this is normally the sort of thing I might put on Dark Fantasies…but yanno…sometimes the dragons have a mind of their own…~nilla~

She shuddered as she heard footfalls coming down the hallway, the creak of the door opening. She wished she’d followed through on her first desire, that of a nice warm bubble bath, candles flickering, and an early bed. Damn her friends for suggesting a night out was the best way to get over her annoyance with Andy.

Damn her for her half-drunk boast that she could beat anyone in the bar at darts.

As the footsteps came closer, she closed her eyes and prayed.


“Andy is an asshole for breaking up with you.”

“I told you. He didn’t break up with me. He didn’t call, text or anything for 4 days. I am thinking of breaking up with him.”

They didn’t know, of course, that he was a Dom, that she was his slut. They didn’t know, nor would she tell them, that they had talked about this. Or rather, that he had talked, and she knelt at his feet and listened. He had told her that she was expected to deal with his absence, to be a good girl. They didn’t know that he was not a fan of pouting, or carrying on.

And definitely  not a fan of her anger or outrage.

She’d known he was going to be away on business. She’d known that he would mostly be out of contact. But she hadn’t known how hard it would be for him to be gone for so long, without a single, needed, craved, word.

“Neglectful bastard!”

Her two friends had shown up at her door unexpectedly. The tub was empty, the candles unlit. There went her quiet evening. She wanted to sit and sulk, pout and cry. They all but dragged her into her room, dug through her closet, tossing clothing with abandon. Outfits were examined, discussed, discarded. Finally pleased with the low-cut red tank with sparkly shoulder straps and the black skinny jeans, they finished the outfit off with a black silk shirt, buttoned just enough to show off the cleavage and red tank beneath.

“Pretty panties and a push-up bra to show off your assets–and who knows, you could score.”

“Revenge sex is the best,” nodded Vera.

“You two…I just want a bath and a good cry…”

“No crying over crummy boyfriends. Nope, trust me, you need out time. You want to be strutting your stuff and showing the world that you don’t give a fuck about that jerk.”

She sighed. She knew there was perhaps a nugget of truth in those words. And gods above, Lorrie had been through more boyfriends in a year than she had in a decade. Maybe there was something to what she said.

Already Lorrie was digging through her lingerie drawer, picking out black lace undies and matching bra. She tossed them at Maggie.

“Here, this’ll give you HUMUNGEOUS cleavage. Your girls will look fantastic bulging out of that.” She pointed to the red tank top. “You have the best tits, Mags. I’d be fucking jealous if I didn’t have the better ass.”

Maggie had to laugh. Lorrie was outrageous, sexy, sensual, the prototypical wild child. Knowing it was futile to argue with her, she began dressing, even as Vera sorted through her shoes.

“I don’t know if I want to kill you or kiss you,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror. She looked hot. Amazing what these two could do with her limited wardrobe. And Vera had done something sexy with her eyes, something smokey and languid, while Lorries cherry red lipstick gleamed on her mouth.

“I look like …”

“Stunning. Just short of whorish, if I do say so myself.” Lorrie fluffed her own hair, then grabbed her friends by the arm, steering them out the door.

“Let’s not waste all this gorgeous girl glam on your wallpaper–time to go out and get some honey.”


The bar was just that close to being a dive, a setting that perfectly matched their slut-like dressing. The beer was cold, the lighting, dim. They’d certainly been hit on multiple times; both of her friends grinding it out on the dance floor. A shadow fell across the table.

“Wanna dance?”

Her feet were killing her already. Having no desire to further punish them, she shook her head.


“Well,” she half drawled, feeling a curious itch. “I don’t know. I’m the best damned darts player you’ll  ever see. I’d hate to hurt your manly pride by giving you a bowl of whoop-ass.”

She had no idea where the sudden bravado came from, but looking at the bottles on the table, she had a suspicion that they were hops-borne.

“That so? Well, how’s about you prove that?”

She pushed away from the table, rising. Whoa. She was even more drunker now that she’d attempted to stand up. Was drunker even a word, she wondered? Blinking, she held onto the edge of the table, then smiled up at the guy who was gonna get trounced.

And trounce she did. Game one, over and done, won handily. He took it with good grace, buying her another beer. Challenged, she played another. And another. The faces blurred, but the guys surrounding her were cheering her on. They were surrounding her, and if she thought she occasionally felt a hand caressing her ass, she shrugged it off. She was in the zone.

