Time (1)

i think i have a garage fetish….~n~

She glanced at her watch with a faint scowl.

“I only have an hour,” she muttered, frowning. She glanced towards the garage where an assortment of dings and bangs were echoing. Pacing the tiny space, she watched the street lights come on, a long zipper of them stretching down the road. It was cold outside; her breath fogged the glass. Around the edges, frost was forming. The room was overly warm, perhaps to compensate for having to open and close the bay doors so often. Shrugging out of her coat, she folded it neatly, placing it over her small handbag. She looked at the calendar featuring some muscle car–and a very scantily clad model with silicone boobs. She shook her head, amazed that in this day and age men still found those fake things arousing. Why, even when laying down across the hood like that, the girls boobs stayed upright. It was annoying, not merely misogynistic, she thought.  Her boobs–breasts, she corrected herself quickly, though large, always kind of flopped to the side when she lay down. Not that she could picture herself draped that way, wearing nothing but three triangles of silk. She hugged herself and moved back to look out the window. Glancing at her watch, she noted eight minutes had passed.

He noticed her looking at the calendar. Funny how the chicks always glanced at it. Some frowned, some just kept looking, almost all wound up hugging or touching their own tits at some point. He watched her face, the way her mouth turned down in a frown, then zoomed the camera in to look at her tits. She had great natural ones, large and round. His mouth watered. 

Wondering what the fuck was taking so long–after all, it was just one tire she needed looked at–she peered into the gloomy garage. She didn’t hear anything now, and it felt…empty. Stepping through the doorway brought the tang of grease and other unknown automobile things. Her nose crinkled as she tried to sort them, but grease and oil, and ‘man sweat’ seemed to surround her. She peered over to where her car hung up in the air, the front right tire removed. Cars were strange things when they were suspended, she mused. But of the one fixing her tire, there wasn’t a trace.


Her voice was low, and broke. She cleared her throat, tried again.


The electric heater clicked on with a thud and bang, startling her. Hand to her throat, she whipped around as the heated blast spewed from the beast in the corner.  Geeze, she rolled her eyes at herself. A sound came from the far back of the garage. A door was half-closed, and she moved gingerly towards it, picking her way carefully across the dark floor. There was a splashing sound, she noted now. He was …washing up? She was confused, then annoyed as she glanced once more at her watch. Dammit! She’d told the girls she’d meet them for drinks at 6 and it was 5:47 now. She’d told the jerk that she only had an hour. A quick flush of annoyance rushed through her. Reaching out, she whipped open the door, only to freeze in shock.

He was pissing.

She wished she hadn’t seen how huge his cock was, how thick in his hand it was. How yellow the pee was as it zinged into the toilet. She stood for five, ten seconds in pure shock as he looked over his shoulder at her, unfazed.

“See something you like?”

His voice broke the spell, and she shook herself.

“Ohmygawd…I…Sorry…I…” Spinning on her heel she slapped at the door, which bounced from the latch and opened even wider. This was not happening. It just wasn’t. He tucked his cock away, zipping his pants, and moving to the sink to wash his hands. And still she stood staring.

“Door doesn’t close, you see,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“And you sure did see, didn’t you?” The smile danced on his face, in his eyes. Tugging a paper towel from the dispenser, he turned as he swiped his hands with it. “Liked it, too. Didn’t you wonder for just a moment there…”

His eyes traveled down her body, stopping briefly on her breasts where the tiny vee of cleavage peeked out from her buttoned shirt. Her cranberry blouse highlighted the creamy valley, the round mounds of her breasts lifted nicely. Very, very nicely in his opinion.

“I..” she cleared her throat. “I wondered what was going on with my tire.”

Her eyes flashed down to his crotch. She didn’t mean for it to happen.

“Your mouth says tire, but every other bit says…”

“It doesn’t. I don’t. You’re wrong.”

Despite her words, she could feel her nipples crinkle tight, and knew the tell-tale bumps would be visible through the thinness of her blouse. To cross her arms would look defensive, so she kept them at her sides. Her belly fluttered, as she imagined the thickness of that shaft in his hand, moving towards her, impaling her, filling her. Taking her roughly as she imagined a mechanic would.

