Say Whaaa???

So in my email pops this ad for an online sex shop..not that I have money just now for any new vibes (tho after a 4 hour power failure last night, I’m kinda rethinking the whole “no more vibes with batteries stance I’ve taken…..)…and the headline catches my attention.

I’m going to paraphrase it because I don’t want to cross any lines and get sued…but

New Vibe Sets Just In Time For Mother’s Day


Now, my mom has been gone a long while, but never, ever in my dreams would I consider EVER getting her a vibrator.

I mean…really?

Maybe there are some of you out there that have that kind of totally open relationship with your mom (and maybe because my MIL is 80+)…but this just struck me as bizarre.

Yeah yeah yeah…I know its for men to buy for their honey’s as well as for mommies but it just struck me as a tad surreal.


(oh there I go being all judgy again…!)

But if you and your mom are into this kind of openness, good on you. LMK and I can send you the link….but hurry…it’s almost Mom’s Day…



Face Time Trumps the Blues

I sent Him an angsty text late Friday night. I was feeling lonely and unsexual and unsubmissive and just blue.

He wasn’t up of course; it was nearing one in the morning. I was awake from the pounding rain on my roof, and was restless in my bed.

Over-thinking at one in the morning is a sluts prerogative once in a while, right?

The next morning He sent me a kind note..”I’m used to your mood swings by now, you know this too shall pass,” and that sort of thing. Which was immediately followed by a quick sharp slap.

“Knock it the fuck off.”

I needed that.

And Sunday night we got some face-to-face time. He had a task for me to do (vanilla, yet very helpful to Him) which earned me an O. (Yes!)

He’s taken to a wee stroke of sadistic genius. There have been two “give the slut an O” occasions this weekend. But the caveat is that, if I am too tired to use it, I cannot bank it. And the offer always expires at midnight. It’s a use-it-or-lose-it scenario. I like that. I like having those tight constraints. One would think, going to bed around 10, 1030, that there would be plenty of time. But I have a book I’m reading, and I have puttering to do, and I read on my phone, and start blog-cruising and before I know it…it’s 1130. Or worse, 1145. Or even worse, 12:15. Thankfully, I was able to get in both O’s, making certain that I used it.

A lost O is a terrible sad waste, don’t you think?

And since He is fairly parsimonious about giving them out,¬†I would not want Him to think that they were not important to me…because they so, so, SO are!!

I went to sleep last night with a wet spot on my sheets. And a big smile on my face. Oh, not from the O, or not totally.

During our time together, I managed to tag Him with a wee pink heart, without Him noticing it there on His shoulder.

And I didn’t text Him about it until this morning.

SCORE! one for the slut.




The Secret Life of Amanda Middie (2)

In all her life she had never been truly stunned by a situation so out of her venue. What the hell…?

“I won’t be offended if you tell me to go. I won’t be unhappy if you invite me to share your shower. I’ve read your blog. I know it was you. I can see into your bedroom window at night when you’re typing. It is just enough of an angle for me to be able to see it from the sidewalk over there.”

He pointed out her living room window. She blinked, then moved over to where he pointed. There was a bench there. And yes, from there one would be able to see her bedroom. But she wrote late at night…who would see her then?

“I used to work some heavy duty overtime at my last job. I’d park in the back, but have to come around to the front to collect my mail. I’d cut through the park area, and look up and see you typing away. Not every night, but enough to make me curious. And your breasts in profile are stunning, by the way.”

Again, one of those awkward social situations…how did one reply to that?”

“Thank you?” she murmured, uncertain.

“I got curious. So I brought my binoculars. I stood behind the bench and could see the header on your blog. I googled it, and there it was. An erotic sex-fantasy blog. And here you were, in my own building, my own little neighbor.”

“I’m not little.”

“You are a submissive though. And hungry for sex. It comes through in your writing. You write very…evocative…pieces that make me want to dive into your apartment and bury my face in your tits, your thighs.”


