“You wouldn’t. You….couldn’t…” her voice trailed off into a squeak as he launched himself across the room and onto her.

Not only would he, but he did. It took only seconds for her taunting gibe to be silenced as he flipped her onto her belly, trapping one hand under her, the other behind her back. Trying to open her fingers and pinch him was for naught–he pressed against her firmly.  His hands dug under her skirt, hooking her panties in his fingers.

“Seth…I was jok–”

With a rough tug, her panties were torn from her bottom. With a quick twist, he secured her hands together. His belt was tugged from his pants, looped through the panty-tie on her wrist and quickly looped through the headboard.


Her words were garbled as he shoved his tie into her mouth. The bed shifted as he moved away.  From the other room she could faintly hear his voice, then the chirp of the phone. More words, another chirp.

She looked over her shoulder as the door flung open. He stood, framed from behind with the light pouring into the living room window. He looked…daunting. He strode to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging down his pants, revealing a hard-swollen cock.

“Told your boss you were a bit tied up at the moment, and not feeling good. He said he hopes you feel better soon. My boss was understanding that I had to stay here and take care of you, since you’re feeling so poorly.”

She looked at him. He lied? He never lied.

“Oh, don’t worry little girl–you will be feeling verrrry poorly by the end of today. You’ll be sore just about everywhere.” There was a sparkle in his eyes, the one he got when the sadist was walking in his skin.

His hand stroked down her thigh, but she kicked out at him. Her heart pounded–excitement and a bit of fear. She loved him like this, truly, but he was also very daunting in this mood.

“okay, little girl, you want to play rough eh?”

He tugged her skirt up over her hips, baring her bottom fully. She’d only had her skirt and panties on when she had begun taunting him about being too work-oriented. About leaving her, hot and horny, to go hang with his old, shriveled boss whose cock was likely hadn’t seen pussy since the great depression. He turned and went to the cabinet where they kept their toys. She struggled in earnest when he took out the cane. She hated that whippy thing with a passion. Whimpering and struggling to get free, the quick lick of fire on her thigh made her stiffen, then shriek behind the gag. Before she could recover there was another blow, and a third.

“I see I have your attention now, little girl.”

She kept her back to him, refusing to look at him. Always a mistake, didn’t she realize that by now? The cane sang its way up her body, over the curve of hip, lurching at the sway of waist. She was cringing now, holding back the moans of pain at the bites of the wooden tool  upon shoulder-blade and arm. His weight shifted the bed, and she half-rolled. Her tits felt the sharp assault next, her nipples rising as they tightened in response to the torment.

No soft caress followed the sound of the cane clattering onto the nightstand, just the sharp crack of his hand upon her ass as she lay curled on her side. Fuck! Ow!

Fingers pried between her folds, rubbed wetness, spreading it.

“Wet little dirty girl.”

His fingers scooped the slickness, slid into her anus, her pussy, two by two. A sadistic and sensual move, pain and pleasure dancing arm in arm. She was not a fan of anal.

She was so fucking aroused.

At her asshole, the press of his thick head. She shook hers, no, but his fingers tugged her head back and growled ‘yesssss’ as he pressed deep. Whimpers, hers; moans, his, the sounds of pain and pleasure mingling with the slip and slide of wet flesh. Fingers found her clit, rubbing hard, moving up to pinch her nipples.

Driving hard, deeply, filling her belly from behind, she felt the tightening against her bottom, presaging his orgasm. Whimpers were left her in her throat.  She couldn’t speak around the tie gagging her mouth. She was close…so close…

He came with a rumbling groan, hot juice ssssquirting into her bumhole. She felt the quivers in her belly, the longing for her own orgasm, even as his cock began to shrink. He pulled out, falling back, away from her. She grumbled loudly around the gag, tossing her head to show her displeasure.

He lifted his head, chuckled at the glare she threw his way.

“awww, poor little girl didn’t get hers? Too bad.”

He fell back again, but she could see the smile on his face. Smirking bastard. She wanted to kick him, but didn’t quite dare. Look where that had gotten her, here, filled with his cum, and unable to get her own release.

He rose up, flipping her onto her back, his mouth working at her breast. Biting and sucking he played with her. Close, instantly she was that close again.

He rolled away.

“All good things come to those who wait. And to those who dare taunt their Master.”

He rose, stretching.

“I’m off for coffee.”

He tugged the gag from her mouth before he trotted downstairs, and enjoyed his cup all the more for the yelling that filtered down to the kitchen. It was going to be a fine fucking day.


 thanks for the idea, Kayla!