A voice from behind her issued the bet.

“You win, you get to pick one of us to take home with you tonight. I win, I get to do whatever I want with you.”

In her inebriation, and growing hornyness, it sounded like a win-win to her.

“yup…you’re on.”

She turned, but her competitor’s face was a blur. He thrust out his hand, shook hers.

“Game on!”

Taking up her first dart she made a throw. This dart felt heavier than her first few had. Too much beer, she mused, as the dart nosed down and barely hit the board.

He threw, scoring in a double.

She threw, trying hard to figure out which of the two boards she was now seeing was the right one. Her throw was wide to the left, and she moaned.

He scored a bullseye.

When she felt her hand taken in his for the final handshake, she knew she’d done the inconceivable.

She’d lost.

“A pretty bracelet for the lady.”

He closed the cool metal around her wrist, making the cuff tight.

His words were tinged with dark meaning. She was tugged down the hallway to the bathrooms. They passed the woman’s room, and though she balked when they paused in front of the men’s room, he easily pulled her inside.

“You get to be the toilet mascot. Pretty slut.”

Did she know that voice? It was familiar, she thought. But there was a hum in her head. And a tingle in her pussy. Maybe he would fuck her. That’d teach her Sir, the bastard.  Ignoring her, going away like that. She had needs, she did.  Her nipples ached they were so hard. She was so fucking buzzed. Not enough drunk to not know she was in the boy’s room. Enough to not struggle when he pushed her into the handicapped bath stall and secured the other end of the handcuff on the security railing. She stared at it curiously, tugged it, turned a quizzical face to him. Wished she could see him, and  not with the blur and whirl of her besotted state. He was tall. Maybe handsome? She saw teeth, figured he was smiling. The sound of the cuff on the metal railing made her look down at her hand.


He pushed her to her knees, squatting, he tugged her tank top down, then pulled her tits free.


“You’re a fucking mess. Open your mouth.”

His cock filled her hot, drunk mouth. When she would have pulled away, his hands grabbed her hair, holding her steady. Gagging as his cock slid down the back of her throat, she tugged her wrist. Secured. Stuck. Her free hand flopped around, but he grabbed it, holding it as he took her mouth. Pulling away, he squirted his cum onto her face, her tits.

“Now, about that other hand,” he said, and pulling his belt from his pants, secured her hand to the other bar.

He walked out.


Her throat hurt. There was vomit now, joining the cum and piss on her clothing. Some really big dicks had slid between her lips, large enough to make her not only gag, but hurl. They’d laughed, even as they had dodged out of the way of her sputum. Several had come in and just pissed on her. She was cold, half-sober, and wanted to go home.

Footsteps were the harbingers of another round. She prayed he wouldn’t come down to this stall. There was a pause. Then the splash of piss into the urinal. Thank goodness. Her throat hurt. She needed to go  home.


An hour later, more blow jobs had made her throat raspy and raw, she cried softly. There was a split on the corner of her lips where two fucktards had tried to shove both their cocks into her mouth at the same time. She was cold. She stank of cum and piss and puke. She felt the drying crust on her skin, the itching making her wild.

She shuddered as she heard footfalls coming down the hallway, the creak of the door opening. She wished she’d followed through on her first desire, that of a nice warm bubble bath, candles flickering, followed by an early bed. Damn her friends for suggesting a night out was the best way to get over her pique with Andy.

Damn her for her half-drunk boast that she could beat anyone in the bar at darts.

As the footsteps came closer, she closed her eyes and prayed.

The door opened slowly.

He stood there, staring at her, a curious smile on his face.

“Little slut had enough? You’re a fucking mess. Let’s get you home now. I sent your friends on their way.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

She sniffed back tears as Andy unfastened her wrists, and taking a hunk of hair, tugged her to her feet.

“There’s a shower in the back. You’re not stinking up my car with your pissy self. Of course, you have to pay Fred for the use of it, but what’s another cock in your mouth, right?”

A long glide of a dark tear slid down her cheek. Mascara and liner had streaked her cheeks with black. His finger smeared one line, wrote across her soiled tits.

“Andy’s slut.”

The REAL HNT (Yes! It IS Thursday For Real!) aka Humiliation II

Before we get to that HNT Redux…

Master and I made up the day I posted my pity post. And He (as usual) was right. He did all the normal things He always does…all the reaction was mine. So lest you think He’s a badass…yes, He is…but He takes good care of His slut. Even when she’s in a “snit” as He called it.