She sounded like an absolute moron but there was absolutely no prior event in her life that prepared her for this sort of scenario. She always wondered about if her parents found out, or a co-worker, but a neighbor had never crossed her mind.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“No. I had one, but we broke up a few months ago. She wanted to get married, but she wasn’t my one. Frankly, I doubt I was hers, either. I needed a break. How about you, a boyfriend?”

“No. Not for a long while. I had a…”

“a…pet frog?”

She laughed, shook her head. Mr. Diablo would have died if He’d ever heard that.

“no…oh no…” the laughter, nerves and release, bubbled up again.

“A Dom?”

She nodded, biting her lip. Her smile remained.

“He was a real bastard. Thoughtless and random. Two of the worst kind of things, really. I might be submissive but I still have¬†feelings.”

“Being a Dom isn’t about not acknowledging your feelings–it’s taking them into account and working around or through them. It’s not possible to be a successful dominant by ignoring that.”

“You’re a Dom?”

“I’m flexible. I’m not the kind of guy who wants to know every last waking detail of your life–it is your life. But sexually? Yes. Very much so. And sometimes I might tell my sub what to wear in certain situations. But the control is mostly about when we are together. When I get to reap the benefits of that control.”

She’d never really considered that before. Mr. Diablo had been borderline cruel, attentive one day, then dismissive or ignoring her existence for days at a time. It was frustrating and kept her off-balance. She’d thought it was the way it was for Doms. But she’d done her homework, and discovered that really, ¬†he was just an asshole who liked to throw his power around.

It stung that she let it go on as long as she had. The fun times had been really fun. The down times had been really awful. Fantasy had helped her get through it. Helped get through the “afterwards” when she was alone…and lonely.

He moved close to her again, stroked his eyes across her face in a way she found unsettling. His hands cupped her elbows and if she let herself fall into fantasy for even a second, she’d think he would lift her and kiss her senseless.

He would raise her, his hands tugging her roughly up, and towards him, while his mouth ravished hers, his lips and teeth biting at hers, a savage yet welcome assault…

He lifted her by her elbows, and brought his head low. His lips aligned with hers. Touching gently the sensual warmth passed from his lips into hers. His tongue slid ¬†inside, tasting of peppermint. She wasn’t kissed senseless,¬†but sensation-filled. Her nipples tingled. Tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rose. Deep inside, butterflies kicked their heels in her belly, while ripples of pleasure spun outward, like a galaxy exploding. Heat, light, excitement ran through her; a quiet desperation born of want, but tempered by caution threatened to swamp her.

His mouth left hers, yet his hands held her steady. His eyes asked questions she didn’t have the answers for. Yet he saw something echoed in hers. Once more his head dipped. His lips slid down the column of her neck, teeth nipping gently at the tender curve of her shoulder.

The moan caught her unaware. Her head fell back–a clich√©. Oh, but now she understood, at last, how it had become one. ¬†Sensory overload? It was so much more than that.

It was a fucking tsunami of sensation. Breathless, her small whimpers died back to silence, yet her fingers grasped his forearms, relaxed, grasped tighter.


“This is unfair of me.”

He let her go. Gently he peeled her fingers away from his arms, stepped back.

“I’m pressing my advantage here, knowing that I’ve been thinking about touching you for weeks now. That’s unfair of me, and not the done thing. The proper thing is for us to go out for coffee, to talk about your needs and desires, to listen to mine.”

She stared at him, her eyes huge. Things swam in her blood. Jungle drums, and pussy honey, and the most incredible, raw need.

“Fuck the done thing.”

It was his turn to blink, to stare at her.

She giggled at his slightly agog look.

“Really. Fuck it. It’s weird and the kind of thing that only seems to happen in my stories but…I need a shower. A long, hot steamy one. ”

She untied her robe, shrugged out of it. She had never been so brazen before, not even with Mr. Diablo.  There was always a sense of decorum in their sexual play. Fuck decorum, too, she thought.

