Happy Blogoversary to me….!!!

On this date in 2009, in a gesture born of fury and emotional upheaval, I created this blog. I was lost in my head, craving something I didn’t know much about. But I knew it was an answer to a question I’d never before been brave enough to face.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Why? Why did I crave stories where rape or domination were the main factors? Being forced is a huge part of my kink, except back then …well pre-August 2009…I didn’t understand what a kink was.

Or a fetish.

I was woefully naive. (He would argue that I still am!)

But of this D/s and BDSM stuff? Clueless.

And then I found blogs. Where it happened for real. Where people got beaten and fucked and tied up and and and…


I can tell you that prior to August 2009 I would read some of the most wicked tales, and the seat below me would be wet with my juices. I felt …guilty. Aroused. Scared. Weird. And a sense of longing so intense it was nearly overwhelming.

There I was, middle aged housewife with two young kids and reading such perverse stuff.

I quit, you know.

Went a month, then two. Stopping myself from the perversion. My dreams went haywire. Until I couldn’t NOT look.

And I was hooked.

And Vanilla mom was born.

This is my first uber-short story. It felt wicked and naughty to write it, all 160 words of it (snicker). Stand up, girl was the first in a long long line of stories. Short and not all that interesting, it was a watershed moment for me. I’ve gotten better over the years. Not quite as … obsessed … as I was in the middle years, posting daily for nearly 2 years. Now I take a bit more time, but still…that rush when I hit “publish” just has no equivalent in my vanilla life.

So 5 years of blogging lays behind me, and who knows what lies ahead. But you know I’ll be here; I’ve learned my lesson about trying to keep this dark side hidden away–it’s just impossible.



HNT- Farewell to Summer

Not much of a summer here in the northeast…no more than 4 days over 90, mostly in the 70’s and mid-80’s…and I’m not complaining because I know in the fall that there will still be heat to come…via His hand. For now there is the last donning of the little-worn swimsuit…and a smile hidden behind the camera…



I was ready.

W A A A A A A A Y ready.

I woke up Sunday morning, my body and spirit tingling with anticipation….and then I sat up. The migraine took me totally by surprise–I rarely get them, maybe one every few years. It hurt to blink. To move my head.

And driving 40 minutes to visit him? Out of the question.

I had to text, had to cancel. He was solicitous. I told him that I’d just “putter in the house”.

“No. Rest.”

That was clear (and dominant!)

I did get permission to go to the garden center (less than 1/2 a mile from my house) after my aspirin had been taken, and spent some of the late morning in my garden, which was very soothing.

I woke up today with just the “edge” of a headache–the aftermath of a migraine, really. But feeling much better physically. Emotionally?

Well, you’re smart. You can figure that one out.

It is what it is until it is done.

Hoping we can grab some time this week…but not sure how that will work–my week is pure chaos leading up to Labor Day and all the fun stuff that entails. (It really *is* Labor Day at our house!)

Cross your fingers, and throw your prayers to the wind that we manage to get playtime in a few weeks.

Gods but I miss His face.

He promises pain…and I’m hoping I’ll get some nuggets…sooooon. Sunday. Or, you know, like in 9 hours or so. I feel like a little kid on Christmas eve. Outside, placid older woman.

Inside? Jumping up and down and kicking my feet and twitching and twirling.

It won’t be playtime…but that isn’t too far off either.

Like a hungry person will get a snack when it’s close to supper…to whet but not spoil one’s appetite, tomorrow will be that for me. A touch, a kiss, face time. A pinch, giggling, teasing, and his golden eyes giving me that look when I push too far.

And I will push too far. *wicked grin*

I do it to keep Him on his toes…and not out of rudeness or lack of respect. We have that kind of teasing relationship. (Lest any of you who have a different sort of D/s relationship think I’m merely being “bratty”…He’d be bored to tears with a slut who was a doormat.He is not a “protocol” driven Dom.)

Hopefully this “snack” of Master-time will hold me over (and inspire me to more writing, though I will again be “unplugged” over the holiday weekend. Labor Day weekend is a very vanilla, very very VERY busy time for nilla.

And then…

(oh, and then…)


Piling On & Then Some

So…when you last tuned in, I was in a bit of a funk. Maybe more than a bit. Still, I managed to survive 4 days totally out of contact with Him, and returned from our mini vacation relaxed and renewed.