Now that comment of Master’s sparked a last little flare of outrage. I mean, we were working it out, making up, clearing the air. But really?


Nilla doesn’t have “snits”…but I swallowed down my retort after that first “snit???” and have just sucked it up.

He keeps bringing it up, sets the scene of Him waiting for me at a new coffee-house He has discovered–including a cup of tea with no bag…just the string…which He ordered post-snit commentary when He knew I wasn’t coming. (I didn’t mention, did I, that I welched on seeing Him because I was so pissed and hurt? What an idiot I am sometimes. Now it has been 3 weeks I have seen Him. My stupid asshattery sometimes astonishes even me.)

The “snit-string” is a new and recurring theme. He made me go to the store tonight and purchase tea bags that have strings (the ones I use are stringless). I have to save the strings. They will appear at some later time as part of a correction. Not a punishment, but a way to change my thinking, He says.

He has managed to embarrass me, adding a fat dose of humiliation, by making me ask the check out kid (who looked like he was 12) what the return policy was on tea bags if I took the strings off –since I only wanted the strings.  I laughed it off as a joke, while the kid stared at me in bemusement.

It was hot…and humiliating. I mean, I left there red faced, knowing they would talk about the weird freaky lady after I left, who only wanted to buy tea bag strings.…yet doing as He had ordered had made my panties damp, too. Damn I hate that. Dang-it…I love it, too. Fucking quixotic creature!

He’s never done anything like that to me before. Not sure if I like it…but it sure drove His point home. Being a rude girl is never going to be a good thing.

And speaking of humiliation…you remember that I had to post pics of my titties with “Bronco’s” on them? That was the bet I’d made with Fiona, when I was full-on certain that my Patriots would rule the day. Turns out they (and I) rued the day they showed up at Mile High Stadium. Andddd……Turns out I forgot the FULL rules of the bet (honestly, I can’t remember shit these days…) I needed to put on my nipple clamps and jump around for 15 minutes THEN take the picture.

So I thank Fiona for letting me go for a week, and here, my dear, is the completed deal: clamps, a quarter-hour of jiggling (ouch…they hurt more when it’s this fucking cold, did you know that?)…and my “Bronco” message!

Here’s to the winning team…may your Superbowl dreams come true (but wait until NEXT year!)

torturetwoplease forgive the typo of putting my “d” backasswards! My eyeliner was running out and I didn’t have enough to correct it. The full text reads “Tortured by a Bronco’s fan”.


Yet another c-c-cold weather titty pic…dayam hasn’t it been cold almost everywhere (excepting you southern hemisphere peeps who have the opposite problem–extreme heat…thanks but I’ll take a warm snuggly blankie over a heat wave, anyday!)

I love that my flashlight overexposes my already pale skin…and gives a blue backwash as it fades into shadow…

Happy HNT…and if it helps at all…we’re almost at the mid-point of winter!



Neighbor (3)

He drank his coffee leaning against the counter in the kitchen, and looking at the house next door. There had yet to be any signs of life over there, not surprising since it was still early. He’d fallen right to sleep when he’d gotten back last night, despite the hard-on. Despite knowing that Tits New York was right next door and kissed like a — like he didn’t know what. Woke up as he usually did, 630 a.m. He spent some time figuring out how he’d handle seeing her. Tried to put away thoughts of merely handling her.

He met with moderate success on that score.

He’d been alone long enough to miss the joy of being married to a sex fiend. He and Diane had made their sexual preferences work in the city, and it worked even better in here at their country home. His wife, his sex slave, his toy, his passion, he had it all with her. They’d laughed, they’d teased, they’d played hard and rough and wild. She was half-nympho, he’d often said. He’d lost his love, his wife, when she died, but he’d also lost his playmate, the one who could anticipate his raw needs in a way that had taken years for them to get to.

He played, sure, but always in the city. Never with anyone local. All the local girls would expect a ring or a collar or both. He was just a player now, not in it for the long haul. He could go to the city and become Sir Bastard, maintain his image as a hard-ass Dominant, while keeping his vanilla life protected. He wouldn’t care all that much if people at home knew–he was who he was, after all. One didn’t become a dominant without wrestling with a few personal demons and dragons.

That tussle last night on Tits New York’s deck had created a flare of heat in him that reminded him that he’d sorely neglected that side of his life. He could suppress the immediate need for sex with a jerk-off in the shower. But the desire to dominate, to seduce and capture a submissive, to break her down to tears, and rebuild her through orgasms and pleasure while playing out a scene? There was no replacement for that to be found in his bathroom.