His shirt hit the floor behind him in seconds. There was the intoxicating sound of his belt slipping from the loops at his hips, and she imagined the weight and heft of it as it sliced the air and hit her bottom. The sound of the report, that sharp erotic pop as her skin absorbed the energy, the pain carried in the swing. His pants hit the floor, jarring the fantasy from her.

“Let me.”

Emboldened, she stepped forward, and slid her thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. His hands reached, cupped her tits, his thumbs caressing the tightening buds.

“I think ….we’ll miss the shower our first time….”

“Later,” she murmured, and fell against him, smiling.


The Secret Life of Amanda Middie

He walked towards her, that sexy grin turning all the butterflies in her belly into whirling dervishes. She felt the swell of her sex, the sudden rush of dampness in her panties, the press of her nipples against her cotton bra. 

No. That was wrong. It would be silk she wore against her skin. Yes…

the press of nipples against the sensual silk covering her tits. He noticed the bumps of them poking out the front of her tight cotton tee, the one she had chosen today, knowing that he’d be delivering her package.¬†

Come in, she murmured.

No. That was wrong. The UPS guy didn’t come in. She tapped her lip a moment.

That looks too heavy for me…could you bring it just into my foyer here? He smiled at her, a slow wink dipping from his left eye. Quivering with excitement, she …

Sign here, ma’am.

She blinked, looking at the small electronic tablet the man in brown thrust at her. He looked over her head at the blonde who sat behind her, gave a brief nod and smile to her. Amanda signed with a frown, shoving the thing back at him. There went that little dream. And it had been going so well, too.


I’m going to clip this lead on your collar, slut, and walk you around the dog park. Let those big ole mutts sniff up under your skirt, let their noses rub your naked pussy, let them lick you if you drip in your excitement. Maybe one will mount you and…


The ball of fluff ran right at her as she walked the path at the park. She always took a walk during her lunch hour, knowing that she’d be dipping into her ice cream after work. She stepped aside, hoping the thing wouldn’t jump on her white skirt.


The man’s voice was harried. ¬†He was about 90 and walked with a cane. She waited, holding the dog by its collar until he latched the creature and stumped off without a thank you or anything other than a hmpf.

Shaking her head, she made her way back to the office ignoring the latent throb between her thighs.


I’m going to squeeze your tits. Just as if they were my tomatoes. See how ripe they are. Test them for firmness. Squeeze them until you whimper and moan, until tears flood your eyes, until you beg for me to stop. And maybe, maybe–I won’t.¬†

‘Scuse me.

The skinny, dark haired man pushed past her, reaching for the tomato that Amanda had been about to take, before falling into another fantasy about Miguel, the veggie guy here at Save and Shop. Miguel had biceps like a linebacker, a thick mustache, a tattoo of a dragon wrapping around his forearm, and smelled like a dream–vegetables mixed with man musk. He never failed to stir her sex-senses when she came in and he was on duty. The way he stacked melons was thrilling.

Watching him, she saw him sneaking glances at the skinny man who had moved over to the cucumber area.


Oh dear. Taking a tomato, she scurried off to the frozen food aisle. It was definitely time to restock her ice cream supply.


She didn’t have a fantasy for the local news guy. ¬†There was simply too much depressing news, from the middle east to the economy to car recalls, that she tended to not even turn on the television until the game shows came on. ¬†By then she was tired, needing to chill, and a taste of whatever snack would end her day nicely. Eventually she’d tune into whatever show was on, or rent a movie, then head to bed. If she had the energy, she’d masturbate, creating a series of ‘montage moments’ to help get her off.

The routine was bland, okay, even boring at times. She put away her groceries, then decided to take a shower. That was off routine, but what the hell…it would save time in the morning.

He found her in the shower. She’d forgotten to lock the front door. Forgotten that she’d put in a call to the plumber for the leaking toilet. He’d pounded on the door, but then barged right in. Pulling back the curtain, he’d stared at her big tits, at the warm water streaming over her body. His other hand unzipped his pants, and his giant dick fell out. She’d only seen a cock that big on porn sites, but before she could say a word, he reached in, pulling her to her knees, and ordered her to open her mouth…

The front door buzzed as she reached into the linen closet for a clean towel. Who the hell could that be at this hour, she wondered. Hardly anyone came to visit her here, all her family complained that her apartment was “too small” for a get-together. ¬†Necessity and design had married well there. She didn’t want her space invaded by everyone, touching her stuff and remarking about her decor. No, she preferred her alone time.

