Boob Sweat


I *swore* I wouldn’t do this….but apparently I lied.

That, or I truly forgot, after this intense, record-breaking winter, just how hot “hot” is…

Added to that…we haven’t had a hot day up here since…mid April? Or early May? And here we are on the cusp of August and it is Fucking-Assed HOT.

My boobs are sweating. My feet are sweating. My fucking *ears* are sweating. I can’t write because the only porn I can imagine just now is having someone run an ice cube up and down my body and watching it vaporize into steam immediately.

Seriously. The heat can just stop. Now.

*going back to lay in front of the fans*

(nope, no A/c here…we hardly ever need it–besides, isn’t that what Walmart is for?)

Missing/Missed/Gone Again

Have you been missing me? Coz for sure I’ve been missing you all! Having time to write in the summer is a rare commodity. I did this thing, similar to tarot, I guess, and it said “You need to make time to enjoy living, and creativity will flow through you”

Nailed it in one.

Because having kids of this age means lots of activities, lots of things to do together, lots and lots of obligations…and I love it, don’t get me wrong.

But it also means spending more time being unplugged, and that makes me feel less….me. Master and I were talking about that this evening, that I don’t feel very slut-like these days. Our playday did wind up being postponed, due to circumstances well beyond His control–he was VERY disappointed that our day didn’t happen as planned. So we’re backed up into August because, busier than a one-armed paper hanger here. A one-armed masturbator? I dunno.

I have ideas and think “I need to write this for the blog” and remember that I have 2 or 3 stories that I want to get back to and dang it! There just aren’t enough hours in the day in the summer, and that’s that.

Added to that, coming back from vacation midweek and jumping right back into “normal” life–I totally fucked up when HNT day was. (cringes) He knows, and he’s okay with it, but I always feel bad when that happens. I don’t even have a new pic to share, so I guess I can scroll through the archives and see what pleases me.

Lastly…I’m going visiting with another blogfriend. I won’t say who she is unless she chooses to say so…but for now we’re just planning to hang out and talk D/s…and who knows what-all.

That’s it, pervie peeps. I’m still here, still juggling many roles, still trying to satiate the inner slut…and still hoping to get beat by M. Isn’t the end of the world, I know it. But there is a feeling of being bereft, that part of me is missing. Sigh. Who knew my D/s would hibernate in the summer and come out in the winter?

black n white


Yes…I’m alive.

No…not avoiding you all, really…VACATION came…and I’m feeling very mellow after 5 days of being TOTALLY unplugged. Gotta love wilderness and mountains. Yup. I surely do.

Yes…I had a GREAT time…and…

you won’t believe this but it’s true…

I had SEX dreams in the woods.

In my tent.

They were *wild*.

And woah….I wish I’d had someway to write them down.

But it did give me a nudge that my erotic self has only been resting. Waiting. Recharging.

Ba-BAM! Am I ever recharged.

Back soon, pervie friends. I have things to catch up on, and then goin’ visiting again…more on that…later!

The Promotion (2)

She didn’t consider herself to be shy, nor did she feel like she was a prude. But this assignment was definitely going to test her. She’d been a reporter nearly half her life, for gosh sakes. Not only in high school, but she’d created– written, photographed, edited, and published– a family paper even as a kid. She smiled as she recalled those early ‘papers’–The Jennings Journal. It was pretty much a done deal that she’d be writing somewhere, somehow as an adult.

She’d covered horse shows, state fairs, city and town events, mayoral races, marathons.  But this? This  was a whole new chapter, something totally out of her sphere of experience.  Her editor was a sneaky bitch, she mused as she peered around the room. And didn’t it give her a bit of a shiver to know that the imposing Marley Malone was a participant in this sort of thing? She shifted from foot to foot, remembering their conversation earlier this week.

“You’ll bring a fresh perspective to the topic. ” Her editor spoke crisply. “First, since my husband owns a BDSM club, I am far too close to the issue. Secondly, ever since that stupid movie came out, following on the heels of that stupid book, people have wondered if this gray lifestyle really is as was portrayed. *I* know that the lifestyle is not gray. It’s black and white, yin and yang.  It’s rules and caring, pain and passion, submission and Domination. It’s communication, always. Truth and honesty, above all else. It is giving ones will, ones body to another for the subjegation of self. It’s beautiful and concrete and real. It’s messy and embarrassing, and hot as fucking hell. As you can tell, it’s a subject that I feel very strongly about.”

