Mirror, mirror in my space,
never should you show my face.
But my bosom do reveal
When I stand or when I kneel.
Mirror, mirror on the wall…
you know that I’m not really tall–
still, my Master I do please
with HNT pix that do tease.
sitting in sofia’s kitchen, all is quiet. No kiddo’s screaming, running, or even worse…quiet. It is both surreal, and a blessed balm. I’ve *needed* this break, a chance to unwind, renew, and be with people who truly “get” me. So much laughter. Music. Wine. Adult conversations–some serious, and some seriously funny jokes. Sofia is–exactly as she is on the blog, only better. Coz, yanno, real hugs beat cyber hugs. Her Sir is…amazing. Funny, wickedly so, kind, deep, thoughtful, so when the “D” sneaks out here and there it is a sudden thing…capable of making both Sofia and I stop, openmouthed and look at one another in that “did He just say that?” way. I’m leaving today, and I’m sad to be leaving them behind, even while excited to be reunited with my family. Distance certainly heightens appreciation, doesn’t it? 😀 But in the quiet, I was able to write…and that is its own special blessing. Thank you, Sofia. For your kindness, your frankness, your eyeroll when I say “tentacle?” and the tenderness of your heart. You are a blessing in my life. ~nilla~
The cove was incredible. The beach here was narrow, a short strip of sand that arrowed into the water. Rocks poked above the surface here and there, likely fallen over time from the cliff above. Vegetation grew to the edge of the sand, clinging for dear life. The scent of the sea, of flowers, of cooling sand filled her with a curious sense of awe. Behind her, the dark wall of rock rose above her; the long expanse of the sea unfolded ahead. The gulls were away this evening, as the setting sun painted the sky once again. She stood ankle deep, as the waves rolled in, crashing occasionally to her knees. The water made a soft sigh as it rose and broke upon the land. There was a balm here, she thought. She wasn’t sure if it was the serenity of the place, the lack of a “normal” schedule, the “normal” places, but she was more at home here after a few days, than she had ever felt before.
“You’re in the water.”
The deep voice from behind her, jolted her from her reverie.. Turning quickly in surprise, she felt herself begin to fall. Arms pinwheeling comically in the air, she was doubly surprised when he snatched her up, carrying her up the beach and frowning down at her.
“Well, jeezuz,” she said, puffing out a breath. “You scared the fuck out of me.”
“I sincerely hope that is not possible. I have yet to experience the fuck in you…to lose it now would be a terrible waste.”
She shook her head in exasperation.
“You know what I meant.”
“You were in the water. Now you aren’t.”
“What is it with you and water? Wait. Don’t tell me. You get wet and you turn into a tentacle being?”
That had been the plotline in her last novel. Dropping her feet to the sand, he pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel his man nipples through his thin shirt.
‘No. Though I have no issue with entwining myself with you,” he murmured, before his lips kissed the tip of her nose. For a moment his arms wrapped her up tight. It was comforting, though she should have felt odd about it. They’d barely met, really, and the last time was pretty fuzzy.
“You’ve been working. Almost all day.” He pushed her back, hands on her shoulders, and gave her a little shake.
“You need to take care of yourself. I’m taking you out to dinner.”
Well, and there was the Dom. Not “should we go out to dinner, nor would you like to go out to eat with me,” but an order.
“You’re not my Dom.”
Her tummy gave a terrific growl, reminding her that a handful of crackers and a mug of cold coffee hadn’t been a great lunch. But her mind had been tangled up in her story, sifting action scenes as it settled. She’d be making revisions when she got back to the house, she knew, for some things didn’t sit well on her timeline.
“You’re working again.”
The smile leaked out. “I am. Occupational hazard. Wait…how did you know I worked all day?” The smile slid away, twisted around into a frown. His teeth gleamed as he grinned down at her, his hands settled safely on her hips. He couldn’t stop his fingers from kneading the soft flesh beneath her dress, but it kept them from wandering up to her tits.
