nilla.”

Nerves, yes. And a fast, super-intense lust as well. I was wet, I could feel my pussy leaking as He looked at me. He looked apologetic for a moment. And then spoiled it by grinning. He has almost as much fun in the “set up” to a playdate, as He does during the actual play part. He is the Master of the mindfuck!

To change the topic from my ass, and it’s fate,  I had to ask the question.

I’d sent Him a text, you see. A question for when we meet behind closed doors.

“Master…what is are the odds of getting my tits caned on our playdate?”

He never replied.

Several texts went back and forth after that, all unrelated, but he never answered that one. So as we drink our tea, as He tells me some of the plans for my ass, as I knit, I bring it up.


He sits up a bit, shoots me this look. I swear I have no idea how He does it. One minute semi-vanilla talk, the next His face is pure Dom. It’s…compelling. His gaze sharpens (no, that’s not just a plot device in a story. It really happens.) as He gives me the look, as He answers slowly.

“yes, nilla?”

I clear my throat, shift a bit in my seat.

“Uhm…I sent You a text earlier today and You didn’t answer it. I was …ummm…wondering…if…..” and my voice trails off.

“If? And which text would that be?”

And I *know* He knows. Just like that.

I feel the blush. I hide behind my hair and my knitting.

“You know…the one…”

Again I can’t make myself say it.

“I can text it again.”

“Oh no. I want you to say it.”

My eyes close, open. Maybe I said a prayer in my head in that short moment.

“Master….” Not a whine. Just nervous voice. He really wants me to say it? Like, out loud?

His eyes are all over my face. I feel like how I feel when He has put me on the Wall during playtime. Exposed. Excited. Overcome. Defenseless. Turned on. Embarrassed.

“Say. It.” His voice isn’t loud. It’s whip-snap sharp though. Clearly an order, and no longer a tease.

I try hard to not mutter. I know He has a bad ear. Fail.


“What? What did you say, slut?”

Yes. Right there in Starbucks, He plays with me. Turns up the heat, makes me feel the burn. I clear my throat, take a sip of tea, drop my now-still hands into my lap, clutching my needles. I stutter. (how embarrassing.)

“The text. Caning. My….tits…The odds.”

“Oh, yes, I recall seeing something about that. You wondered what the odds were of it happening? Tell me, nilla, why the sudden interest? A porno you saw? A story you read? What was the catalyst for this sudden …interest?”

He needs to know it all.  Inside I sigh. How to explain to Him that my mind works in perverted ways and that I came up with it all on my own. I might have seen it on a porno, had I watched one. I may have read it in a story…had I read one. But no. This all popped into my head one masturbation night.

I did send that report to Him promptly, so He had some awareness. He files things away, then wants to know more.

“I don’t know, Master. I really don’t. I may have seen it or read it. But…the truth is –it’s a big masturbation fantasy for me.”

“Aaah. A fantasy. Well, you know I’m committed to making your fantasies reality for you, slut.” He says the word as if He’s tasting something delectable and savory.

He pauses, and His eyes go all golden. He’s my very own Lion, though there is NO leash that could control Him.

“I’d say, slut, that there is a 100% probability of that happening, then. The thing is…hmmm…caning is terribly painful. You remember that I do it on your thighs and calves.”

“Yes Master. I remember. It hurts like fuck-all.”

“Yes. Even more so on the tits. I wonder if there should be a balance for the pain.”

You never know what you set in motion when you proposition a Dom. Never. I swallow hard before I ask the inevitable question.

“Uhmmm…what …kind…of counterbalance, Master?”

I’m worried that He won’t answer.

I’m equally worried that He will.

“Oh, you know. Big Red up your ass. Maybe.”

He pauses again.

“Then again, I kind of want Big Red to be the star of the show. Nope.”

He purses His lips, His eyes boring into mine. I swear I see the flames burning behind there. I am almost scorched from the heat, the weight of the intensity. I’m falling into Him and I never, ever want to get up.

“I’m thinking…the new anal beads I got you. Quite a step up from the other ones I used to use. Quite a step. Prep for Big Red.”

As He speaks, my mind races…anal beads? New ones? Why, He never said word one about that! He draws my attention back to what He is saying.

“Yes, those would definitely take your mind and split the tension between your aching asshole, and your aching tits. Good idea, nilla.”

Yes. Good idea, indeed.

Apparently I’m full of them.

(and soon to be ‘full’ of other things, too.)




He’s been texting and teasing me about Big Red ever since last Sunday, when I first learned of the New Butt Plug and his presence in Master’s arsenal.