A Clever Title Escapes Me

I feel like, lately, every time I arrive here, I start by writing “i’ve been sick”. Maybe because  when I got sick in February, and took my meds, and kinda felt better after–but didn’t go back to see the Doctor for FIVE weeks (because I’m just that stupidly stubborn?) I took a sudden turn for the worse and got sick harder, deeper.

Another round of antibiotics, and almost feeling better, but not quite.

Only waited a week before I called again. I’m slow, but I’m learning. And okay, Master might have nudged me into it a bit.

A third round of antibiotics…and a sudden worsening of symptoms, mostly, you know, breathing. Or as I should say, a distinct lack of breathing.

I don’t know about you, but I kind of like breathing.

And coughing. Much coughing. Wake the neighbors, fall out of bed, scare the dog into barking at 2 a.m. kind of coughing.

Catching on quickly, I called the Doctor after 2 days and was seen immediately. Thankfully, after an hour there and another at the X-Ray place, I was told I don’t have pneumonia, but a very serious bronchial infection.

I’ve got a ton of medicine allergies, so finding one that would kill the germies and not kill me was a challenge, but he did it. After only a few doses I can sit up and breathe and have an attention span longer than 3 seconds. And I’m not coughing up my lungs every 5 minutes, either. And my voice, which I’d coughed away several nights ago, is slowly returning.

And oh gosh.

I slept last night.

*insert sound of angelic choral sounds here*

There truly is nothing like a full night of sleep, something I’ve not felt in weeks.


What does all this shit have to do with a sex blog?

Well, it’s one reason why this hasn’t been much of a sex blog these last few weeks. But I think there’s been a big turn around. I’m feeling better. Spring is finally, finally showing herself in New England; we’re expecting a ton of rain this weekend and no more of the white stuff thank you very much. So keep reading because I have proof that this really *is* a sex blog, after all, and not a whiney “o i don’t feel good” blog, which will be a big relief to all of you who have read this far!

So, Master has been taking good care of His slut. From afar, but really, He’s been very good to me. Kind. Firm. Bossy. (“go to bed now nilla”  “no, NOW, slut”)…I’m notoriously bad about bedtimes.  I’d hoped for an early play time but that is not to be, until I get my full strength back, which will take a few weeks, sadly. And then there was nilla’s totally stupid “let’s play” plans that went awry…

why, you ask?

I’d planned our next play day–for some stupid reason–on Easter Sunday. Now, you all know I’m not a Christian, but the kids still do the egg hunt, and we tend to go to church (well, my kids do, anyway), and He goes and does things with His adult kids…so no, there is not a playday in the immediate offing. Maybe at the end of April. He’s traveling, and I’m super-duper busy with work (including work that I had to postpone this week on Doctor’s Orders). Finding time to have playdates in the spring is always a challenge for us.

That doesn’t stop Him from being a sadist, nor from being my Dom. He has this way of reminding me who is in charge when I’m down and gloomy and feeling sorry for myself. He has the “Dom cure for dour sluts”. He is calling this two-month illness a “viral slut disease”.

He knows the perfect cure for it too. (so He says)

He’d threatened me with a half-o– “oh you’d be surprised at the healing power of the half-o, nilla”–but later told me that He wants me fully healed. “So that you can fully enjoy the pain I plan to inflict on you”.

Damn if that didn’t stick in my brain.

I woke up this morning feeling better, though a bit wobbly. And as I sat on the edge of my bed getting my feet under me, I suddenly remembered that I’d had some wild-assed Master dream.

He’d tied my hands over my head, as He’d done on our last playtime. I lay, stretched out, unable to do more than wiggle my fingers. In my dream, He took each ankle and pulled the wide apart–but then hooked a rope around them to keep them wide.

His eyes sparkled, the way they do when He is deeply enjoying Himself…and He lifts a cane into my line of sight. I know then, instantly, that He isn’t going after my tits, despite them being (as things happen in dreams) suddenly bare. He’s looking at my cunt now. Just standing there and looking. I blush, closing my eyes as the flush of embarrassment runs through me. (yes, even now that kind of exposure embarrasses me) And then He slaps the cane down on my left pussy lip. I remember bucking and arching and gasping. Shocked at the sudden brutality, the sharp and intense bite of pain. In my dream I can hear the rush of air, that whoosh that is particular to a cane slicing towards ones flesh a nano-moment before it hits my cunt again. How long it goes on, I have no idea, for I waken suddenly.