“I can see you from my house when you’re out on the deck bent over that keyboard.”
Hmmm. That made her feel a bit uncomfortable, truth to tell.
“It’s not like I’m sitting and watching you all day, I just noticed that I’d go off and do something, and come back later and see you still in the same position.” He had taken her hand and was leading her up the cliff.
“Well, I’d hope not. That would sound a bit….”
“Well, yes. It’s not the first time an overly excited fan thought my books were based on real-time experience, you know.”
“Who’s watching Tentacle Man while you’re on the West Coast?”
He said it deadpan, she checked. And giggled.
She laughed this time. He made her feel good. Which kind of scared her, as Marcus had made her feel good–unless he made her feel bad. And he’d been really good at that.
The restaurant was quiet, upscale even for this beachy community. No hippies, only well dressed couples murmuring quietly. It would be a terrific setting, she mused, taking in the damask-covered tables, the elegant settings, the perfectly appointed room. Waiters handed menus, poured water, followed shortly by the sommelier.
He did ask her preference in wine, but really, she knew only what she researched online.
“Sweet,” she murmured. “Something sweet, not too heavy.”
He and the wine steward discussed the matter for a moment more, then the man nodded and glided away.
“You know your way around wines,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling. “Wish you’d been around during my second novel. I put a bit about Shiraz into a story, only to discover later that it tasted like vinegar.”
“A good Shiraz does not taste like vinegar,” he interjected.
“Oh, but it did. And then I felt guilty for weeks afterwards, thinking of the folks who read my stuff then went out and bought a bottle.”
“Some may have appreciated that, you know.”
“And some may have thought me a total wack job,” she laughed. “I was so disappointed, too. I had spent sever hours doing research on various wines.”
“That was … a paragraph..less, even. A sentence. One sentence out of an entire book of sentences. Do you really spend that much time on such a minuscule detail?”
“Minuscule? There is such thing. Even a small detail should be somewhat accurate. I have no trouble skewing something to work for a story, but overall, I really do strive to make those sorts of things as true as I can. Imagine you’re reading along and you read that the sky is …chartreuse. It could really throw you off, since you pictured it teal. It is the difference between a reader enjoying your book, and throwing it across the room and saying ‘this is a piece of shit.’ ” She paused as the wine was brought to their table. He gestured to the steward to offer the sample to her. It was, of course, perfect.
He lay his hand on the menu as she moved to take it up. He said nothing, implied everything. They looked at one another for a long moment, before her eyes dropped, her hands moved to her lap. Her pulse nudged up a few beats. This wasn’t happening. This was a story. This was…
His foot nudged hers under the table, and her eyes rose to meet his.
“If I asked you to go into the ladies room and remove your panties, what would you do?”
If you sat in the right place on the outdoor patio at the restaurant, looking at the lake as you munched your dinner, and the sun was setting and the lighting was just so, maybe you would catch a glimpse of him. It wouldn’t look like much, a faint curve moving opposite of the waves. Really, that would be it. Just a wee bump in the middle of the big lake in the middle of the city. Cars sped over the bridge that spanned the north and south lobes of the long expanse of water. It was deep, and cold, and stretched in a long vaguely oval shape between two mid-sized cities. One one side, houses clustered, old homes that looked as if they had grown there. On the eastern-most bank, a shed was packed with canoes, and a launching deck for the sculls for the local college rowing teams. The sun cast long tendrils upon the surface of the water, which threw back fractured diamonds of light. The sky turned slowly from brilliant blue to soft cobalt, as the western sky flamed with color. At last the sun dipped below the low swell of mountains, leaving the sky gray, blurring to black on the easternmost edge. The waves, silvered now in the last of the gloaming, lapped around the old dock where he lay in repose.