Wrapping her robe tighter around herself, and trying to push away annoyance that yet another fantasy had imploded, she moved towards the door. Despite the insistent buzzer, she peered through the peep-hole.

She pulled back, frowning, then opened the door.


“Hi Amanda, I’m Craig…”

“Yes…from down the hall, Mr. Henning. I was just going to…”

“Your mail was put in my box. I think our regular postman is on vacation. There’s quite a bit for you today, and this box as well.”

Oh. That would be the new dildo she’d ordered. She felt the blush creeping up her neck, her throat. Thankfully the company did indeed ship in discreet brown paper. She opened the door wider, intending to take the package from him, but he just stepped inside. He took up a lot of space. He was tall, well muscled, well put together.

She never fantasized about Mr. Henning. Or at least, not often.

“You’re very pretty. And I see I’ve interrupted your shower.” Placing an assortment of envelopes and the box on the small table in her living room, he pointed at the towel she still clutched.

The two disparate comments stymied her. Which did she answer?

“Oh…uh…well, I’m not, really.”

His head canted to one side, gave her a look.

“uh, you¬†are,¬†really.”

His finger caressed her cheek. He smiled at her, deepening her blush, and her confusion. He took a small step closer, and another. Bending, he whispered in her ear.

“I like that companies products too.”

She stepped back, the blush running full-bore through her body.

“I–I…that is…” She stammered.

“There’s nothing wrong with sex toys you know.” He stepped away, walked around her space. “You have a lovely apartment here. Your view is much better.”

It was true, she overlooked the grounds, one of the reasons she had taken this unit.

“I look out over the parking lots. But I enjoy people watching, and don’t spend that much time looking out the window anyway. I like other kinds of…entertainments.”

Again, he danced between subjects, confusing her.


“Would you like some help…scrubbing your back? Or should I go?”

Her mouth opened and closed several times. Briefly she considered pinching herself to see if she had fallen into another fantasy.

But no, she was very much awake. Very much aware. And very uncertain what the hell she should do now.




Sexah Mojo

When I write, it is often from a sense of urgency. The emotion is tied to the writing of the piece, I know where I want to go emotionally…and often, scene-wise.

But for the last two months, I’ve struggled to find my ‘sex mojo’. Yup, being sick sure does fuck up the mojo. Add to that all the various chemicals that have been put into my body to try to make it well (I’m a firm believer that while antibiotics kill infections, it also fucks up stuff.) I’ve had stuff out of my system for 2 weeks, I’m healthy once more but …no mojo.

It was freaking me the fuck out.

How can I, horny slut that I am, NOT have sex desires?

How is it that I would not even fantasize while having orgasms. It was…mechanical. A process set to achieve the pleasure of attaining the orgasm.

It was fucking vanilla style.


Let’s face facts here, folks. I *am* a slut. I like sex. I love sex. The sounds of it…the slip and slide of flesh on flesh, the slap of skin on skin, the moans and groans.

I Love the smell of it, the earthy, salty tang of semen, the sweet but salty slickness of girl cum…I love it. The taste…yes.

Just sitting here and writing that made my mouth water.

Definitely sluttish. Slutty. Slut.

So….where the¬†fuck is my slut mojo? Why isn’t every thing I see getting transmogrified into a sexy little story in my head? Why?

I have a kink in my kink?

Does one unkink the vanilla to release the kink?

What the fuck is the cure for this….miasma of wanting…but not feeling the whole sexyness of my slutty life?

I don’t know.

Talking to Master, I flirt, and coo…but…kinda not feeling it. We don’t do Dom and sub much on the phone. He teases, I giggle, we share vanilla stuff from our day-to-day.