Tossing the last of his coffee into the sink, he rinsed it down, rinsed the mug, and made the decision. He’d let Tits settle in, and he’d spend the weekend in the city. Perhaps that space would even things out for the both of them.


“So what,” she said out loud. So what if there was no sign of the man who had left her a panting, wanton, needy woman? What was it to her where he was, anyway? She hadn’t come here for a man for goodness sake!

Taking yet another load of items from the back of the van, she paused, staring across the yard to where his windows glinted in the sun. His truck wasn’t visible from this side of the house. And she had no plans to go knocking on his door and kiss him brainless.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she carried the next load inside.


She slumped on the couch, head back, eyes closed. No sooner had she gotten the van emptied than the moving truck had arrived. Eight hours later, things were in her house, in their proper rooms if not the exact place she wanted. And she was wiped out.


That would be her first order of business. With a sigh, she found her purse and pulled out a granola bar. Looking at it distastefully, she opened it and gnawed away. A proper meal would have to wait until tomorrow, when she returned the van to the nearest metropolis, which of course wasn’t much of a metropolis at all. After that she’d pick up the car she’d ordered. Then she could begin the real task of settling into her new home, including a stop at the grocery store. Granola consumed, she trudged upstairs to take a shower. Out, dried, moisturized, she was ready to fall into another deep slumber.

She wouldn’t spend two seconds thinking about her neighbor and his incredible strong arms holding her down, the playing out of a long-time fantasy of being controlled, kissed deaf, dumb and blind.

Not for a minute would she remember the press of his body against hers, his bare chest pressing against her breasts, and the thick turgidity that nestled perfectly against her, like two mated puzzle pieces.

She fell asleep, hand to her belly, tingling.


He parked in the spare lot at the club. Hopefully Jim wouldn’t mind him spending the night flopped on one of the spare couches upstairs. Good friends didn’t need an invitation after all. The sky to the west looked foreboding, wind kicking up the flag streamers at Mason’s Acura dealership next door. The flags made a sound similar to a nine-tail as it whooshed towards its target, as well as the crisp, sharp snap it made upon impact. He grinned. OH yes, he definitely needed to be here. His fingers tingled at the thought of beating a lovely round bottom. Any round bottom.

Inside, the memory of hot green eyes floated.

He pushed that memory aside as he crossed the lot and headed inside.




Lest you think all is perfect and happy all the time..

..(.and after yesterdays sweet little Master and nilla post too,)  we had a fight.

Okay not a “fight”. But he annoyed me, teasing. He’s not an overly emotional guy. He holds his cards close to his chest. He is prone to bantering with me, and sometimes it feels mean to me. Not mean in a Dom way, just..I dunno. Uncaring. He’s not, but it *feels* that way to me. Don’t YOU want to feel wanted, and not just like an obligation that needs tending to?

I know it’s more than that for him, but it’s part of his teasing demeanor, and sometimes it annoys me. And I speak up about it and we fight about it.


He doesn’t “fight” he will tell you.

And that’s true.

He ignores.

He lets it blow over.

He calls it a snit, which totally pisses me off.

So fine, I’m having a snit, Master, because I have feelings and YOU HURT THEM.

So I will sit and stew…it’s been over 24 hours now.

And I’ve cried and thought mean things, and called him an asshole but he likes that.

But he won’t respond other than telling me to get over it.

He hasn’t changed, he’ll say, that all this emotion is all on me.

Why can’t he see that sometimes that is part of the problem?

A Jibe at Master — Payback’s a Bitch!

Last weekend we were anticipating snow here. It was starting as I drove home from work, talking to Him on the phone.

“Has it started down your way yet, Master?”

“OH, only about three, three and a half feet, nilla.”

“I didn’t ask how tall you were, Master. I asked how much snow you’d gotten.”

*dead silence*

I held my breath…

and then

He laughed.

Laughed like crazy.

“Good one, slut, verrrry good.”

He repeats the little exchange to me.

“You know that will cost you when next we meet behind closed doors.”

“Not if you forget.”

He repeats it back to me, again. A strategy I recognize as I do it myself. He’s locking that sucker into his long-term memory.

Additionally, there’s been a sudden upsurge in half-O’s, those nasty little fuck-gasms…where I can masturbate almost until I cum…

and then must stop.