And forget.

Until sitting there on the edge of my bed, wobbly legged, I remember.

I am a sexual being. I do have sexual needs, wants, and perverted desires. And for the first time in 10 days, I’m feeling horny. Wanton. Needy. Wet.

Damn, I must be better for real!

HNT Fun Camera Effects part 2

I’m not a photographer…words are my ‘medium’…but I’ve really been having fun playing with some of the options on my phone’s camera. To a “basic tit shot” picture, I added some “grain”, pulled out the color, and ~voila~

black n white…..a gritty black and white photo. This reminds me of a newspaper picture from the ’40’s doesn’t it? (not that I was around in the 40’s mind you!)

Or maybe a titty mug shot?


Happy HNT.

I think I’m the very last HNT person on the naughty web…many are doing Boobday on Friday. . . however, any day is a good day for titty flashing, right? 😀


Still Here!!

Hi Peeps,

I’m not sure why the Universe feels I need to keep leaping over these wacky hurdles, but there ya go. I’m under the weather *again*. The sinus infection that will not die. I feel like I have Brillo Pads stuffed in my ears. And my voice has gone from its normal light girlishness to this deep basso profundo, when I have a voice at all. No more whining, I promise. Just…geeze.

I had time with the Man this weekend. For several hours we chatted and teased and laughed. It was lovely. No one makes me laugh the way He does, and sitting right there in Starbucks as He embarrasses me half to death, He grins that grin and …yeah, the world is back to being good and level and sensible.  I even made Him laugh, once, one of those deep belly laughs that is so hard to tease out of Him. I smile even now, remembering it.

He is thrilled–remember all those O’s I got way back during the Superbowl for my winning bet? I got sick in the middle of using them, so I still had some in my “O-Bank”…and I’ve been doling them out carefully, until last week when I blew through the final 4.

Nothing could have made Him happier to find me with an empty O bank. “Oh nilla, the fun I will have, torturing you. You know, your pussy will look like a dry riverbed in the Sahara” He says.

And because I am a perverse and perverted creature, doesn’t that turn me on like crazy? (Yeah, it did.) I shift in my chair, feeling the sudden rush of wetness in my panties. He misses nothing. He knew exactly what His words were doing to me. Turned on, wet and wanton, needy–oh, sure, He knew. And when I fluttered my lashes at Him and asked for an O? He almost rubbed His hands together in an “Oh, goodie!” way. His eyes sparkled as He said “no fucking way, nilla”.

And then He laughed.

That wicked, Dominant-fucks-up-the-submissive laugh. If my “job” as the submissive is to please Him, then I’m guessing that my discomfiture at finding myself O-less AND turned on was exactly what He wanted. It makes me moist just to think about it, to want it that badly, yet to be denied. As I said…perverse. 😀


Infinity (5)

The sun cast long shadows across the concrete patio. Her sunglasses lay forgotten on the table as she watched the sky explode. She doubted she’d ever get used to such shows of light and color. The Pacific dazzled and glinted with so many colors it made her hands itch to capture it. Paints, watercolors, even colored pencils were denied her-she had no skill for any of those. But words were her gesso and paintpots.  She hoped she could capture the brilliance with them.  The breeze tossed her hair back, the sunset threw even more reds and golds into the tangled mess that cascaded behind her. She wanted to write it, right now, but her hands just lay there on the table to each side of her computer. The scene unrolled like a movie reel, each frame subtly different from the moment before it. The blue of the water changed hue, the sky glowed with an intensity that she’d seen nowhere else but here. She was lost in it, lost in the moment.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

His voice made her jump. The man was soundless, and it bugged the shit out of her.

“I know this is your house, but while I’m here, it’s mine. It would be great if you rang the bell or knocked like a normal person would.”

“I’m not “normal”–how unutterably boring would that be?”

She rolled her eyes. Who even said that?

“Said what?”

Oh dear gods. . .had she said that aloud? Her mouth often ran rampant.


“You do. You use it regularly in your stories.”

“You’re disturbing the sunset.” Her voice was terse. Not really clear to her just now if it was annoyance or a hint of embarrassment.

“I assure you, my dear, that the sun has been setting right about there every evening for millenia, and nothing I or you could do would ‘disturb’ it.  And for the record?  I did ring your bell. When you didn’t answer I let myself in. Hard to hear it sometimes with the mesmerizing effects of that.”