But nothing really got me fired up and feeling my full-on slutty self.

And then today it happened.

I was vacuuming. Vacuuming is a very zen thing you know? You don’t need to focus all that much, ear buds are in and music pumping loudly over the sound of the machine…

and I started to fantasize.


I did!

It morphed into a cute little tale in my head, and I hope to have time on Friday to write it and get it out there to you. ¬†But I was SO FREAKING (that’s for you, Jz, an intentional non-swear!) PSYCHED to finally have one of those sexah mojo moments just¬†happen,¬†without being forced, or visualized or teased into being.

It was just there.

Mine for the taking.

Mine for the crafting.

Mine for the imagineering.

I’m so psyched!

The slut is back and she’s feelin’ baaaaad.

In a really, really good way.



HNT- Two Views

I know…I can’t seem to stop.

It’s addicting, this technology.

I love my android phone. It’s all Star Trek’s fault, I’m sure. I had a reaaaal thing for that android persona in ST:TNG, Lt. Cmdr Data. ūüėÄ

That said, I decided to try a comparative of a few different techniques for the same picture. So today I have two times the views for you.

Happy HNT!


Pencil-type drawing/rendering



and “silk effect” which has lighter “brush strokes”



Our meeting for this upcoming weekend had to be postponed….it is another chaotic week in Casa nilla. Family life and a bunch of sundry things are keeping me moving 14 hours a day. ¬†At this point, going to work in the evening is a small oasis in my day. I’m sad about missing our playtime…I really could use a good beating.

I have a whole post written in my head but no time to write it. I have stories that are begging to be told, but again, time is slipping away too quickly filled with other responsibilities. After next week the immediate hectic is over, and I’ll have time once more to sit and spin my tales.

Master and I will get playtime in late June or early July–and it will be what it will be. I can’t change the fact that we’re both busy, acceptance is the only way. Regret, oh yes. We both need some release. We’ll get some face time this weekend, which helps allay the sadness, which, if I had time to spare thinking about it– I’d be wallowing in. I guess it’s a good thing I’m busy then, right? But if I wasn’t so busy I’d have time to BE with Master and then I wouldn’t be sad in the first place…

Whatever. It is what it is. Suck it up buttercup.

See? I can be my own bolster-er, too.


So, toodles for now, peeps. Hoping that this weekend will give me a much needed recharge with the Master, that we’ll drink tea together and He’ll make me giggle, and we’ll kiss and I’ll be back in the submissive zone.

But for now, tis time for me to charge forth into the morning!

On My Knees

amazing the memories that float to the surface weeks and weeks after a play time with Master…

He called me to kneel between His legs as He sat in one of the stuffed chairs. I was there a long, long time, longest ever for kneeling that way. He pulled my head to His chest with my hair, then held me close. I could hear His heart beating steadily under my ear as His hands moved over my head, down my neck, over my shoulders. It was a gentling thing, then the solid whack of His palm on my shoulder, or my upper arm. There was no rhyme or reason to it, a long series of strokes, then a period of hard solid slaps.

Time stood still for me. Occasionally He would pick up one of the implements that He’d placed along the flat arm of the chair. A dog grooming brush (the kind with the metal teeth). A small hairbrush. Sir Wolf’s cake spreader (covered with tape to protect skin from cuts).

Sometimes He would take one of them, and sitting up, would deliver a series of strikes down my back or arms or both. It was painful and soothing, like being fed steadily yet slowly. I¬†need pain. Okay, I don’t need it to live, but I crave it. I guess I’ve always played a bit with pain. Even as a kid I’d poke and prod at scabs (my mom was forever telling me to stop picking at them! But the pain gave me a curious thrill even at 9 or 10) and I had no idea. NONE of my friends did it, just me. So the craving for pain runs very deep. This pain, His pain, was all at His whim, and balanced with the gentle strokings, the occasional tugs on my hair, I remember it all braided into one sensual experience though there was no “sexual” touching.