Sometimes, when the sculling crews were out practicing, he’d glide along underneath, watching the oars dipping into the water in what he perceived was an attempt to move as he did. They were too ungainly to do more than move forward or a long curving line. He could stop and change direction at a moments notice, diving deep or gliding just under the surface of the water. Sometimes for fun, he’d swim just beneath a mid-summer swimmer, staying just behind them, with only an occasional tickle along their gleaming bellies. And rarely, if he was in a particularly jocular mood, he would wrap just one arm around one leg–only for a moment, but enough to catch the attention of the unwary swimmer. Then he would dive, hard and fast, a gleaming bullet aiming for the dark part where leaves and bits of foam cups were mired in the bottom silt. He could watch the sudden flurry of movement; they almost all responded in the same way. First a pause…then, feeling the slime and seeing the mark of his limb on theirs, would drive off in a splashing cacophony of motion, scrambling for the dock lest the ‘thing’ return and capture them in earnest. He’d squirt himself with joy when their limpid legs came out of his water, hearing their quick run along the dock. And once more the lake would lie quiet and unfettered by the bipeds.
He enjoyed winter, when ice crusted the top of the lake, and grew thick and thicker. Sometimes the bidpeds would come out and drill holes through, and drop their lines with succulent tidbits. These he would take for his own, sometimes paying for the snack by grabbing a fish and spearing it upon the line. Sometimes he would take bait AND fish, then return to the bottom to sleep. When the ice broke up and floated away, down the long water to the river that drained it, he would chase and play with them. There was always fun to be had, there in the depths of the lake.
He grew, season after season. If he was seen now and again, it wasn’t something that worried him. Sometimes a diver would peruse the murky depths, but they stirred up enough silt to easily hide him. And several times a summer, he’d find tiny bipeds struggling to reach the shore. Sometimes they would float, sometimes they would sink, but he would catch them up and nudge them tenderly until they could stumble through the shallow water and return to the land where they lived.
It was a happy life, all in all. And though he spent it alone, he never minded. A long deep winter brought long days and nights of sleep. Spring brought a change to that, for during that somnolent winter he had changed, sliding silently into maturity. And just like that, his entire outlook on bipeds underwent a radical shift. No longer did long white limbs seem intrusive, but enticing.
In the later part of the morning, she roused. The coffee and aspirin seemed to do the trick, for she felt fine. Stretching, she rose and padded to the bathroom. She still had her shirt on, so she rather thought he’d been the gentleman and not used her horny, drunken state to fuck her. That pleased her deep down in the place where she still hoped chivalry lived. It was an odd feeling for one who also wanted to be tied up and used, will she, won’t she. Stepping into the spray, she let the thoughts bubble through her head–it gave her great fodder for her novel.
He watched her from above, her sundress rippling in the ocean breeze, her body unmoving except for her hands dancing over the keyboard. Fascinated, he watched as one hour rolled into a second, a third. There were occasional head shakes, fist-clenchings and punches thrown skyward. Then there were those few times where she leaned back in her chair and stretched. An enticing curve of tit was exposed during those stretches, where he could almost follow the soft curve up to a peaked (or so he imagined) nipple. His cock stirred. He had better control than this, he knew. She fascinated him, all unknowing of the spell she wove around him as she worked.
Shaking his head, he turned from the window. He had things to do, dammit.
A loud rumble from her middle was the first warning that she’d been at this for a long while. A deep breath, lifting her hands overhead, and gently moving her head from side to side, she began the task of uncramping muscles. The morning had slid into early afternoon, and she now had a tremendous body of work ready to send to her editor. A novel had never woven itself together so quickly. She’d even gotten ideas blooming about a follow-up story, though she rarely wrote two novels about the same characters. Plot points had danced so strongly in her mind that she’d drafted a quick outline so that she wouldn’t forget–though she doubted that she would. This story had her by the throat…and other areas too.
She had to give credit to location–it was easy enough to work here. The breeze, the sun, the scent of the sea air blowing up the cliff face, the call of gulls riding the wind; all conspired to relax her and allow her ideas to grow quickly. Stretching once more, she tipped her face to the sunshine, wiggled her toes, and breathed in the exotic scents of the blooming riot of flowers. The hiss and boom of the ocean drew her attention…really, this location was fabulous. Rising, she walked to the railing and looked down at the tireless waters below, imagining her characters dancing on the wide open patio, her female lead experiencing the hard bite of fear as the villain bent her back over the railing.