That was crystal clear.  It came through the glow in her editor’s eyes, the way she leaned forward, scowling fiercely when disparaging that book. Opening her mouth to speak proved a waste of time. Marley was on a roll.

“The lifestyle isn’t abuse. Yet the way that movie showed it? Wrong. Just…wrong.”

“Shouldn’t you write the piece, Marley?”

Head shaking vehemently no, her boss jabbed her finger into her desk.

“No. No- I can’t. I get so mad that I just see red and would alienate everyone. People will remember that I did a piece on the club, and that I eventually married John. So…no, it will need to be presented without the bias that I’d bring to the piece. I want your take on it. I’m inside the scene, and while I know I’m not involved in an abusive relationship, many who read that book or saw that movie would make that leap. He, that idiot, took without getting he’s subs express consent. He was little more than an insecure stalker. A rich stalker, but still, he used her, abused her. This is not how it works, Randi.”

Miranda had never been called anything other than Miranda her whole life. Her parents weren’t the type to give pet names or nick names. It never failed to surprise her each time Marley used it.

Rising from her desk, taking up her tea-cup, the senior editor stomped across the office, annoyance in every step. She flipped on the light as she opened the small closet where her mini-kitchen lived. There was the splatter of the dregs of the cup were tossed into the sink, the hiss of the spray as she rinsed the mug. A quick flick of her finger turned on the electric tea kettle. Her head turned, glancing over her shoulder to where Miranda sat, uncertain if she was being asked, or being told to pursue this story.

“I have spoken to John about this–he laughs it off–but he did consent to having you pop over to the club. He’ll give you a tour, or if he’s busy, have one of the staff do it.”

Oh. So she was being told to do the story. She wondered how that would look on her resume…Did a story on BDSM as consensual and not a subversive war on feminism. 

Yup. She’d sandwich that line right in there over ‘cleaned toilets at the Burger Hut’. Which could be her next job if this went wrong. And yet…look at Marley. Power, pure and elemental–the confident woman, writer, editor, with her own office, her own electric tea kettle for gosh shake! Writing her own version of the lifestyle several years ago had done wonders for her career–and likely her sex life too, since she’d met her future husband there.

She shouldn’t be thinking about that. Her editors sex life was none of her business. Except for the story it kind of was. Ew. Well, she’d have to work around that.

BDSM as safe and non-abusive. She could work with that.


She still didn’t really remember how Marley had gotten her out of the office and into her car. Yet here she was, notepad in hand, spare pen in her breast pocket, sans geeky plastic protector. She didn’t care who was naked in there. She was not going to be one of them. It didn’t matter if she was the only person there in clothing. She’d have no problem being the odd duck. There was no naked in her future.

All thoughts of naked vanished when John Malone entered the room. Or perhaps they were just transformed into instant “OH WOW”. The man was a god. And he was dressed. In jeans and white tee-shirt, his arms were corded with muscles…yet his belly wasn’t flat. His hair was salted with white, his face creased with years. Still, he exuded an incredible sex appeal that was ageless. Looking up at him, and way up at that, her mouth opened, closed. She swallowed.

“Yeah, I have that effect on people,” he chuckled, taking her arm. “And no, I’m not descended from giants. Just Swedes.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he turned and took her into the club. The space in this first room was big, bigger than she’d thought, and brighter than she’d expected. Dungeons reminded one of dark dank unpleasant places. Though this place could be unpleasant if any of those things on the walls were actually used…she shook her head. No. No one really whipped people during these sorts of “play” times. Did they? Yet her research last night (and the astonishing array of porn portraying sadism) indicated that “they” certainly did.

The windows sparkled with sunlight, danced across a rack that held a variety of paddles. A room full of light, illuminating things of sexual darkness. Her eyes caught sight of an anomoly.

“Is that a…ping pong paddle?” She asked, looking around for a table.

He caught the look, and laughed again. Taking down the green-rubberized paddle, he swished it through the air. It made an impressive sound.

“Well, it is indeed, and I’m certainly a master at using it.” His smile hinted at something both dark and fascinating. “Now,” he continued, that smile making her nervous for some unknown reason, “If I were in that movie that pisses Marley off? I’d go all gray on you and not ask for your consent before I did this.”

His hand whipped out, arcing in a circle that drew a whistling breath of air. It took a full five seconds before the impact of the blow on her bottom was realized by her brain. He laughed as she jolted, yelped.

“See? That’s the sort of thing that is wrong about that story. We don’t do that here.” He hung the paddle up.