It fills me with no little trepidation.

It rocks me with a wild lust.

Isn’t that fucking weird?


I’m scared of that fucking thing…yet I am (kinda, sorta) looking forward to His dominating me and making me take it. Scared, and turned on.

Not scared as in “He’ll do whatever He wants to me no matter if it will permanently harm me”–He is very careful with His belongings. Meticulous, even. But the teasing, the subtle torment He’s laved on me via text and phone calls? Oh, yes, yes, yes.

Major turn-on.

“I am so looking forward to fucking you while Big Red resides in your asshole.”

Just writing that, His words to me on Thursday via text, makes me shiver, makes my pussy quiver, turns my belly into hot wet jello.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read that particular text.

It’s so sadistic, so Dommy, so very much what I crave. Even without the big event happening, I’m already a nerved-up, turned-on slutty mess.  It can’t get much better than that as a set up.

Keep your fingers crossed, for a playdate is in the offing, hopefully in early December. It’s been a while, and I’m anticipating our playtime, even while I pause and shudder at the thought of Big Red.

You know.


(you’re a porn erotic writer, nilla. Say it.)

(oh myyy)

In my ass.

Broaching the tight (nervously tight) boundaries of my asshole. And staying there awhile. Being fucked in my pussy, while my ass is full.

The thing of so many of my masturbation fantasies, come to reality.

And then there’s the beating I need. That He has promised me. It seems we’ll come together at a crossroads of mutual need. He needs to beat someone–and this particular someone slut needs to be beaten.

It doesn’t get much better than that.


The Runaway

The doorbell rings once, twice, three times.



There is an annoyed tapping of a shoe on the floor of the porch. At last, the door is yanked open. The man who opens it looks frazzled. His hair stands on end as if he has run his fingers through it multiple times.

“Are you Will Redbud?”

He pauses before answering, looks at the woman standing, so obviously impatient, at his door. She is short, somewhat round. Her red hair is blowing in the fitful wind. A quick flick of her hand tucks a wayward strand behind her ear. He watches as the wind pushes it off again. She spears him with a quelling look from annoyed blue eyes.

“Well? Are you? And if not, could you point out which house is his? But really I believe I …”


“Well at least he got that right.”


She turns quickly, shaking out her long denim skirt. Stomps her foot and spurts out a quick, “dammit, stop that!”

His gaze follows hers.

“Oh.” He responds, cautious. “That. Yes. Well, do come in, will you. I just started some coffee.”

“Tea. I am not a fan of coffee, Mr. Redbud.”

She tugs the blowing hair, twirls it around her finger a moment, tucks it behind her ear again.

“I have some tea somewhere. Please…” His voice trails off but she catches the scowl, the subtle shake of his head aimed towards her left hip.  “You might want to stop doing that…” He points at her hand raising to smooth her hair yet again. “He’s rather attracted to that.”

“Yes,” she says, her voice husky for a minute. Clearing her throat she continues.

“He was certain that  this was the correct address. He told me all sorts of tales about you, I’m afraid. Not all of them were..ah…”

She pauses as if looking for a word. He thinks she may be blushing a bit. He turns, leading the way to the kitchen. She snaps in a quick, audible breath as they walk down a hallway towards the back of the house. He gestures her to a chair at the wooden table. It is sturdy, well made, with thick squared-off legs. As she sits a bit gingerly,  he digs through the cabinets. After a moment that feels somehow longer, she continues.

“…..flattering. And then he spun an absolutely outrageous tale.”

Turning to look at her, a tin of tea in his hand, his gaze sharpens.

“He did? Do tell me all about it.”

She doesn’t look at him, but around the kitchen. It’s homey, warm and obviously the center of the house. The view out the wide window over the sink features a bird feeder with a dozen goldfinches clustered around, cheeping loudly as they fight for their turn at the seed stations. She smiled at them. He catches her look, smiling himself.

“Yes, they just started coming back,” he said, pointing at the birds. There was a sudden flurry of feathers, and the rather forlorn swinging of the now-empty feeder. “Ah well, that was nice while it lasted.”

Her lips thin into a tight line.

“You don’t have a cat.”

It was a statement.  He gave a sheepish smile, shaking his head.

“No. I don’t.”

The teapot boils, sings. He turns away, pours the steaming water into a thick white mug.

“So, you say he told you a wild tale. Care to share it? You’ve come a ways, I think. You could sit and enjoy your tea.”

Her eyes dart around the room, a bit nervous. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she raises her eyes, looks at him.

“Parts of this are….”