But the angst that I’d thought I’d finally shed was actually merely hiding below the surface. And it had found a new companion there: self-doubt. How the fuck does that get into my head so sneakily? Where did that come from? How was that even allowed a place in my head, even in the quiet places? I’m really a self-confident woman, very assured of my own sense of worth. I’m capable, caring, strong.

And yet, dammit, the angst and self-doubt nibbled maliciously on the edge of my confidence.

I sent him a text the other night asking if we were still D/s. That I still loved him, that wouldn’t change, and hell, I’ve been in a committed and sexless relationship for over a decade–why would that be any different with Him?

I know.


Angst city.

Did he find me unattractive? Unpleasant? Unable to make time for us?

Where do these dark thoughts come from? I swear there was nothing on the surface of our relationship, or even deep in the heart to make all these things ever see the light of day. I’d swear they just weren’t a part of our relationship.

That after almost 6 years together I’d have more confidence in him, and ultimately, in me.

*pauses, frowning, shaking my head*

Side note here for newbies:  Again, this is not a pity-party. This is just a slice of what happens in a long-term D/s relationship that is not 24/7. 

The thing is–being that open–that emotionally vulnerable–is a hell of a lot harder than just giving him my body. He has my orgasms, my tits, my ample ass. He also has my heart and to be fair? He is beyond gentle with that vulnerable organ.

So I was snarky at first, then a bit more open about what I was feeling. So doubting that anyone would want me. Middle aged, round, short. Grumpy often. Busier than a one-armed paper hanger.

And He has this…way of talking. He’s…what’s the word? Well, first, He’s direct about the things that really fret me. But the other stuff, the self-doubt that I have only alluded to to him? He’s oblique about handling it.

He first sends me a text reply to my angsty one.

without sex in life, why bother?

and how else will I get to beat you?

Seriously, that made me smile, and weep a little bit. I’m feeling *very* (understatement) emo lately, very weepy, somewhat moody. (sounds like the symptoms of SADD, doesn’t it? hmmmm)

He tells me (while talking about a young woman we know in a vanilla way)…”I told Marie she is looking really great” (after some surgery).

“I don’t tell you that nilla, because I don’t want your head to swell.”

I smile. See? Obliquely He tells me He likes me just fine. Sure, He’d love for me to lose 20 pounds. I feel the same actually..losing 20 pounds would feel terrific. But we’re two middle-aged people who aren’t body perfect. Oh ohkay…He’s actually very sexy. And I can be. You know, when I’m not all angsty and shit. 😀

And we spoke yesterday on my way home from work. And I knew that 99% of why we haven’t had a playdate…? It is *my* fault. Well, fault is a strong word–for conditions beyond my ability to control, how’s that? I work multiple jobs, have my kids full-time, and have been juggling a bunch of pissy attitudes here at home. (why do they all have to get “troll syndrome” at the same damn time? on the same damn day???why?)

Anyway…He and I talked through it. Through the issue of no playtime. Through my pissy feelings about my family. I love them to pieces but somedays…well…if you have kids, you know.

And He healed me. In little bits and pieces, with just the way He phrased things…He’ll never say “I love you” to me. It’s just His way. I get it (kinda)…but beyond and around that, He shows that He loves me, in all these oblique ways. That our D/s relationship is as important to Him as to me, and reminds me why I’m in this in the first place. (Because it feeds those dark spaces inside my spirit where the need to be Dominated exists.)

I end our conversation with “Oh Master–I so need a spanking.”

He responds.

“Nilla, you always need a spanking.” His voice drops, turns silky. “You know why? Because you’re a naughty little girl. A naughty dirty slut.”

Yeah. He definitely knows how to fix me.

*enormous smile*



Lesson Taught

“Go on and cry, little baby.” Madeline laughed as the little mouse scurried from the copy room, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand, her lower lip trembling.

“Why are you such a bitch to her?” Cori looked bewildered. It was deeper than animosity. Maddy had loathed Caitlyn on sight.

“She’s just too fucking perfect.” 

“You’re perfect. Beautiful, tall, smart, family trust money…I could go on and on you know.”

“Have you seen the guy who picks our Mouse up? He’s fucking-A gorgeous. How does our Mouse catch a guy like that? She’s so…so…”

“Mousey?” Cori’s bland reply made Madeline laugh, nodding. The sound of footsteps outside the copy room, broke up the confab and they moved off to their separate offices.