Shaking off the spell of the book, she looked out to sea, noting that there was dampness between her thighs. It was sometimes a bit embarrassing to realize that her own words could turn her on. She was always proud to arouse her readers, of course, but herself? The tale’s sudden dark twist had flicked a switch in her, one that would be hard to shut off. The fear of the ‘bad guy’ also created a different sort of sexual energy. One that was not prettily wrapped in a neat package. It was a minor scene, but an important turning point when the lead male character realized that Miranda had gone missing, and how conflicted his feelings were about that.
Of course, that lead her to thinking of how it would be to surrender herself the way Miranda had in the last scene she had written, allowing the Dungeon Master to take her to a private area and secure her to a frame to be whipped.
Whips scared the piss out of her, yet the thought of the sharp snapping sound in the air as her flesh waited for the blow, the burning sting of it kissing her back, the welts and marks it would leave behind–all of that was an erotic turn-on. How strangely wired she was to be so turned on by that which made her very nervous. Fearful, even. Between that, and the feeling of being secured, unable to move away, to stop it.
That was the heart of it, really. That and the wild rush that pain delivered. That feeling when pain erupted, was consumed, allowing it to grow and throb on the flesh while the mind relaxed and began to fly was one sought after by every submissive. Of course, that feeling had gotten her in way over her head with her last dominant. But she wasn’t going to think about that now. Her stomach rumbled again, and she turned her back on the sea, her novel, and headed for the kitchen for breakfast.
The afternoon had slid into early evening as she puttered about the house. She realized she was waiting. She didn’t know how she felt about that, actually. She who had prided herself on becoming a successful, independent submissive. Now she had morphed into being the “ultimate girl”. She wondered if he would call. Would he ask her to dinner? Or offer to stay in. Would she offer him a drink, a snack, sex?
Yes, that last one was the real kicker. He was attractive, to be sure, but the attraction went well below skin level, and deep into that crevice between her thighs. Dammit. Though he had an agent to handle the rental of this house, perhaps it would be better to think of him as the Landlord, rather than as a Dom.
It was pretty fucking hard to not think of him as a Dom.
She sighed, shaking herself out of her mood. Having given most of the day to her craft, she decided to head outside and explore the neighborhood. She’d been to town, but not gone to the cliffs edge. Hadn’t found the wee path that might, maybe if she was lucky, lead her down to the water. Maybe she’d stand in the surf so she could brag of having been in both oceans in her lifetime.
The sound of the doorbell carried across the patio, echoed in her pussy. It had to be him. As excited as her stories heroine, she moved towards the front door.
You never know what you’ll see when you go visiting…..
We had some face time tonight. It was good. Not private, but still. I pulled up and saw Him immediately…in a suit. I almost swallowed my tongue…my pussy fluttered and I was about faint with that sudden slam of desire that flares when I see Him. In a suit? It’s twice the whammy, let me tell you.
So I move on shaking legs into Starbucks, and kiss Him. He’s all spiffy, and I’ve just come from work, a bit stinky, hair unbrushed, no make up…a total slacker in the looks department I’m afraid.
We talked, he and I, about D/s. It’s been awhile since we had one of these conversations and I’ve had some curiosity questions. And we talked about subspace, and him pushing me a bit harder than he has and how does he know when he’s about to break me–and stops.
He says he’s made a mistake in the past, pressed to hard to fast…I think that’s just part of the Dom learning curve. He never has with me. Just to the edge of my breaking…and stops.