“Yes.” He interrupted. “I understand the source. Tell me anyway.”

An unexpected giggle made him look again. She was pretty when she laughed. He enjoyed her blush.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Redbud.”

“Not really. But one does have a reputation…”

She took a deep breath.

“I’m going to tell this exactly as he told me. I warn you–outrageous.”

He spun a chair around, rested his forearms across the back. Shooting him one last look, she took a deep breath and began.

Her car was broken, a wisp of steam pouring from the hood. Popping the lever, she hopped out, kicked the tire in a fit of pique.

“He did not say a fit of pique.”

“Mr. Redbud.”

“Trust me. I know him well. He’s disgusting and distasteful, but he’d never in a million years say “fit of pique”.”

She sighed, rolled her eyes.

“Okay, so I’m adding some details. Roll with it Mr. Redbud.”

Sending him what she hoped was a quelling glare over the rim of her glasses, she continued, her hands wrapped around the warmth of the mug.

Her head was under the hood, the hissing of steam loud enough to muffle the sound of the truck that pulled up behind her. Suddenly there was a presence beside her. She jumped as his voice startled her.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“NO! Gosh, you startled me! It’s…just overheated. Once it stops steaming I can add some water to the radiator and it will be fine.”

His hands rest on the front edge of the car, his right hand inches from her left. She noted the grease under his nails, the thickness of his fingers.  Something tickled her ankle and she kicked it away.

But whatever it was, it persisted. She was about to turn around and see if there was a snake, but the large hand patted hers, then covered it lightly. 

“Don’t you worry about a thing, little lady. We’ll get you up and running in no time. Always ready to help a lady in distress.”

Whatever was running up her thigh was distressing. It tickled at…

“I’m not sure I should go on, Mr. Redbud.”

He blinked.

“Yes. You definitely should continue.”

She sighed. Rolled her eyes again. Squirmed a bit in her seat.

“Very well.”

…at her panties now. The touch was teasing, tentative almost. She wondered why she’d felt compelled to wear a skirt today. She always wore jeans. But it had been hot and the idea of a cool breeze on her legs as she drove had been compelling. A breeze stirred the hem that fell to her ankles, or she assumed it was a breeze. The tickle at her panties had her very aware that the air was still, hot, and humid.

“You know, I think that might be too many details. He’s usually pretty terse in his stories. Almost cut and dried. They have a recurrent theme. I’m pretty familiar since …well…you know.” He gave a wee shrug as if to say ‘I have no idea how that thing wound up here of all places.’

“I appreciate a bit of background with my stories, so…” her voice trailed off. “It helps to set the mood.”

“Mars, Venus.”

“Yes, I think so. May I continue? Although obviously you know where this is heading.”

To his credit, he didn’t snicker, grin, or make any sort of foolish remark. She watched for it, but he held onto his faintly curious expression. With a brief and silent prayer to the powers that be for patience, she continued.

“Of course her panties were soon pushed aside. One part of her brain wondered why she didn’t run, didn’t leap back into the relative safety of her car. Her fingers were curled onto the fiberglass edge of the car. Footsteps came up behind her, as the man returned. He paused for a moment, then stepped beside her, saying nothing. His silence however, was pointed.

“Wait. Pointed? What the hell does that mean?”

“Its called foreshadowing. He knows you see? About the….about…”

He waved a hand, shaking his head, frowning slightly. She knew he’d write this story differently, but hell, that’s what perspective was all about.

“There was a faint moan at the first penetration. The mechanic carefully dropped a cloth over the dull silver knob, turning it slowly. The hiss of steam grew louder, almost covering her gasp as her pussy and ass were breached simultaneously. He seemed to ignore the ripples  moving beneath her cotton shirt, the sudden jutting of tits. The rising gout of steam puffed from the hot radiator, bathing the two of them in a cloud of overheated air. The heat from between her thighs was even more intense. 

For a moment his hand covered hers, patting gently as she began making a steady ‘ung ung ung’ sound. His voice seemed to come from far away, or perhaps he was merely whispering.

“Try not to cum.”


“Wait…that’s it?”

“Well,” she was blushing now, having said so much out loud to a virtual stranger.

“There must be more. She comes. I know she does. They always do.”

Her blush deepened, and she rose in a rush, almost knocking over the mug which still had a bit of warm liquid in it. She noted that there was a sparrow sitting on the feeder outside, and in a flashing flurry of feathers it was gone. The feeder swung quickly to and fro. Taking up the mug, she took a hasty gulp, coughed, and muttered.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Grabbing her keys, she twitched her skirt back into place, and took off down the hall to the front door. His hand on the jamb stopped her headlong rush. His voice was a faint whisper against the hair on her neck.