On a fuckin’ dime.

No oops…

just denial, torture, torment.

I have 12 fucking o’s in the O-Bank..and am forbidden to use them on a Half-O night. So he can enjoy the full use of my torture.

And he’s added a butt plug to the half-O this time, which I hate.

And, yanno. Love.

Coz I’m just that contrary a cunt.

It hurts, oh, okay…it’s a discomfort and not a true hurt…but it also very much ratchets up the turn-on factor for me.

It’s a win-lose (which makes it a win win in that oh so confusing submissive masochistic way) for me, and a win-WIN for Him.

I also text Him (required) immediately after the supreme frustration of stopping. Immediately. He LOVES it when I swear and piss and moan and crab about Him being an asshole.

See? I’m not the only perverted one playing this game.

It takes two to tango…and two to tangle.

And we’re really really tangled.


Neighbor (2)

He settled into bed. A quick jack-off in the shower had relaxed the last of the tension of his day. He was tired, but still lay there, semi-awake. He hoped that Tits of New York had no more troubles, and was well on her way to wherever she had been headed to before her unfortunate flat. Which she definitely wasn’t. God, but she was stacked. Her tee-shirt had been tight, the way they wore ’em in the city. Or the way naughty country girls did. Except hers had been impeccable. Country girls tended to hack off the neck and arm bands, let the raw edges of the front scoop low–

and why the fuck was he laying here picturing cleavage? His cock began to stiffen at the memory that fast-flashed through his brain, that of his teen crush, Lorree-Ann Mason. He could look back now with a mix of longing and pity. Poor Lorree-Ann, believing that the bulk of her value lay inside her bra. She would adapt those tee shirts, her jugs jutting up and out, a flagrant taunt to all the young studs at Plainville High. She’d walk by, her cleavage jiggling —

and fuck wasn’t he doing it again? 

His hand moved over the thickening between his legs. Geezuz, he’d just emptied his balls in the shower, for fucks sake. His cock was sending his brain messages that he wasn’t willing to listen to any longer. He was tired, for fucks sake! He lifted the covers, speaking directly to the problem at hand.

“Look, boner, I know its been a while, but I haven’t had time to go to the city and scratch that itch for you. Wouldja just lay down and let me sleep, please?”

Smiling at the stupidity of talking to his dick, he half-sat, punched his pillow and flopped down.  Light flashed across his ceiling. That was odd. His bedroom was in the back of the house, and only someone going into the Joseph’s driveway would shine their headlights in here. The road he lived on was not heavily traveled, especially in this deep part of the night. Rolling over, he glanced at his clock.  Yeah, there definitely wasn’t traffic here at 1:47 a.m. He half-rose, listening intently. There was the humming rumble of an engine, then the sudden silence as it was shut off. A faint soft squeal as a door opened. Silence for a few moments, then the solid thunk of a vehicle door closing.

Sliding from the bed, he peered outside. A van was pulled all the way to the back of the house next door. Back far enough in the curved driveway to not be easily seen from the road. Pulled up right to the back deck stairs. Although there was no occupant in the house currently, he knew that Sam Joseph had done a lot of upgrading, including a lot of copper accents,and including new copper pipes. With the new owner not yet in residence, he decided that it would be prudent to investigate. Perhaps some miscreant was heading in to steal the copper, a common crime in the suburbs, if not out here. Besides, even in east bumfuck, shit happened.

Sliding into pants, stepping into moccasins, he headed downstairs at a quiet trot. Shirtless, he didn’t turn on any lights as he eased open the back door. From his back stoop he could see that there was indeed a light on in the kitchen at the Joseph house, the back door standing open. Son of a bitch!

Sprinting across the lawn that separated his property from the neighbor’s driveway, he skirted around the front of the van, then edged closer. Seeing nothing, he edged along the walkway to the backdoor. The new deck that the nephew had put on here was nice, but gave him a lot of ground to cover. He climbed the first three steps, heard a noise from inside the house, and paused. Deciding to chance it, he fairly leapt up the last of the stairs. He was in position just as the intruder came out of the house. As the sneak slipped from the door, he wrapped him in a bear hug and tackled him. Holding tightly, he swore he could feel the soft squish of tits against his forearm. The girlish squeal and decidedly womanish attempt to elbow-jab him confirmed it.

His intruder was not a he.