‘Besides,’ Maddy thought to herself as she stalked back to the pile of papers on her desk, ‘the little mouse had the bosses ear’.’ He always listened to what she had to contribute to their weekly meetings, while often shooting down Madeline’s own, far grander ideas. It pissed her off royally. She probably even went to a community college to get her degree in typology, the little jerk. Rolling her eyes, she put the Mouse out of her mind, and got back to the grind.


“You’re tense.”

“Just another day at the funny farm, Sir.”

“Little girl, I know something is wrong. You’re face is tight, and your smile is absent from your eyes. I know you–inside and out–remember?”

Caitlyn’s mouth curved at the sexual innuendo contained in his concern. Her Dom, her lover, her partner in life–no one knew her better.

“It was that ugly bitch again, wasn’t it?”

He said it to make her giggle,but tonight it didn’t make her smile. To her horror, huge tears welled in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. Well and dammit!

“I quit today, Sir. I know I should have talked to you about this first, gotten your permission, but–she cornered me in the copy room and sliced my spirit up in ribbons. I didn’t do a thing to her, I swear it.”

He’d known, by pulling grudging details from her from in the past that she had been run roughshod by this one woman. He hadn’t known much more than that, but he’d had no idea it had gotten this bad. Damn his slut for being so close-mouthed!

He looked at her. She sat on her knees, looking up at him, the sadness pouring out of her. It tore at his gut. Fury filled him. He was allowed to hurt her. He was allowed to make her cry. Not some cold-hearted, upwardly mobile cunt of a coworker. And while he understood that life sometimes sucked and you had to deal with it, the fact that this work-bitch seemed to be taking pleasure in tormenting his goodgirl made him irate.

“Go to the closet and fetch the big vibe, the nipple clamps, and the paddle. Be quick about it!”

Sending her to the toybox would take her mind off her troubles. Yet the other part of his brain began  working overtime.


Madeline was pissed. Since the Mouse had quit, her own workload had doubled. And tonight of all nights her boss had made her stay late to finish a project that the Mouse had been working on. It was due, naturally, tomorrow; client presentations were key, so it had to be rock solid, polished smooth and ready for the board to review prior to the client meeting after lunchtime.

“I’ll miss the last train.” It hadn’t been a whine, thankfully, but while she was willing to work for a living she hadn’t known that all of the details that her mousey counterpart had been juggling. It gave her a tiny bit of grudging respect…the Mouse, for all the aggravation her presence gave her, had known her stuff. And now here she was, working at 1:00 a.m. trying to knit all the pieces together to keep her own job.

“I’ll send a car for you. I’m not sure why Ms. Murphy quit, but I know that the two of you were at odds. It seems, since you wanted her job so desperately, only meet that you take on her workload until I can hire a replacement for her. Until then, there are several critical client deadlines looming. Prepare for some long nights ahead, Madeline.”

With that, he’d turned back to his computer, obviously dismissing her. It made her wonder what that sniveling mouse had said to him, yet she knew that the resignation and leave-taking had happened quickly, via computer. She’d left. And she simply hadn’t returned. Madeline would have heard about it if  mouse and the boss were friends off work hours-her grapevine covered all of Smith & Blarney’s gossip chains.

A huge yawn escaped before she could pull it back. Rubbing her hands over her face, she did a quick review of her work. It looked good; hopefully there wouldn’t be any last-minute revisions. Taking up her purse, she rang the number that Mr. S had given her. Passing the cleaning crew working their way through the offices, she ignored the shy nods of greeting.  Her heels clacked as she stepped into the elevator, her feet throbbing in march with the sound. Damn but she was tired!

The doors opened at the garage level. A dark sedan waited, its engine purring softly. The driver got out, opening the back door for her. A quick prick on her upper arm and the world went dark even as she slid inside.


She woke as quickly as she had fallen asleep. Where was she? Everything was dark. She tried to move but she was stuck. Her arms didn’t move. Her legs were immobile. Panic hit like a shock, jolting her to full awareness. She was tied in a chair.

“HELP!” she screamed.

“aaah, you’re awake. Welcome.”

The voice was rich and deep and resonate–and totally unfamiliar.

“Who are you. Where am I?”

“Seriously? For a smart girl that’s rather cliché, isn’t it?”