That was pretty judgmental. Amazed at the turn her thoughts were taking, she took a deep breath.

“I have an appointment to keep.”

“Your tire is patched, but I’m waiting for it to set. You go out on it now and it will blow again. I’ll be here for a while…I have a carburetor to tinker with.

If she wanted to play it cool, he could too.

“You can borrow my car, bring it back when your appointment is done. Your car should be ready in a bit.”

“What…what if my appointment is over and you’re closed?” She didn’t want to face him again. “I can just wait…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to be late.” 

Sarcasm. She didn’t have to be physic to see that one.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be back in an hour or so. It’s a brief meeting.”

“That’s cool. Drive safe.”

He tossed her the keys to his ‘stang, watching on the monitor as she went into the foyer, and donned her jacket, tugging the long fall of hair from under it, then pulling on her gloves. He decided to give his cock a break and not watch her skirt ride up as she slid into his sports car. Turning, he went back to work.


A Borrowed Quote to Sum up Grief…

“You will lose someone

you can’t live without,

and your heart will be badly broken,

and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved.

But this is also the good news.

They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up.

And you come through.

It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—

that still hurts when the weather gets cold,

but you learn to dance with the limp.”

~~ Anne Lamott

Thank you sofia, for finding this–my own words fail me in this task. Readers, bloggers, we have lost an amazing man, a blogger, a Dominant, a friend.

David is the person who I turned to when I started this blog, when I wrote my first few stories, asking for His advice, and He encouraged me to continue, to grow. I’ve not had any contact with Him in a long while, beyond knowing that He and monkey had become a couple…

And the hardest thing has happened for her–the thing I fear most in being a semi-LDR, and not living with my Dom 24/7–the sudden “vanishing” of Him and discovering later that He had died.

Gods it is so hard to write that so baldly. It happens to us all, this end-of-life,  and I cannot in good faith “ignore” the loss and pretend David never had an impact in my life, never had an impact in several bloggers lives, never was the Dominant to my friend.

His blog is here, A View from the Top, if you’d like to read His words. His stories were just amazing, and He was a true Gentleman Dominant.

You will be missed by our community, David.

And by me.


Thanks to sofia for reminding me that it’s Love Our Lurkers time.

I’m down with the flu (remind me *why* I even bothered to get a flu shot 6 weeks ago??), as is half my family. Well, we’re getting over it before the holidays, and kudos to the folks who make all those wonderful ‘quill’ versions–one to keep me moving during the day, one to help me sleep at night despite coughing up a lung.

Okay, but this isn’t about me, so let us switch gears here and focus, people! (Okay, it’s focus, nilla, I know)

Happiness for a blogger/writer is comments. We love them. We adore interacting with our “audience”. But for a variety of reasons, many more people come here, (and other sites) and read and move on. They keep coming back (and you know who you are) and are the hidden “bones” that help support we writer-types. We *know* you’re reading, we just don’t build upon any sort of “relationship”…and that’s cool because sometimes it’s just about the sex-reading, getting off, and going back to your life.

I get that.

I was a lurker, too.

Back in the days when I shared a “family” computer, and had to delete the history, before I learned about “incognito” windows, and all the ways one can hide one’s real identity. I did it because…well, there’s a certain shame factor to finding all this dark-assed shit and getting off on it, right? Society thinks we’re all wife-beating sick fucks, after all.

And we aren’t.

We are perverts, but for most of us, I’d guess it’s for our own personal thrill…I’d like to imagine that most of you aren’t dreaming (for real) of going off and stealing someone and making her/him your very own sex slave because that crosses the line, peeps, from fantasy to total ass wipe, in my book. We can roll play all we want, assume the identities that feed us in our own spaces, with those that we trust and I’m down with it, I’m right there with you.