“All evidence to the contrary,” she mumbled, making him snort out another laugh.

“See? There was nothing seductive, or enticing about that.”

Before he could continue, a woman appeared on a landing above them.

“Sir? James is on the phone for you, and refused to let me take a message.”

“I’ll be up in a moment. Stubborn prick,” he murmured under his breath.

“Randi, I’ve got to take this, and it will be a while. Please look around and touch everything you want to…especially if it’s a warm body.”

He laughed as her eyes widened.

“Kidding. One of my guys will be along in a while. I’ll see if one of them is available to finish our tour. We need to set aside some time for a conversation about dominance and submission–you should come to dinner on Saturday. A group of us get together and munch and talk shop.”

With that, he all but leapt up the stairs and was gone. She was amused, annoyed, and a bit bereft. He filled up space, that man. The air, which had been electric in his presence, calmed. She rubbed her ass where he’d struck with the paddle. There was heat there, to be sure. But to do this for fun? Uhm. No. Taking a last look up the stairs where Mr. Malone had gone, she steadied herself. Time to remember that she was here as an investigative reporter. Squeezing her pad in her hand, she took a calming breath. Well, it was time to get on with it and really look at these…these…what had Marley called them?

Tools of ass destruction. Right.

Shaking her head at the folly of such “fun” she strode across the wide open space.


“She’s a looker. Nice ass. Acceptable tits.”

“It’s not about tits and ass, you ass.”

“It’s always about the tits and ass. Like I said, acceptable. We are a floor up, you know. I can tell more when I’ve introduced myself.”

“Which you should go do. Soon.”

“Soon. I want to see what she’s drawn to on the Wall of Pain.”


“Well, yeah.”

From behind the one-way glass, the two men fist-bumped, then returned to watching the curious woman below. Unaware that she was the topic of scrutiny, she made her way to the crops, fingers stroking down a shorter one, from which hung a series of leather cords.

“And that’s my cue. You owe me ten bucks, too.”



The Promotion

This story has been circling in my head for the last few days–while hanging my laundry, while making my bed, while cleaning the bathroom, while at work–it won’t leave me the fuck alone. I guess my liminal time is over, and I’m feeling my way back into story mode. Gosh I’m forever glad about that! ~nilla~

ps…you’ll find the inspiration (or mother?) story here.

Pillow talk always came after play time. A chance to lay together in their soft bed, to rub sore spots and kiss and connect tenderly after the intensity of pain and submission and wild sex.

She was having wild sex a lot, after a long dry spell without any. That he was demanding, that she was accepting was a total surprise to her. Yet here she was, the dents and puckers on her skin a clear reminder of being bound tightly. The throbbing in her ass and cunt another reminder, of his cock savaging her tender bits while she was helpless to say no.

Such was the life of a consensual slut and her Dom.

“I have a new reporter.”

“You often have new reporters. That’s what happens when you become an editor. You collect reporters, then guide them through the process of crafting stories out of news bites.”

“That’s a very jaded outlook.”

“That’s hard cold reality, slut.”

“Well, yeah. But still…”

“I’m not knocking it, it’s just what your kind does.”

“My kind?” Her voice raised fractionally.

He pinched her nipple, making her yelp.

“Your kind. News people.”

“May I remind Sir that if it wasn’t for “my kind” of people, we would never have met?”

She used her fingers in air quotes, knowing he didn’t like it when she did that. His head fell onto her breast, and bit roughly. Arching, squealing, giggling, she was torn between pleasure and pain, a state he seemed to constantly devolve her to.

“Sorry! Sorry! SorEE!” she half-laughed, half screeched as his nipping teeth settled around her nipple. Too bad her pussy lurched awake as his mouth manhandled her tender flesh. As he bit and suckled, his fingers found his way over the soft rise of her belly, down between her thighs, and slid into her sopping slit.

“You’re very wet again,” he murmured against her breast.

“Yessir,” she gasped as his fingers groped into the slick hole, then began to roughly finger-fuck her. It hurt, gosh, her pussy was so sore already. The soreness began to twist, turning into a deep fire of pure wanton need.

“Please…please…” she moaned, not really sure what she was asking for. Her body began to shake, to quiver. As he growled ‘come for me, cum now’, his teeth sank deeply, sucking her nipple and a large chunk of titmeat into his mouth. Fingers drilling her roughly, breast engulfed, her body was no longer  hers to command. Arching, whining, she exploded against his hand, as stars exploded behind her eyes.