Alexandra hit the deck. Someone was holding her, grappling her. She screamed as well as she could, since all the oxygen in her lungs had been all but squeezed out by the monster who held her down, was even now rolling her over.

She expected to be attacked, raped, in New York City.

Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought it could happen here in the safety of the country. It was America’s fucking heartland, for crissakes!

“NO!” She yelled, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

“What the fuck, lady, cut that out!”

This as she tried to remember the self-protection classes, and managed to slap her hand against his left eye. Her wrists were caught, held over her head. She was sure she felt the bulge of his manhood. It was on her, resting against her womanly bits.


She writhed, wriggled, twisted, all to no avail. The guy was like a fucking stone wall.

“Shut UP!”

His voice raised, Caleb got her attention by dropping his full weight on her. The heat from the vee of her thighs pressed against his cock, which had risen when he’d first noted the tits. All this bumping and grinding, the chase, the capture, all sent delicious memories through his body, arrowing up his shaft until it throbbed at the remembrance of such delightful games.


His hand slapped over her mouth and nose. He felt the humid breath, heard the fearful whinny under his palm.

“I said shut up. That didn’t mean yell louder. Geezuz. I AM the neighbor. And what the fuck are you doing here at two in the morning?”

Her mouth moved against his hand.

“Nope. Not until you promise to stop yelling.”

He felt her nod of agreement. His hand slipped away. Sure, there was a huge amount of separation between this house and her nearest neighbor on the other side from his, but still. It was late and sound did carry.

“What do you mean you’re the neighbor?”

He answered her question with one of his own.

“I saw you breaking in here. Why?”

“I live here you moron. Great. I had to buy a house next door to an imbecile. Let me GO you dunce!”

He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Here she was, plastered to the deck, his body full on her, and she called him a moron, an imbecile and a dunce in the most cultured of tones. He couldn’t help what happened next, either.

He kissed her smart-ass mouth.

Frustrated need from months of pent-up desire exploded in her. She had no idea why, but she kissed him right back. Tackle her on her own damn property? Press his privates against hers? She’d show him, the dirty rat bastard!

His fingers tightened around her wrists, his mouth working to devour her. His own desire was fanned by the press of her enormous tits against his bare chest. Enormous tits…van..cultured voice…

“Holy fuck! New York? Is that you?”

She was in a daze. Lost, so turned on she could barely breathe. She felt like she’d been watching the most incredible porn movie, like she was ready to explode in one erotic burst of light and heat.


Her voice sounded drugged.

He released her hands, pushing up from her in one fluid motion. He tugged her to her feet where she swayed in front of him. He led her inside. In the light of the kitchen he could see clearly.

Tits of New York.

Engorged nipples begging for more touch. His. And hers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to tamp down the sudden inferno inside his belly, to continue where he’d left off. Her face was dazed, cheeks flushed, her breathing deep. He imagined her, coiled in rope, naked, ready to be taken.


That didn’t help at all.

‘Stop it,’ he silently ordered his brain, his cock. His penis responded with a jerk, a little cock huffy fit. He felt the wetness ooze against his boxers, a warm sticky spot of wanna-cum.

“Hey. New York.”

He gave her a little shake, then took a step back. If he touched her again, he might just fuck her on the cool kitchen floor. Her eyes met his, an improbable shade of green. There was something there, he wasn’t sure what.  But he knew that  if she kept looking at him that way,  as though she was stroking him, as though the hot green heat of her eyes were stroking up and down his rigid shaft…he would take her. Use her. Grind into her until they both exploded.

She blinked, held up her hand in the universal ‘stop’ motion. Stepping  away from him,  clarity mingled with shock flashed across her face, and the moment was lost.

“You…you’re the guy in the truck. The tire change guy…and…” she swallowed hard, eyes closed, then continued, “…and my neighbor. Oh g–.”

She cut off what she was going to say. Neighbor. One she’d see again and again. What had happened to her had been just…chemistry.

“It’s just…chemistry. I’m sorry…I…tired. Long drive…need…”

She paused again, flushing as she stuttered. She never stuttered. Shaking her head, she stared at him as he looked at her, the faintest smile on his lips. Or was it a smirk. No, that was Charles’s way and she wouldn’t paint this guy with that brush quite yet.

“I got a bit of that last part.”

At her curious look he responded.

“Need. You definitely have ’em. Me too.  If you’re all set here, I’ll apologize for knockin’ you over…and say goodnight.”

With a little half-salute, he stepped through the kitchen door, closing it quietly behind him.