He tells me that if HE wrote a blog that his favorite story to share about me would be the way I jump (literally) when he blows in my ear when I’m on the wall and unaware of where the fuck he is in the room. He will put on the water in the bathroom, or close the door, or flush the toilet, then move absolutely silently to behind or beside me. I think it’s safe to move off the wall where I stand, blindfolded, nose on the wall, hands palms to the surface. I wiggle my fingers. Lift my head. Maybe take a half-step to the left, to the right, just to fuck around, you know?
And he’ll B L O W into my ear, hard!
I jump a mile, and shriek.
That, says He, is his absolute favorite part. Silly Dom-man. 😀
But then we were talking again about those boundaries. And slid into ‘safewords’.
We don’t have one.
Well-we do, kinda. But not really. First, I don’t see myself ever using it. Second, He’s promised me that he pushes me as much as he feels he wants (and let’s face it–he’s not gonna break his toys)…and a safeword won’t stop that.
So tonight he gave me a blog idea.
“Tell them,” he says of you all, “that you have a safeword.”
“I do?” I say, knowing there’s a catch, because I don’t want one. I trust Him. Implicitly. You may call that foolish, stupid, silly. But after 5 years, I think we’ve got a handle on one another.
So, that safeword?
Yes. Think about that a minute, let it sink in. Then laugh like I did.
Yesterday’s post was terribly angsty, wasn’t it? I was feeling very needy and blue and … there isn’t anything wrong with that. I am grateful for the kind thoughts–and the sympathetic ones. I know you know how it feels. I wonder if there has ever been a submissive who has said “I am getting too much from my Top”…? I’m sure I’ve never read a single blog that has said that. We’ll get a bit of time at the end of this week, so that’s something to hold onto.
And after I see Him–I’m going to be traveling.
Yes, nilla on an airplane (yikes!)!!
Heading (via that airplane) to hang out with sofia, and just found out that another blogging friend will be there as well, at least for a little bit. Who? Why none other than Sir Q’s mlb…aka fiona! Exciting times ahead in the slut-0-sphere. No, no, sorry…not *that* kind of fun. But definitely some vanilla–with a dash of naughty tales to share I’m sure.
The gardens are calling me–there is SO much to do. So I may be posting less frequently. The summer is always chock-full of things to do, trips to take, and I just can’t do it all. I’m learning to let go of some things…and daily—or any kind of “schedule” for blogging will be taking the brunt of that. I’ll post when I can–and I hope you miss me just a little. Of course there will be posts from my trip–can’t leave you all in the dark about all our fun, right?
Blessings…thanks for reading, for your loyalty, and as always, your perverted and perverse minds!
Daily life has left me up to my neck in vanilla world stuff. Where’s the kink? That viscous swirl of rich dark hurting, of spank-reddened flesh…it evades my body, yet haunts my mind.
Where can I find that which I crave? SO intense that it exists within the viscera of my cells- a need that is matched by His strength. Of His hand squeezing my flesh until I whimper, beg and moan. The sharp bite of the cane or His teeth marking me as His toy.
It feels worlds away.
Busy on the outside…smiling and capable and competent; on the inside I am screaming.
Hit me, hurt me. Bruise me, mark me as a slut, a wanton burning whore who needs to be INCAPABLE…who just needs to obey, to suffer, to pleasure, and through that storm of agony, be made new.
It evades capture, though it lives wild in my mind.
It is that thought that keeps me sane. Someday we will have time for one another. Time to do the wicked and horrible things that I adore…things that He needs to do and I crave the receiving of.
Until then I will smile, be capable.
And hold the screams inside.
“I’m so drunk!”
Her slurred giggle sounded proud. As if achieving this status had taken skill, ability.
“I’m going to have to pour you into bed, little one.”
“I’m n—,no—, not.” A hiccup interrupted her thought. His lifting her from her chair and carrying her into the house erased all rational thought. He smelled good. Of sea air, and of the wine he’d brought. She thought about their destination, her bedroom, as her head spun.
“You’re very drunk, little girl.”
