HNT~Rose Isn’t Just a Flower…

I debated about doing HNT this week, as last week I completely forgot I’d auto-set a post and  posted a SECOND photo later that same afternoon…! But M has his rules and HNT weekly is one of them. This pic was taken two weeks ago, after my beloved Master had me go at my own tits. It wasn’t awful–but it was a wicked turn on. This was a variation of turning me on that he’d not done to me before. And it worked. I was a horny slut all weekend…it did give my boobs a nice rosy glow, however. And doesn’t everyone like rosy tits?


HNT~A Nip in Time

sssssskids into Thursday afternoon just before work…..hey pervie peeps! Better late than never, right? 

I sent a copy of this to M a few days ago with the caption “Wish you were here” and an arrow pointing to my nipple. He replied that it needed a large, heavy clamp.

I almost swooned.

Aaaah, of such simple things are a D/s relationship made!



I don’t get all hot and bothered over being humiliated.

Or so I’d like to think.

Master isn’t really all that into it…oh, he teases, and says naughty things, but it’s a rare day when he actually uses humiliation as a …a what? A weapon? A tool? I dunno. But we’ve come ’round to that place in his head where it’s playing a role. You won’t see the point to this post until Thursday, really, when I have to post a really embarrassing HNT.

Really. Embarrassing.

So I thought I’d take a moment here and now to tell you about the “before” part of the picture, before you actually see the picture. And take a moment too, to natter on about the concept of being turned on by being humbled and teased..and yes, humiliated, too. I said at the start of this that it doesn’t turn me on. But really–doesn’t everything He does to me turn me on to some extent?


Because it’s him.  Because somehow, that magic combination of Dominance over me, my submission to his desires, and my willingness to let him do what he wants….

(barring the duh, no shit rules, the ones that  kinda go without saying, like ‘don’t kill my children’ or ‘don’t remove my limbs’ or ‘don’t eviscerate me and leave my body here to be found by room service’–because I don’t think anyone of us are THAT much into kink, you know???!)

…all of that swirls around through me to make me a quivery, whore-ish, wanton mess. Yes, I’d crawl across glass to be by his side, to do what he wanted. Would I walk through fire? No. But that refers to that wee little “duh” thing above, right? The point I’m obviously beating to a pulp in written form here, is that when I’m doing what he wants, even when it makes me uncomfortable, it’s a turn-on. Sometimes it’s pain, sometimes it’s the absense of fulfillment (those dreaded half-o’s!), and sometimes, rarely, it’s one of these scenarios.

Are you totally bemused? Because on the surface, what he made me do had no preface of D/s to it. We were having a conversation, an admittedly vanilla one, on my way home from work near the end of last week. I was tired, and starving, having forgotten my protein shake before I went to work.

“I’m going to make myself some crepes when I get home tonight, Master,” I said, my tummy rumbling in desire. We chatted a bit about that, and his tone was kind of funny, but I thought maybe he was distracted…I really didn’t pay much attention, really.

Classic slut mistake, right?

“nilla, that gives me a great idea,” He says.

Okay NOW all my alert beacons go off. They go haywire. The are beeping and booping all over my body. My arm hairs stand up, my clit kind of pulses, and my whole entire consciousness goes on point.

“uhm…a great idea, Master?”

“Your pussy needs a crepe.”

“uh….what?” (yes I could not hide the tone of utter disbelief there. Rookie move, that.)

“A crepe nilla. Cook an extra one. When you do your half o tonight, I want that crepe warmed up in the microwave, and placed on your clit. Large anal plug in your ass, too. And three good, hard strokes of your dildo in your cunt before you start. That crepe stays on the entire time, right up until you stop.”

Seriously, what the fuck does one say in response to that? In my car, all alone, on the phone, I’m blushing furiously. Like…what? The fuck?

“nilla…did you hear me?” He says after about 35 seconds of dead silence from me.


“Good girl.”

There is a pause as I struggle with my bemusement.

“Oh, I’ll need a picture of that, of course.”

of course you do,”  I whisper.

“Of course I do,” He says, and his tone is amused–and smug. He’s so very well pleased with himself, with the mindfuck. He knows that the entire time I’m cooking, I’ll be thinking about this task.

“Maybe I just want cereal,” I mutter.

“Nah. I know you want those crepes more than ever now,” He says, his tone bordering on ebullient. Master is rarely ebullient.

I do the task. It’s humbling, embarrasing, to take the picture. One well made crepe rolled up and stuffed against my clit. The anal plug prominently sticking out of my ass. The bright pink dildo…

But I take it,  shuddering. Egads, my large old ass. And before I can think about deleting it, I send it to him. The next morning He is up well before I am, and texts me the ultimate of humiliations.

“This will make a great HNT for this week nilla. Let’s think of a creative title….”





When He Laughs…nilla cringes…

ON the ride home tonight, I call Him. We’ve not seen each other in several weeks and I crave even this small contact…and then I remember the last text he’d sent me about the 2 half-o’s on my plate for tonight. This, after the two Friday, the two Thursday. The Man is a beast of late.