His head nudged fractionally towards the water that was behind his left shoulder as he sat in a seat that angled to face her.

“If you came here to watch the sunset with me, shouldn’t you be watching it?”

The smile on his face did funny things to her belly.

“I am watching it, as it washes over you. I hear the purr of the water, seductively calling to her lover to return. His regret–the reds and golds and silvers, are also his promise to her that he will be back.”

She swallowed the lump that settled in her throat. His voice was husky, sexily so. Damn the man. Hands pressed to the arms of her chair, she began to rise.

“Wine. I–”

He lifted a bottle to the table. It was open already, a faint wisp of condensation curling from the mouth of the bottle and sending a subtle scent of wizened red to her nostrils. The scent was so perfect with that of the sea and the fragrant wild lilac bushes that dotted the cliff edge. She sat back into her chair, and decided to ignore him and his damn perfectionism. No one was that …perfect. She hated overusing words, but that one just fit. On the horizon, thin clouds burst into a golden hue that staggered the senses. The water below was deep purple, with the refraction of a million shades of gold and pink echoed on every wavelet.

“Gods, how do you stand it?”

Her words were a moan of pure pleasure as her eyes drank in the sight that she knew she’d never tire of, and never forget.

“You don’t. You absorb it. You breathe it in, and you offer a prayer to Sol for the beauty of his leavetaking.”

“How very Zen of you.”

“This is Southern California, my dear.”

His smile teased at her senses, every bit as mesmerizing as the sunset had been. As night crawled across the sky, the lights in the pool came up.

“You haven’t tasted my wine yet.”

“Gl— how did you do that?” She stared at the two goblets. The bowls were almost perfect spheres, with some sort of etching around them. She swore they hadn’t been on the table a moment before.

“You were watching the sky show, not me.”

She sipped the wine. It was fruity, a bit sweet. Perfect. Of course. She almost rolled her eyes.

“Will you swim?”

He looked at the pool, shook his head with a faint smile.

“I’m on my period,” he said.

She threw back her head and laughed.  Damn him for making her feel so comfortable.  They talked then. He steered the conversation here, there, keeping it light and general, but always slightly amusing. He had a way of making her open up, and he was smart, too. She had to admit privately that his brains were more attractive to her than his pretty, perfect face.

“You sound like you’re eons old. All this talk of the way things were–as if you were there. Somehow I can’t picture you so into gold mining. It was dirty, rough work.”

“I’m not afraid of rough work…who do you think planted these grounds?”

She looked around. Though it was full dark now, she could trace in her mind’s eye the variety of plants, the little patches of gardens around the grounds, including the wild-seeming, yet carefully cultivated landscape of the pool and patio area.  As someone who loved to get her hands into her gardens back home, she could appreciate the sheer amount of labor that went into creating this paradise. She was more than a little impressed.

“You didn’t hire it out?”

“Only the hardscape. All the rest were done with these.”

He held up his hands, turning them this way and that. Big hands. Hands she could privately imagine touching…but best not to go down that path, even in her imagination.

“I know your talents lay in your hands as well…and your brain. One only has to read one or two of your sordid tales to appreciate the depth of your imagination.”

She blinked. Was that a compliment?

“That was a compliment, I assure you.  As a man who’s spent some time on the top side of the slash, as you so adroitly put it in your stories, I have a keen taste for the erotic word. You do it well. Very well. One does wonder if you are a practitioner as well as an imagineer?”

There was no swallowing the lump in her throat now, nor quelling the sudden tickling in the sensitive bud between her thighs. By the way his gaze sharpened on her, she knew that he knew just what his words had done to her.

Damn the man.


Life is Better

It’s been a difficult week. I can’t go into details, but it’s been fraught with personal fears and worries for one that I love. It is also the anniversary of the death of my mother. There was a serious incident where I work as well. All in all? This week was a challenge. 

We’re through it, for the most part. There is great power in overcoming these sort of challenges. I’m sure I’ll be able to tap into it at some point in time. 😀 Right now I’m just feeling drained. Spending today recharging is the first order of business.

Thanks to people who sent private messages to me asking about stories that they’ve been waiting for. It cheers me immensely when people miss reading my tales…and I won’t leave you hanging too much longer, promise.

By the way, have any of you seen spring? It seems to be missing here in the northeast. I keep looking for it, but it slips away, always almost there at the corner of my vision. March is a cruel month, warm and sunny one day, then bitter with snow flurries the next. My fingers itch to dig in the garden, to get in there and clean up the detritus from fall and winter. (Unfortunately the ground is still frozen solid.) I, along with millions here in the northeast, are eagerly awaiting its final arrival.