He set her on the bed. Big eyes stared up at him. It was tempting. It was easy. While he didn’t mind temptation, he wasn’t a big fan of easy. It was the hunt that excited. He’d gotten inside her head tonight, at least a little. Found out her limited experiences with being dominated. Found out her last Dom had left her a messed-up wreck. Found the fear beneath the lust. It would take time to work the fear around to worry, and from worry to trust. He had all the time he needed to do just that. The first step would begin now, by walking away while his body yearned to fall upon her and take.
He tugged the covers around her after removing her skirt. The curve of her calf was lovely, her thighs invited. Not model thin, but full and lovely to lay upon. Her tits pressed against her shirt but he knew revealing them would be an issue. He felt the hard bite of lust, and tamped it down. Tracing a finger over her lips, he felt her smile in the dark, before turning away.
His house lay further up the hill from hers, where he could sit and watch her when she worked outside on the pool patio, little did she know. Hidden behind rocks and landscaping, his view outshone hers, except that while she was here, and not up the hill in his bed, he paid scant attention to the natural beauty beyond his windows. His attention focused on her, on his desire for her. But tonight he drove down the hill to the small cove below both homes. From the houses above, down the mountainside to the edge of the sea, this land was his. The small crescent of beach gave way to rocky terrain. A rough path would take him back up to her pool. Standing in this spot he could hear the splash of the waterfall that cascaded ceaselessly from the infinity edge. Looking up, he watched the stars moving through the sky, while trying to push away the picture of her there in the bed, her body just that close.
So very tempting in her drunken innocence. But she was not an innocent, of course. Picking up a pebble, he tossed it into the sea, an offering of a sort, though he was always careful to keep his distance from the frothing hungry waves. Another temptation to avoid tonight. He turned his thoughts and feet from the ocean, and moved uphill to sit on a rocky outcrop and watch the breaking foam gleam under the faint glow of stars. Pondering, he thought about being a dominant. There was no one true way. No ‘right’ way. But there sure as hell were wrong ways. He thought about the woman sleeping soundly in the house above him. She hadn’t told all, but perhaps she’d told enough. He’d use those words to guide his actions. There would be time enough to guide her to knowing him, accepting him. In all ways. Rising from his craggy perch, he made his way easily through the darkness to his car, and returned home, knowing that he would not sleep so easily as his erstwhile companion.
She dreamt of the sea. Of moving through it effortlessly, cutting through the waves until she came to a flat and warm place, and floated. The sun was hot, beating down on her body, making her dip her toes to —
With a start she felt her leg fall off the bed. A strong beam of sunlight poured into the room, making her wince. While the hangover wasn’t that terrible, at least for now, the light was fair to piercing her eyeballs with its brilliance. She sat up carefully, noting a lukewarm cup of coffee and three aspirin on a tray on the bedside table. A note leaned against a vase with a single flower in it. It read “Drink this, take those” with an arrow pointing to the coffee and pills in turn. He had to have been here this morning. Had they? She remembered being terribly giddy, horribly horny. Wondering if she needed to apologize, she took up the coffee and aspirin, swallowing them down quickly. Her stomach churned a bit now that she was erect. A hot shower might cure that, but she’d give the coffee a chance first. She lay back after fluffing her pillows. Tried to remember where their conversations had led. He was very knowledgeable, and admitted to taking a fancy to her work. He was a fan, but not in an aggressive stalker-type of way. Which was a relief since she was living, for all intents and purposes, in his house. She remembered saying something to that effect to him, and his response that it was her house while she was here and writing. She had used the setting in her current work, but somehow she would need to weave him into the tale. A nod of thanks, of gratitude for this lovely place. And because he was such a lovely thing to look at. Not a thing. A person. But still. He was well put together. His hair was wavy and up close she could see the silver threads weaving through it. Not as young as she had first thought. Dammit but men seemed to age into their looks so much better than a woman did. Or maybe women just worried more about that sort of thing, she supposed. She rather doubted that he daubed wrinkle cream under his eyes each night before bed as was her usual bed-time ritual.
The sun burned into the room, bathing it in a golden glow. She closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.