And so we lurk. Because we don’t want our wives, our husbands, our lover, our significant other to know about the darkest of weird things that turn us on. Because they love us as we are (vanilla-style) and wouldn’t understand this new…sick…part of us. (We’re not sick, by the way. Just…differently wired.) Many is the confession I’ve read that the significant other is “horrified”  or “turned off” or “turned away” from this sort of lifestyle. Some of these dark-style relationship do work however, as you can see from some of those other bloggers….sofia, Mistress Molly and Mick, and fiona are three that I know personally that worked at it. And make it work. Make it real.  (And there are more–check out my blog links, or if you read here and living the dream, do post your link back to your blog in my comments so others can find you!)

It helps to know that for as often as we hear the the downside, there is an upside that works, doesn’t it.

And still, I’ve wandered away from my point (blame it on the day version of the medicine…it’s kinda making me buzzed…) here.

My point is YOU, lurkers. You who come here and read, and can’t leave a comment just in case you get busted. Or because you’re protecting your anonymity. Or because you don’t like to fill out forms with your email etc. Or because you don’t want to. Or whatever.

It’s okay.

Today is YOUR day, (okay it might not be *specifically* today, as I think I’m a day or so out of time, since I lost a few days to the flu)…but on MY blog? Yeah, today IS your day, Lurkers.

I love ya…I have for years and years, you who bolster me, who make me feel a little less alone when I come here to whine, or silently make your way through my stories (because if you didn’t like them, why else go through the archives, right? 5 years of writing in there, peeps….I applaud your diligence. 😀 )

Thank you, Lurkers, for your quiet and ongoing support. Do, if you feel you can, take a moment to pop out of obscurity and give me a wave, and I’ll give you a shout out in reply!

Hooray for LOVE OUR LURKERS Day — the celebration of those we know are there, but are hiding amongst the trees…!! Ally ally in come freeeeee….


Busting the Bank

By now you know that He controls my orgasms. He has ever since sliding that gold collar around my throat years ago. No more “pounding the pussy” (as He calls it!) unless I have His permission–or unless it’s Tuesday. I’m not entirely certain, now, how Tuesday became “Like Day”…but it had to do with me stomping my foot and having a giant tantrum about His unwillingness to speak words of caring to me. Mind you–He never has to say “I love you” –how silly would that be of me to expect that? He knows I love Him, and I know He cares deeply for me….but this slut not only likes to hear those words of caring, but needs to know that my Dominant cares about me, to get that message verbally from His mouth to my ears and not have it be implied. It doesn’t have to be every day, every week, even, but now and again, toss me some crumbs, Sir. (Sorry, but I’m still a romantic at heart. I know this isn’t a scenario that works for everyone–but it’s how I’m wired.)

That was the major point of my tantrum, way back when (and okay, occasionally now and again)…that I needed to know that He cared. Had to hear it, not just understand that it was a constant state of being for Him.

As He put it, if He wasn’t happy with me, didn’t care at all, we wouldn’t be together. And we are, so shut up and put up. But …we talked (this Man is so good about talking through the hard stuff). And eventually “Like Day (Tuesday)” was born.

Okay, so back to the topic at hand, my favorite, orgasms.

He and I are both AVID football fans. And I’m allowed to bet with Him. But you know where this is going, right? Not something as inconsequential as money. I could give a rat’s ass about money. Show me the O’s, peeps, show me the O’s. 😘

He has a betting game called Over/Under. You pick a number, which represents your best guess of the total number of points for the game, (scored by both teams and added together)…and then have to decide if the total points will be OVER that number, or UNDER it. I’ve played this game twice this season and have done verrrrrrrrry well.

Very well.

I had 16 orgasms “in the O bank” by Sunday night, thanks to the Patriot’s resounding win over the Bronco’s (Sorry WW!) Some of them were carried over from the prior week’s win, but my number by the end of Sunday’s game was really high–likely the highest number of O’s in the “Bank”, ever. I can use them *anytime* (unless He out of the blue says no, which has happened now and again. Or unless it’s ZNN –which is His special day to torture me. But more on that, later.) and as many as I want at a shot. Since I’d called 42 OVER, and the score total was way, way over 42, and since  I earn 1/2 O for every point scored over my guess, I was *rollin’* in O’s Sunday night. And giggling about it.

And while I was trying to be ….well, you all know I’m not that discreet…but I wasn’t gloating, either… He was plotting. We speak on Wednesday.

“I want that bank.”