Okay, I guess I’m done rambling for now. I had a thought for a story last night and I’ll just jump on into that. Happy weekend, peeps.



  • it is too fucking cold here for mid-March. Geezus, enough already.
  • Master is doing His taxes which always makes Him cranky. I am cheering Him up with boob shots and jokes about my next “plan” to get His man nips betwixt my fingers. Thus far my plans have been quickly quashed. As if they didn’t even exist. (Really, I thought the bathroom was a safe-zone…)
  • I managed to “heart” Him the last time I saw Him. He forgot I’d pegged Him in the center of His chest (on His Patriots sweatshirt no less!) and had someone comment when  He was at the deli about His “cute heart”…I about died laughing when He told me about it when we talked the other night on my way home from work. Revenge, however, is a bitch…. I might die crying the next time we’re together behind closed doors (i look kinda forward to that….)
  • I was feeling very overwhelmed this weekend. I had no open time to try to see Him and that’s always a downer for me. Plus…what the hell was going on with all the children? All my friends (and I) were having major snarky kids. Thankfully we’re past that, but I’m still missing my Master terribly.
  • I’m missing my Master. (Hey, my blog! I’m allowed to repeat myself!)
  • Apparently I don’t get subdrop anymore. That’s two playtimes when Master and I had a good time together and in the weeks following we grew closer…and I didn’t crash and burn. Maybe having a busy life is part of that?
  • I had a “remembering” about our last time together and if I can scrape together some substantial consecutive minutes to sit and write about it later this week, I shall.
  • T-t-t-t-that’s all (pervie) folks. (Yes, this is a sex blog. No. There isn’t much sex of late. Tho I did have an (almost) screaming mega-orgasm the other night, complete with mega-squirt (and yes, I took a picture. geeze. This is nilla, the slut of oversharing!) The weird/neat part is that the squirt looks nearly identical to the vibrator that created it. I found that fascinating.
  • 😀
  • squirt

Submission is Like A Bag of Chex Mix?

So there I am at work, hands encased in rubber gloves. I had opened my snack earlier, the aforementioned Chex Mix..but I didn’t want to put my gloves into the bag. Ugh.

So I tilted it up and jiggled a little into my mouth.

Oh. Wait. Ow. Zippy. Salty. Piquant.

Almost too much zest and zip.

That wasn’t what I expected.

I’m a Chex-picker. I like it all, that is true. But I pick out my favorite pieces and eat them first. The bag is a mix of textures and flavors…some kind of bland, some just right, and some…well, a bit intense.

What had filled my mouth was intense.

And that’s when it hit me (no masochistic pun intended!)…what a great metaphor for submission.

We like it, right?

But sometimes we get things we don’t expect. We like it…but there are those piquant over-spicy bits that are just shy of overwhelming. Intense and yet…still good.

And  yes…. I could have spit it out, I suppose.  But even though it felt a bit overwhelming, I adapted to it, took it in, swallowed.

More than I expected, to be sure.

But really, as I thought about it, it was not more than I could handle. It was not more than I was ready to give. It wasn’t more than I was ready to receive.

I let Him open me, let (let? me, let Him do anything…hahaha! as if!) Him see the vulnerabilities, and take all that He gives me.

The bland stuff. (You know there is bland stuff…this submission thing isn’t all about the high of being beaten–we’d like it to be, but it just isn’t.)

The exciting exhilarating stuff. (Yeah. You know what does it for you. I don’t need to go into details here, right? The canes or crops or brushes that we love and hate and fear and crave?)

The neutral stuff. (Conversations. Some vanilla, some D/s. Some about submission and dominance, I’m sure, and some directing us to submissive tasks.)

It’s all in that bag. Okay, it’s not a crinkly blue bag, but metaphorical. They hold that “bag” for us, and pour the treats into us and we chew and swallow–all of it, spicy or bland–and hope for more.

We always hope for more.

There are long times between our visits, Master and I. Sometimes I feel like my slut-bag is empty. For days, weeks even. Oh, there’s a wee bit of this, of that. We talk almost every day. There is never a doubt who is who in this relationship…but there is a lot of vanilla in our relationship.

Then blamo!

Out of the blue, I hear a crinkle…and I realize that the bag is open and He’s pouring me some of what I need. Even from far away, I get the taste of it. Just a tease, but enough to keep me from starving. I’m not sure how He knows when I’m nearing the point of falling over from the need He engenders in me…but He knows. It may not be a big thing…but it’s something. I appreciate every time He feeds me, even knowing that it furthers my dependency on Him.