When she roused again, it was nearly dark.

“I made you cum twice more…do you remember?”

She tried to shake away cobwebs, but she was too groggy.

“You’re very cute when you’re an over-used piece of meat. My cock slid right inside your greedy cunt, my fingers went up your ass, and you were laying there moaning and grunting. My sweet fuckhole…”

Laughing, he slapped her hip as he slid from the bed.

“Let’s eat, I’m starved.”

Tugging her up by her bedraggled ponytail, he grinned as she wobbled her way to the kitchen, pushed by his hand in her hair.

“I’ll take pity on you, slut.”

He slapped a glass of sports drink in front of her.

“Drink that. Nope. ALL of it. Yeah? I don’t care if you like it. You need to replenish your electrolytes. There. All the way..good slut. Now you can make me dinner.”

She pointed a shaking finger at him.

“Shazaam…you’re dinner.”

“Cute. And it’s kind of you to offer, but my cock needs rest. And food.”

Her eyeroll went unnoticed. She rose, feeling better as her body sucked up the hated blue drink. She grabbed some potatoes and began scrubbing them.

“So tell me about your new reporter.”

For a moment her mind went totally blank. Wiping off the potatoes and piercing them with a fork, she tossed them into the microwave.

“OH! Oh, right! Miranda Jennings. She’s new to the magazine, and is my little protegé. She’s sweet and biddable and…”

“and you think she’s a submissive.”

“I do! She’s always trying to please me, and has this soft voice. There’s a story in there somewhere, but she’s not revealed it to me. I know she’s single, know she moved here to San Francisco from the East Coast, and that she has a cat named Mr. Bugles.”

“And from that brief summation you believe she’s submissive?”

“It’s just a vibe I get from her. You knew I was submissive before I did. I was wondering if you could meet her? Or help me try to help her? She seems very withdrawn and unhappy. Okay, not like she’s dour every moment of the day, but …”

“You’re a fix it kind of gal. You know you can’t really fix people unless they want to be fixed, right?”

“Of course Sir. But I was wondering if I sent her to the club to do a story about…well…”

“Don’t waffle. Say your piece, slut.”

“Well, a lot of people see submission and dominance as an abuse cycle. I would love to have her work on an article to discover the truth of BDSM. It’s a sex glamour thing…a dark glamour…that sells magazines, and fascinates people as much as it repels them. And I think it might help her discover things about herself, too.”

He watched her move competently around their kitchen, setting the breaded chicken in the pan, chopping up greens for their salad, while the potatoes uttered their peculiar high-pitched scream from inside the microwave. She did have a point. People did think BDSM was abusive. Not those who participated, mostly. Certainly at his club it was important that consensual behavior was observed by participants. Perhaps Master William would consent to having the woman hang with him.

“I’ll talk to a few of my guys and see if one of them is up for having a reporter trailing their ass for a week. We’ll see if he can work on her to consent to participate in a few scenes–non-sexual of course, unless they work that part out between them.”

Laying down her tomato knife, she crossed to him and lay her head on his shoulder.

“Thank you Sir,” she murmured.

Much to Say…

…yet no time for it.

Next week will be better. Sorry I’ve been away–been putting in 18 hours a day between work that I get paid for and big projects around the house while the fam was away. Such is life in the summer in New England–there’s this small window of time to “git ‘er done” so every daylight moment counts.

I’m freaking exhausted, peeps…

But the end is in sight.

Or as terminator sez.. ‘i’ll be bach…”

Amazed and Happy

In the past years, there have been many times when M and I have had to reschedule a playdate…

Many times, sad to say.

And many of those times were because I knew He had extra work, or a deadline or something pressing that really needed doing. Or you know, one of us was ill.

We have scheduled a playtime (imminently)…and He has this crushing deadline.

Once again I fell on my sword (it’s what we subs do best, right?) and told Him that we could hostpone our playtime so that He would have a block of free time to work on His project.

I texted it, because I knew saying the words would make me cry, that He might hear the sad tone in my voice. I sent it, even knowing as I depressed the key, that it would put our next possible playtime well into September.

His reply came nearly immediately.


I stared at the reply, my eyes finally moving away from that terse ‘no’….

“No. I’ve already told Mr. Belt that it’s time for him to taste your ass.”

That was it. Fifteen words that made me cry anyway–from joy.  In our 6+ years together He has NEVER refused to take the time I’ve offered like that.

Until now.

And I’m so very, very glad of it!