His words are deep, slow, ominous. Of course He could just take them away…but He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t just snatch away something I’d earned in good faith. But His mind is so fucking devious.

He let me know there was an impending robbery. Then paused and corrected Himself.

“No, not a robbery.” 

There is a pregnant pause, and my hands are starting to sweat, and I’m feeling that nervous twitch in my belly that He inspires. It’s a good feeling, never failing to make me wet, wanton, horny, and totally His.

“After all, you did earn them, slut. A robbery wouldn’t be fair. I need to think on this a bit. But there may well be a return to the half-O, nilla. I know how you love that.”

I think I gasped. I so do NOT love the half-o, being driven to the peaked edge…and having to stop before falling over and getting that blessed relief. It’s painful, torturous. And while I don’t love the half O, I DO love that He controls the situation, that His Dom-beast is awake and kicking at me. (It is, after all, part of what I love most about being His submissive, being made to do things I don’t want, a way for Him to reach out and “touch” me from afar.)

The call ends shortly after that, and He leaves me hanging, anticipating His devious minds creativeness.

On ZNN, (Zero, Nada, No pussy pounding) He has the option always of torturing me. That’s His special day, as Like day is mine. This way we each get a touch of one another. And He’s been (as He admitted later) lax about doing anything torturous to me. It’s been summer, and we’ve both been busy and yada yada. We’d fallen into a bit of a rut, our last playtime notwithstanding.

Suddenly we’re ramping up a bit, and He’s getting into the swing of things and BOOM. I get a text as I’m heading to work.

“ZNN announces its 7 half O special for nilla the slut! Details to follow!”



OMFG—-SEVEN half fucking o’s? OMG the Man is trying to KILL me, I think. And then I pause. No. Nope, not even close. He’s found a way to rob the bank. Because He knows I’ve not done a half O in months…and there is NO way I could do 7 without falling over the edge into full orgasm (and boy would I be fucked then!)…so he is going to make me rob my own bank to pay off the o’s.

While I was at work I decided that I’d jump onto the aggressive train. Yes! I’ll jump into the conversation first and offer to give him one full O to cover 3 half-o’s. My fall back was to offer one full o for 4 half o’s. Yeah, I know that’s backasswards thinking, but the idea was to make Him laugh at my terrible math skillz. 😀 And then maybe talk Him down to a 1:2 ratio, and not what I feared, a one-for-one rate.


That was the plan…and He didn’t even come close to falling for it. He laughed at my lame attempt to distract Him with nilla-math, and then firmly said, NO.

“It’s a one to one exchange. You can buy all 7 half o’s with 7 full o’s. Or you can do some of the half o’s, and not make such a substantial withdrawal from the bank. C’mon nilla, (His voice turns soft, silky, a hint of cajolery now–a tone I always fall prey to0…it’s so seductive).

You know you can do it! You can give Me two half-O’s and only spend 5 from your bank.”

I’d already used one, so my tally was down to 15. That withdrawal would leave me with ten. Double digit O’s? Yeah, I could do this, I think.

“Okay M,” I hear myself say, feeling a bit faint after I hang up. The evening approaches, and His last words hover in the forefront of my brain…

“Don’t even think about those two half O’s while you watch your program on TV tonight, nilla, Don’t fret a bit over it.”

He plants these damn seeds and how can I not think of it after He uses that sexy voice to paint the idea into my head?  Reluctantly I go to bed, quivering at my fate. And then I get a writing Jones on and write until 1130 and OMG! It’s time and the half O’s must be 5 minutes apart (to give just enough cool down time)…and I have to be done by 11:59:59…

And I am.

I pause during that 5 minute “rest” to shoot off a quick series of texts to Him…some of which were unintelligible. And then I’m back to laying my vibe on my still sensitive clit and coming close without cumming and I’m so fucking close and …

I stop.

And quiver.

Shed a few tears, and send a few more rabid texts, and fall into a very restless sleep. Today my pussy and clit are still throbbing, still needy. Still in denial. It’s keeping me on edge, reminding me of my place (on the bottom, nilla, on the bottom)…and making me hornier than I’ve been in a while.