“So much for the welcome wagon,” she said to the empty room. With a mental shake, she moved at last, locking the back door and turning off the light, and made her way to the living room where she’d stretched out her sleeping bag. Morning was soon enough to sort out this mess. Yet one thought rose, just before she fell over the cliff of exhaustion into slumber.

He hadn’t apologized for that searing, mind-bending kiss.

He hadn’t been sorry about that, at all.


thanks go to JC for this one…for planting the idea! What started as a wee fantasy grew like milkweed in my brain! ~nilla~

Everyone who knew Caleb loved him. He was the ubiquitous nice guy–the one you could count on to help you tote your groceries to your car if he should chance to see you struggling with them. The one who would shovel an elderly neighbors walkway, or buy cookies from the little girls outside the hardware store, or help on the work party at the local grange. He saw, he cared, he helped.

He lived just enough outside of town to be comfortable. Neighbors on each side, but enough room to have gardens between. He’d been there when Mr. Joseph had died, when his nephew moved in, then out again, flipping the house in under five months. And then it had sat. He didn’t mind the quiet. The surcease of the pounding of hammers, the screaming of saws had definitely improved his ability to work. As an independent computer networker, he rarely had to go into the city to attend to things, which he was fine with. The city had its glamour, to be sure, but he much preferred the bucolic life out here in the far reaches of bumfuck.

He’d grown up here, married here, buried his wife here. As a teen, he’d worked school nights at Mr. Elway’s grocery store, now the IGA, and mornings and weekends at his family’s farm at a variety of odd tasks. He went off to the city for college, found a great job, a great woman, and a great life. The one thing missing–that key element– had been a sense of belonging, that sense of “home”. All he’d managed to do was to run away, run to where bright lights and busy nights had beckoned, only to discover that his roots ran deeper than he’d ever imagined. Thankfully his wife had liked the country as much as he did; moving had been the best thing for them both. Her sudden illness, and quick passing had left him shell-shocked. Now, years later, he had yet to find what he’d had with Diane. Grateful every day that he was here surrounded by family and friends,  rather than alone in the city, he was content with his life. His parents still lived back outside the outskirts of town, still had the farm, though parcels had been leased to cell phone companies for their ugly towers, and not so much corn was set out as in his early days.

He sat on the steps of his front porch, as the sun crept ever closer to the horizon, the vermillion of the eastern sky presaging a beautiful sunrise. He was happy, sitting here and drinking coffee, enjoying this quiet time of day. No traffic broke the silence of the ending night. In fact,  looking down the quiet street, he could see lights starting to pop on at the rear of some homes. Miss Margie was up, making her bread. Others were up to start their morning coffee, pack lunches for their kids school lunch. He’d been up awhile, working the kinks out of a project that was just short of annoying. Lifting his cup for the last dregs, he noted that the for sale sign was gone next door.

Hmm. That was curious. Perhaps it had tipped over in the wind the other day. Pushing off the step, he walked over. The sign lay in the grass. Lifting it, he shoved it back into the hole in the lawn. The bold SOLD sticker slashed across the “For Sale”.

“Well, what do you know?” He mused to himself. Letting the sign fall back to the lawn, he headed back to his house, scooping up his mug and heading inside for another shot of java.


It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Pack up her stuff and head off for a new life. New had a certain cache after the old had been so bad. Not abusive. No, that would have shown energy, desire, engagement.

Apathy was a far deeper pain.

It was humiliating to discover that he had, as the cliché went, married her for her money. And her parents summer home in the Hampton’s. And the brownstone in Manhattan. That had been in her family for three generations, until her divorce. Leaving New York, starting over, had been the most reasonable decision she could make. Charles would continue to humiliate her at any social gathering, dressed out in his half of her families fortune, toting his sweet young confection of the month on his arm.

And dammit! She wasn’t old! She wasn’t young, either, but rather in that comfortable in-between place in her life. Some might call her decision to relocate as a rebound of her divorce. She prefered to think of it as a recovery. A reboot, so to speak. She almost laughed at that thought, considering that she’d spent the last 6 years working in the tech field.  She’d taken a leave-of-absence from that job, knowing she’d never return. She had enough money to live on quite comfortably. She would take up gardening. And yoga. And..and…whatever she wanted to do!