Sometimes I’d just lay there, cradled to His chest, and we’d stay just like that. Time didn’t move for me, it was one of those rare, almost meditative moments where I was simply existing in wholeness. It was one of the most peaceful times I have ever had as an adult.

Then He’d shift and I’d feel the steady thwap against my back, His fingers buried in my ¬†hair holding me there, even when I squirmed, as the implement hammered at my back. It was soothing and magical and painful–and just when I thought I couldn’t bear it–He would stop.

The crescendo came when He tugged me up from my kneel (as I creakily rose) and up over His knees. I told you in a prior post about that, the long, long intense session of spanking, over His knees, like none we’ve had before. I confess, my ass hurt for several days after that, a delicious throb whenever I sat. It is a good memory, this one.

My vanilla life has been near to overwhelming me, so that sometimes I forget I’m a slut, I’m a submissive, that I’ve got another side of me. The pendulum will swing back the other way, I know it will. Life is ever working to balance itself, after all.¬†It will be a long while before we get another play session, so for now, I let the memories of that other time rise.



I tried to post todays post via my phone, but alas. Some entity¬†ate it. Yes. It is gone. Poof. Evaporated into the ether. Ah well. I’ve only lost a post a few times but it SURE is aggravating. Then again, I was uber tired last night so maybe it wouldn’t have made any sense?

That’s my hope, anyway.

The original post would have been called “Naughty slut”. Remember that post the other day about perfectionism? Well, I managed to perfect “naughtiness” this weekend. Who knew, right?

Master was away. Busy, for some of the time. Driving away, driving back. HE wasn’t driving, and I didn’t want Him to be bored or anything like that. So I started “text poking” Him. I even wrote a song to the tune of “Row Row Row Your Boat” (You can youtube the tune if you are unfamiliar with it, it’s not letting me get links today–apparently technology thinks I should be doing something else….!)

I must’ve sent a bajillion texts. Some just a simple “poke”. Some were longer or with more pokes. The jibes flew hard and fast, with NO response from Him, until waaay late in the afternoon.

He got home last night, and I called Him on my way to fetch the teen from the City. We talked “vanilla-ish” for a while….and then.

“You know, slut, there is a price to be paid for today’s ‘envelope pushing’, right?”

I swallowed before I spoke, and despite the sweater I was wearing, I shivered. There He is, there’s that¬†tone that strikes like a quick slap. And what is my response after a brief moment to catch my breath?

Yes. I giggled.

I’m sure it was nerves.

He went on to tell me that the cane will have a starring role in our next playtime, to remind me that there is always a price to be paid for being a naughty slut, and this next time, my tits and thighs will pay.

“Those back of your legs are quite sensitive, aren’t they, nilla?”

He draws out my name “nil-pause-la”. More shivers ensue.

I love drawing out His Beast, but it does make me nervous too. I’ll admit that I was pretty turned on — fear does that to me. And I’m pretty sure my legs are going to regret the price that was overdrawn by my texting fingers. ¬†I am not a huge fan of the cane. That stingy hurt is…hard to manage? There is that initial *slap* (and He’ll do a quick series of snap snap snap so I can’t quite catch my breath or grab a rhythm) and then the pain just spreads out like an echo….it reverberates from skin to muscle and back out. Hard to describe. If you’ve not felt it, then you should try it. You know, for science’s sake. ūüėÄ

I teased Him that “You’ll forget, Master.”

Quietly He reminded me that He keeps a mental file of this sort of thing– (He does, too. He never forgets when I owe Him for being a naughty slut. Ever.) –because payback always had to be paid. His way. With pain.

He says that last word almost lovingly, then repeats it.

“My pain, nilla.”

A wealth of meaning in those few words. His pain. His duration, and His intensity. Damn but now I’m turned on, and feeling more than a wee bit of trepidation. ¬†He loves doing that to me, too, turning me on and making me….well “fearful” is too strong a word. “Nervous” is a bit too mild. But somewhere between the two, definitely!

It may be a while before we get to meet–and I’ll have to deal with this longing and trepidation until we do. Which puts me, (I think), exactly where He wants me.