She blinked at the audible sneer.

“Where are you? I can’t see you.”

A single spotlight illuminated over her head. So bright, it lit up the area directly around her, and threw the darkness even deeper into the shadows.


Yes, he was definitely sneering at her.

“I can’t see you.”


“Nor shall you.”

This time the voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and right behind her. Before she could turn her head, a mask fell, covering her face. He pulled it tight.

“You may scream. This room is used to those sorts of sounds…and appropriately cloaked so none will escape.”

She swallowed the scream. Did he mean none as in “no sounds” …or other girls he’d taken? All the stories she read about kidnapped women snapped into her head. A babble of pleas erupted.

Please don’t hurt me.

Please let me go.

Please don’t kill me.

Please let me out of here.

Eventually she ran down, falling into silence, punctuated with soft sniffling tears.

“It’s very different when someone is tormenting you, isn’t it?”


HNT- Tits in the Night

It is night.

I’m in my bed, just ready to turn out the light. Missing Him, that rough, mean touch of His hand on my body, the way His fingers can pinch in a flash, leaving bruises and euphoria in His wake.

I send Him pictures of “His tits” before I plunge my room in darkness and remember…

bedGoodnight, Master.



This is a story of submission. 😀 It’s not your typical submissive-type of story. No whips. No chains. Yet at the end of it all? He was deeply, intensely satisfied…and isn’t that what we “small s” types really want? Really? (You know it is!)

All people in this story are true. This really happened. No….uhhhmmm.  Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that? Yeah. Right. This is allll just a figment of my imagination. *nods* Really.

Okay. Not really.


He has a gig. It’s a random thing he does, when he’s got the time and in the mood. Involves driving. Sometimes when I call Him, I can tell that he’s in his car. Usually when we talk, I’m a wiseass. Or a tease. Or whining for an orgasm. Or tweaking him (wait, does that fall under the category of smartass?!) about pinching his man nipples (he is alternatively confused and amused by this!) But this gig of his means that there could be someone there with him. And I know that he would have no qualms about answering his phone. And knowing that he might not be alone in the car adds a new dimension to the experience of talking with him, at least on my end.

And damned if He doesn’t know this.

Oh yes, that crafty Dom knows me *so* well. (I’d say inside and out but that would be overstating now, wouldn’t it?) So he knows that I’ll be cautious when speaking …just in case.

“Are you alone?” I asked him the other day.

“Nope, I’ve got Tony and Bill here with me. Say hi guys, this is nilla.”

I think I gasped. I might have swallowed my tongue. I …He…wha?????

I heard replies. I did. I swear it.

“Don’t forget you’re on speakerphone, nilla,” He reminded me at the start.

He left me stuttering for what to say. He’d ask me a question, teasing me, knowing that I’d answer with caution. Tentative. Long moments of silence as I pondered each reply to be honest, but not too risqué. He did call me his slut, I’m sure of it. But it was said somewhat quietly. Did they hear? Did they know? Did I care?(I did, kind of. I mean…did it really matter? No. Yes. No. I don’t know!

I was blushing, there in my  car. I wasn’t visible except by voice. I was shy. I was nervous. I was…often at a loss for words, with Him coaxing some replies out of me.

“Nilla, I’ve never known you to be so quiet on the phone before,” he half-laughs at one point.

“Well…” I start, then falter, falling silent. What could I say to that?

He led me all around the barn with his conversation. He would be teasing me, then talking to them.

After about ten minutes, he finally says to me,

“hang on nilla, we’re stopping here. Okay, yes, you’re welcome. Sure the slut loved it.”

I hear the door of his car open, close. The sound of the car speeding up.

“Okay nilla, I’m back on the road.”

“Are you really alone, Sir?” I ask cautiously respectful, and not flippantly smartypants as I usually am.

“I am–as I have been this whole time.”

And again I’m aghast, “You–you–” I stutter, at a total loss for words. I seriously cannot believe that I fell for one of his slick jokes, again. He laughs, while I open and close my mouth a few times, breathing heavy into his ear. He is deeply, fully, richly amused.

“God!” He laughs. “I love those long, long moments of utter silence from your side of the phone, slut. If you were in radio, you’d just have wasted $5000 of air time!” He laughs again as I try to form a cogent thought.  “You’re so fucking naive nilla–but damn that was fun!”