The truck with the biggest chunk of her belongings had left yesterday, but she’d rented a cargo van for her most special things. Besides, she’d decided to take her time, not racing across the country to her new home, but actually seeing the land. She’d bought the house over the phone, wiring money, viewing it online, but not ever setting foot in it. She’d take that time, enjoy the adventure she was embarking on, and take what came…well…as it came. The house had been renovated, the small town looked friendly enough, and the weather was fine for a cross-country ramble.

She might be nuts, but she was actually having fun for the first time in her life.

Heading out across the wild unknown, she’d seen small towns, long stretches of absolutely nothing, the wild twists of rivers, the wide wet gap called the Mississippi, and dozens of small towns along her drive.

And now, at 930 at night, in the middle of east bumfuck USA, she had a fucking flat tire.


The day had gone along fine. Caleb had put in a good 9 hours on his project, and while it wasn’t totally finished, it was smoothed out quite a bit. He couldn’t wait to drop this client, who was a frigging pain in the ass. But he didn’t get paid to like the client, he mused, one foot on the brass foot rail at the bar. He nursed his Bud, listening to the truly awful garage band attempting to make music. Really, they were loud. But really? It wasn’t music. Getting out for a change of pace had been nice until the quasi-band had begun. Ignoring the hopeful teasing of the waitress, he slid a bill under his glass, and rose from the stool. The smell of tobacco, old beer, and the faint tingle of piss in his nostrils made him glad to be leaving. The night sparkled around him, the stars beaming as he turned his truck in the gravel and headed down the long road to home.

As he rounded the big curve on rural route 87, he spied the van nudged to the side of the road, blinkers flashing. The lights of his truck splashed onto the van, and the person pacing on the green verge.

He slowed, pulling up behind it, keeping his lights on.

She turned to look at him as he slid out of the cab. Definitely a she, based on the profile shadow thrown up on the back of the van. She looked upset, so he shelved his smile.

“Well it’s about time,” she all but growled at him.

His smile wasn’t only shelved, it sucked back behind his lips so fast he almost got a friction burn.

“I called the tow truck like two frikking hours ago. Where the hell have you been? Did you drive here from frigging NEW YORK?”

“Miss….I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“OH MY GAWD! Have you been…drinking? Drinking on the JOB?”

He almost got back into his truck, but the same manners that carried him through the last 48 years of his life came to the fore. She was upset. Likely scared to death. Her license plates read New York; she was quite obviously out of her element here in the country.

“Miss…My name is Caleb. I live in Plainville, and I was coming home when I saw you here. I don’t work for a tow company, just a good neighbor. If you want, I can fix your tire, OR I can get back in my truck, head on home, and try to forget that I left a lovely woman alone by the side of the road.”

His words, delivered blandly, were loud enough, firm enough, to puncture the last of her composure. As he watched, her face fell, and large tears began to roll down her face. He wasn’t one to fret overmuch about a woman crying–it was endemic to the gender, he felt–yet he couldn’t deny the feeling of empathy that ran through him.

“How about I take a look at your tire?”

”  ‘k…” she sniffed, digging in her pocket for a tissue. He watched her fight for control, admired that.

Bending to his task, he’d located her spare, removed her old tire, set up her new one. He put away the tools, put the dead tire into the back of her van, and wiped his hands on a cloth from his truck. Dousing the lights, he moved back to her.


He could see her face turn to his.

“Not at me…look up.”

The stars lay on the sky like a blanket. The twinkling gleam was a magical view he never tired of. He’d missed that in the city, too.

“There’s always a silver lining, you know. You just have to learn where to look for it. Have a safe journey.”

Declining her offer to ‘pay him for his time’, he leapt up into the cab of his truck and turned back to the road, heading for home, and a decent nights sleep.

nilla needs YOU (yes, YOU!)

I am working (in my head) on a wicked dirty little story.


Purty please?

will you email me privately with a totally wild fantasy YOU have? It can be *anything* (remember, this is a fantasy-judgement-free-zone here!)

I PROMISE I will NOT use your name, your email, anything–all I want is the fantasy. It can be bare bones. It can be “i wanna be fucked by an orangutan” or lots of details like “I want him to take me to a deserted castle on a deserted island, make me his fuck slave, hang me upside down outside and let the deer lick my pussy until I almost die from cumming so much. He’s 6’8″ tall, with dark hair and a permanent sneer but I love him at first sight.”

See? You can get as wacky and creative as YOUR imagination goes. It won’t shock me. 🙂

I am just looking for fodder here, okay?

I’m *counting* on you guys…