I’m nilla.

And I’m a chex addict.

*cackling laughter*

Okay, maybe not that. But I am an addict to what He gives me. And I’m addicted to Him.

I’m good with that.





What nilla Says to Sir Wolf

Dear Sir Wolf,

My Master is deeply appreciative yet again of your SO generous gift. I, on the other hand, am far less…enamored of it. Or them. Or…*flaps hand in the air*…whatever. The thing is, that little green bag seemed so innocuous. Those lovely handles. The seductive curve of the rubber straps. The smell of them, even.


oh HELL no.

Those fuckers…my GAWD, Sir. Those fuckers….*shakes head, looks skyward for words to describe them better*…yeah, fuckers it is.

There i am, you see, face to the wall. Forehead must stay there, per Masters “orders” (orders being His hand shoving my head against the wall and saying “stay there” in that mean terse voice that’s so annoying–and a damn turn on too, damn Him–). He pulls my head off the wall, slaps on the blindfold, then shoves my head back. Thunk.

I hear the sounds behind me. I have no idea what He’s doing back there on the bed. Sleeping? No, there is the sound of things being moved in His wicked bag of tricks.

“You know, nilla, someday you will have to write another letter to Wolf and let him know how very grateful I am for this bag of implements.”

There is nothing but silence then.

You know, Sir Wolf, that when you Marines want to, you can  be too fucking quiet  move so silently. I didn’t answer because…well, I know what’s coming. Or think I do. He puffs a hard breath into my right ear, which means He has moved from the 2nd bed all the way across the room, behind me by less than 5 inches, and I never heard a thing. And trust me Sir Wolf, I’m listening for all I’m worth. The fucker Master is just that good. I jump at least 3 inches into the air (quite a feat in 6.5″ heels) and shriek.


Like a fucking girl.

Yes, Sir, I know I’m a girl, but I don’t usually react to being startled that way. Shrieking. Sheesh.

I digress.

He has blown in my ear, and laughs at my discomfiture. I’m holding onto the wall and trying to slow my racing heart and not call Him the fucking Bastard that He is.

“You will, won’t you slut? Write Him a note for me? Let’s see, what should you say to show your deep gratitude for this gift?”

I think to myself “Dear Sir Wolf. You are a stinking rat bastard. Love nilla” but wisely do not say this aloud.

He taps me on the ass with one toy, not too hard.

“No, nevermind. Here’s something else. We’re going to play name that implement.”

He pauses again.

“No, no, that’s too easy for you. I think we’ll play ‘name the color of the implement. Specifically the handle of the impliment.”

My heart has fallen to my knees. He’ll keep hitting me until I guess it correctly. And some of those fuckers hurt like…like…well, like the tormentors they were created to be.

By you, Sir Wolf (you bastard).

Thank you?

He takes up the toy and whacks my butt with it.


AH FUCK…I try to climb the wall, unsuccessfully. I try to catch my breath. At this I am successful, finally slumping forward and gasping.

“Let’s do both sides so that you can get the full idea.”

And before I can yay or nay this (I know, not that I *ever* had a choice in that! but one slut can dream, right?) there is a harsh WHACK WHACK on the other side of my ass.

Now, I don’t remember which one He started with but I called out what I thought it was…and damned if I wasn’t right. He was kind of startled by that, thought it was a lucky guess. I am leaning more towards “subliminal learning” since the whips have been my header for over a week, and I see it every time I proofread something that I have written.

He strikes me with the next one…and I got that one too. First blow, even. Now He’s a bit amazed.

Third go, and I got that one. And the next…almost…I thought there were some that were bi-colored, but not the handles (tricky, Mr. Wolf. Verrah tricky, damn you.) He whacked me again and asked me to be more specific.

“WHITE!!” I yelp as it bites into my tender backside again.

“Well nilla,” He says, His voice a combination of proud and bemused. “I have no idea how you did that but you did very well. Very well indeed.”

And that, Sir Wolf, is how I freed my ass from the tyranny of that dastardly little green bag of yours. His. Whatever.

And thank you. No really, Sir, thank you. Master definitely appreciates the bag and all it’s rotten contents. Maybe next time we play, my ass will write you a letter. It will sound like “Poot”…it will smell foul, and mean “fuck you, Sir”. With love, of course. 😉