It really is a horribly wonderful place to be.

HNT~ Follow-up to WTF*

Teeny tiny fingertip bruises…a nice little reminder when I look in the mirror, of His hands, His wants, His needs and how what He does fills me, centers me.

Reminds me too, that I am a pain-loving slut, that even without sex, without the release of an orgasm, the pain is amazing, clearing my mind and renewing my spirit.

 Aaaah…what a lovely “refresher” of why I do this thing we do…


His fingertip bruises 3 hours after a brief car-visit with Master.

*see WTF here*

Liminal Time

It was like a breath, held and waiting for exhalation.

That long, long pause as she lay spread, legs raised high, tied to the topmost notch in the tall four-post bed, waiting.

The bite of the clothes pins, the rub of the rough cord that lay against her skin in a long snaking line. The tug of the pins against the tight skin of her ankle was as arousing and painful as the ones that snaked up her inner thighs.

He worked his way up her torso, laying the line, pinching skin. He spoke not a word, intent on his work. She didn’t break the silence or his concentration. Occasionally a sharply in-drawn breath slid from her lips as he tugged her flesh into compliance. The clothespins bit, the rope rasped, and anticipation burned.

Up and over her breasts the line moved under his hands.  Her body ached at each pinchy spot, at each rasp of the line as he worked his way up her body.  Holding here in  liminal time, she tried to not think of what was to come, but to just be, to live in this moment, accepting these small nips of pain.

Looking up at his face, she knew the moment he was done, that her body as his canvas, was complete.

And liminal time unzipped.


inspired by THIS post @ Ancient Owner


Seriously, WTF was I Thinking?

It’s been a bit of time since I last saw Him face to face…and that time  had been brief. But time opened up today and we managed to find a central location and …

But wait! Let me back up a wee bit.

I moved my bedroom in my home for the winter. Last year it got extremely cold in there and the only place to put my bed is on the one wall–where the heater is. So no heat, and really it hasn’t been a problem until last winter. SO …I’m all moved in. But when I did a “sweep” of my room to make sure all my toys had been cleaned up and moved, I found where I’d hidden a few toys that M had left behind when he was here last.

Don’t ask me how I remembered them, because my memory is just not that good, normally. But I DID remember them and decided that it would be good to get them to Him, and here we were, meeting up. How convenient.


I get so terribly caught up in the vanillaness of my life that I fucking forget.

He’s a SADIST, nilla.

Duh, nilla.

I climb into His car, and hand them to Him. He smiles and thanks me and…His cell phone falls. I mean “falls”. I slide bend down from my seat to see if it fell on my side of the car.


I rear up and stare at the man, affronted. He raises his eyebrow at me. His body language says “yeah?” and it’s fucking daunting. I sigh and go back to looking for the phone. TWACK!!!

This time the fucking wooden spoon nails my ass. Fucking HARD! And again, and in the same spot as the previous blow. He’s really into hitting the same area to deepen the bruises and let me tell you, it works.

He nails my ass, my back, and when I sit up whimpering, each thigh. He’s not holding  back either.

He looks on his side of the car.

“Oh, here it is,” he says, his tone all congenial. And he raps me on the forehead with the fucking spoon.

And laughs.

Not long after, this group of sporty cars pulls in where we’re parked. MG’s or something like that (to me a car is a box on wheels that gets you places, a stance which does distress Him no end). He waits until the guys are standing in the middle of the parking lot and then vroooom His hand snakes into my shirt so fast I never see it coming. His fingers are inside my bra and squeezing my tit like he’s testing melons (heh!) and then he finds my nipple and pinches the fuck out of it. I tell you, the man does NOT need nipple clamps. He IS a nipple clamp. And then he’s tugging it, stretching it as I’m sort of half laying over the console in the middle and whimpering.

It hurts so fucking good.

Later he tells me that next time when we play, He will add a twist to our OTK time. He’ll put his foot on the chain that dangles down from my nipples as I’m over his lap, just to make sure I don’t slither away.


There won’t be any slithering! Guaranteed!

(and you all know how wet I was when I finally slipped back into my car, right?)

He does know how to press my buttons….