“Did you cum?”

Her only response was a quick in-drawn breath, that may have been a sob. Yanking on the door, she scurried to her car.

“Like all the hounds of hell were after her,” said the voice behind him, the chuckle all too apparent.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

“I can hear you smirking. Welcome home.”

There was no answer to the grudging comment, just the sound of the backdoor opening and closing. He figured it was time to take the bird feeder back down before there were no more songbirds in the neighborhood, and frankly, getting feathers out of the tub drain was a pain in the ass.


(i realize, re-reading this, that if you are a new reader you won’t ‘get’ some of the cross references between W. Redbud and the woman…go here and here and here…just to get started on who, exactly, is the hidden star of this sordid little tale. 🙂 ~nilla~)



A Serious Topic

I came to Kink late in life, just prior to rolling into my 50th year. For all of us the journey seems the same…we have these fantasies, and we feel tremendous guilt about them.

What is wrong with us. I imagine it is much the same from the Top view, a feeling of guilt about *wanting* to hit, to own, to pervert someone.

And then in our perverted fashion, sneaking around on the internet in search of the very thing that is our deepest perversion–for me it was rape fantasy–. I discovered porn videos on the interwebs. OMG. Yes, I was that green. I really hadn’t given much thought to porn movies. I knew there were books, and there were all the different nudie magazines…but what I saw left damp puddles on my chair.

And the need grew more and more intense.

As did the guilt.

And then, somehow it happens. You find the magic key that unlocks the Kingdom of Kink. It spreads before you like a dark, gleaming world. Blogs. Stories. Fantasy play. REAL LIFE KINK.

And suddenly you belong. You may not be a full-on player now, or even a while from your discovery…but you feel a sense of “aaaah”… because it is truly terrifying to believe that one is alone in a sea of dark and dirty fantasy. There is a feeling of liberation, and perhaps blissful joy to know that there are people out there who enjoy the same (or harsher) fantasies that you, yourself, have been fantasizing about for…months? years? your whole life? That kind of joy is liberating. We’re okay. We’re just different from the vanilla mainstream, but we still have a place.

And oh, the kinks there are!

There are too many kinds  to get into them all. Maybe even some that I’ve never heard of . It happens from time to time that I find some new-to-me thing while researching one of my sordid little tales…and it’s an “ahah” moment.  Some things gross me out. Needle play. Ugh. Poop play. Nu-uh. Diapers. Yet,  the one overwhelming “protocol” is to not be judgy of others. Those who like to be pissed upon, those who like to drink pee. Those who like multiple insertions, or pain, or humiliation…each to their own kink. It may not be *my* way, nor yours, but if it works for *them*…who the fuck cares, right?

But the one kink that is NOT a kink?

Involving children.

I am friendly with a former reader here who writes to me once a month about his fetish and fetish play. And it’s been fine to read about it until just recently, when he told me that “kids sometimes see me in my chastity device” and sitting on the potty.

I called him on it, (you know I would).

He did try to clarify that he’s a middle-aged guy and kids in their 20’s he calls ‘kids’ or ‘children’…okay,  I get that. But then he makes an immediate reference to a preteen coming over to the place where his play happens.

 (Be aware, I’m not saying *HE* is involving children, but someone in the kink scene he is playing in is. He is the submissive male.)

Sex play, even just the visual, is child abuse. There is no gray area here.

A pre-teen  is a kid between 9 and 12.

Which makes this sort of “play” not play.

Which makes it child abuse.

It is sexual perversion to a level that is NOT acceptable. I have kids that age. Do I want to fantasize about them seeing some guy locked in a chastity device? Or sitting on a potty?

No. Fucking. Way.

If you have kids, you know they barge in on moms and dads in the bathroom all the fucking time.

But having them see a stranger? And not by accident, but by design?


If your kink involves children then you are a sick whack job and deserve harsh punishment. Yeah. That’s judgemental of me. Too fucking bad. (I have steam pouring out my ears as I write this. This topic makes me very Viking nilla mad.)

Here is the number one kink “rule”.

Kink is consensual.

Consensual between two (or more) ADULT partners, who agree to whatever their perversions are…or agree to give up control to one or more.

Children are not able to give that sort of consent.

Children are not–should not ever–be a part of a kink scene.

Children who are have been sexually assaulted, even if they have not been touched physically.

That is not “kink”.

That is abuse.



HNT ~ Big Red

Yes, it sends tremors of fear through me.

And fear is a powerful  turn-on for me.

He teases me mercilessly about this…

and it makes me nervous

and it turns me on

no folks,

Ms. Pussy is not dead.

She drools every time He texts about this, and every time I look at this picture. Big Red. A fearful “intruder”…and a powerful aphrodisiac.



Big Red

Worry not, Big Red. I’ll be waiting,wearing my best pearls. I’ll be waiting, BR,  albeit nervously, for our December date. (And Big Red? I won’t really cry much if your GPS sends you to Boise instead of central New England….just sayin’…)




“naughty nilla” sez Master

He did buy me a sandwich and a cuppa.

He did make His schedule work out so that we had some face time.

He did make me laugh after a rotten day, did make me giggle at some of His comments, and did make me blush when He talked about Big Red.

He gave me “the look” when I made an attempt to tweak one of His man-nipples as He was talking about something very vanilla.

And paused.

(rut-roe…I know that look)

“You know, nilla, I’m going to shove Big Red up your ass so far that your eyes will change color–they’ll be purple.”

(smart Master for remembering in the heat of the moment that blue and red make purple, don’t you think?) (wonder how much hell I’ll catch for this comment, hmmm? LOL…walking on the precipice, Master, just pushing that mystical envelope ever closer to the edge…which is well off in the distance, right??!)

And good damn golly…. once I thought about that, it was a sobering comment. One that certainly made me blink.

And withdraw the offending nilla-hand back over to my side of the table. And wrap it around my tea-cup rather quickly.

I think they call that a judicious retreat or some such, right? *laughing*

And then He said some crazy-assed thing. You know –about belts and butt plugs and that He remembers every smartass comment I make. That there will be a day of reckoning. And I will pay dearly with my ass.

Of course I responded in appropriate “good slut” fashion.

I kept my mouth shut.


A frigging miracle, right?

But I did take out my phone, took this picture under the table:

finger(it’s a wee bit dark, but if you look carefully, that’s my left hand. And yanno. My left middle finger. And then? I sent it to Him, while smiling.

Yeah. While we were still sitting at the table at Starbucks.

He laughed. Laughed, and then gave me another of those Dom-looks. The kind that sends a shiver right up my spine, and make me wet, simultaneously.

“This is bloggable, nilla. You are so naughty. It’s time your fan base realized exactly what I have to put up with during one of these visits.”

He puts on His “affronted Master” face, but His eyes are twinkling. Which of course sent me off in gales of hysterical laughter.

He reminded me with just a few words of His prior comment.

“Master remembers. Every. Thing.

We have tentative plans for a December play day. I’m thinking maybe…December 2016 would work for me.

Whadda ya think, Master?

*laughing that naughty nilla laugh*





“Sit. No, right there on the toilet.”

“Sir?” (her voice quivers nervously. she has a real hang-up about pissing when others can hear it)

“You need to pee. I need a blowjob. We’ll take care of both things at the same time. Get comfortable, I think it could take some time before I feel like cumming.”

(crimson-faced, she stares up at Him. she knows that He can hold off an orgasm for a long while, longer than she could hold the urgent need of her bladder)


“There are no ‘but’s’ little slut. Only the one sitting on the potty. Such a pretty little thing you are, all little-girl faced and needing to pee.”

(the blush deepens, spreads)

“One other thing. If you fart, I’m going to pull my cock out of your mouth and slap your face. Farting in front of your Sir is inappropriate, wouldn’t you say? No pooping unless you ask, first. Do you need to pop a poo from your butt?”

(horrified, she has no inkling of how to answer. who didn’t sometimes poop a bit when they peed? how could she ask such a humiliating thing?)


(how she wanted to drop her eyes, stare at His shoes, have the floor open up and swallow her whole)

“i’m not sure, Sir. Maybe?”

“Maybe there’s poo in your ass? Should we check first?”

“NO! Sir, please no…”

(His laugh is loud and deeply amused. If one could die of embarrassment, she knew she’d be six-foot-under by now)

“Alright, little slut. One more thing.”

(He reaches between her slightly opened thighs and probes her pussy. A shiver runs through her at the familiar touch even as shame, and the brilliant heat of embarrassment floods her.)

“As I thought.”

(He wipes His hand across her tits, slicking them with her own pussy juice.)

“Shall we begin?”

(she opens her mouth to receive His cock, fighting the need to pee, even as she savors the flavor of Him on her tongue.)

(He leans into her, pushing His shaft into her mouth deeply. And reaching the handle of the faucet, turns the water on.)