“Oh, please tell me, before I go, how much you hate them again,” He says. His tone is cheerful, and he sighs happily as I tell him that I really, really, REALLY hate the half o’s. I swear I can hear him smiling through the phone as I add more detail…

“…the first one sucks, Master. I hate it…but the second one? The second one is TORTURE. All fired up and I have to stop AGAIN!? I swear at you, I thrash on the bed, I just LOATHE the second one, you mean Bastard.”

There is a moment of silence, and then a laugh.

“That’s very erotic, nilla,” he says. “Verrrry erotic. So…if you really hate two half-o’s…how would you feel about a third one? Hmmm?”

There is a moment and more of total silence. I can hear him breathing, awaiting my answer. Either way, I’m fucked, you see? If I say I hate it even MORE, He’ll give me it for sure. I quickly weigh my options, then reply.

“Hello? Hello? Are you there Master? Master?”

“Nice try, nilla,” he laughs.

My brain finally flips to an answer (think of one of those slot machine things…I come up double cherries…)

“It’s fine, Master.”

Sure, like saying it’s fine is gonna assuage Him. But I know for CERTAIN that saying I hate something will make it happen. He’s such a damned sadist that way!

“Fine? You’re fine about a third O? Wouldn’t bother you even a bit?”

Oh, his voice, it purrs. He’s got me, he knows it, and he knows that I know it, too.

“Fine. Yes. It would bother me. But you know…I’m fucked no matter how I answer that, you devious Bastard.”

He laughs. Laughs again.

I wait…heart pounding. I’m equal parts turned on as fuck-all, and nervous as a virgin at a gang-bang.

“You’d really hate a third  half-o, wouldn’t you nilla?”

“Yes Master, Sir, and I’d like to remind you that I know this for sure because you already GAVE me 3 last week, Master. Sir.”

“Gave you one hell of an orgasm last week, didn’t it, slut?”

“How many hours is it until bedtime Tuesday, exactly?” I whimper.

He laughs again.

“Okay, fine. Two then. For tonight. Lucky slut.”

Thank all the powers that be, he has to go now, got called away from our call. Safe, for the nonce….but with those two fucking half-o’s still ahead of me.

How many hours until bedtime Tuesday, again?


(too many!)



Whoops! uhm…Anyone for Free the Girls Friday?


I missed it, HNT day. My total bad. Did I mention that life has been super crazy–it is for most everyone I know, these days. Forget about sitting outside and staring up at the sky with a cuppa..hahaha! And remembering to post a pic of my tits? hahahahahaha…!

But it’s an obligation from M, and I need to make it up to ya’ll…so I’ll have to go scrolling through my oldies to see what’s in there…be right back…

There…how about…this?


Not sure exactly when this is from…my hair is really short, so maybe 3 years ago? Four?

Hmm…how about…


This one is way more recent, and I don’t think I’ve used it before. Someone will be sure to point it out to me if I have. 😀

warm boobs

I could use this one too…it’s been pretty chilly up here in the northeast. Even snowed some on Mt. Washington.

Well, at least I’ve covered my bases and bought some time before next week. New pix. Soon. Or at least by next Thursday…!


And So the Punishment Arrives

After hoping that He’d do it and get it over with…(and a few threats that were less than thinly veiled…) my beloved M came down with the East Coast Crud. It hits hard and fast and brutally, and He was laid low with it.

I was..well..

(this doesn’t speak all that well of me, actually, but what the hey…)


Yup. Now, mind you, it was before I knew that He was ill. But there’d been all this build up, and I was waiting and waiting…and nada. Nothing. No text. Not even ‘good night nilla’.

And I was going to shoot off a huffy little text in the morning. But to my credit, I didn’t. I thought about it a lot while I was working, and then later in the morning sent a text saying that I’d come to realize it didn’t matter if he punished me, how he punished me, or when he would punish me. That it’s not my call –not any of it. It’s all under his control, after all. So I was feeling better about things, in my own head. And then more nothing. No good girl. No “glad you worked that out, slut”, not even a “glad the Viking didn’t come for a visit” (though actually He repeatedly says he enjoys sparring with me when the Viking comes upon me…)

Nothing but silence.

THEN I find out he is feeling very poorly and had gone to bed as soon as he got out of work. Oh. Well then. It really *isn’t* all about me, is it?

But he’s feeling better, after a weekend spent resting. Which is reassuring. What is even more reassuring  is the text I got this morning. That tonight’s prep would be 3 half-o’s. Reassuring and terrifying.

Reassuring and torturous.

Reassuring and maddening.

Dammit! I thought He’d forgotten…though he tells me he might forget something at the store, or where he put his favorite shirt…but he never, ever forgets when a punishment is owed Him. (I believe that, too!)

Hie ho…Hie ho…it’s off for torture I go.


(and okay, a wee bit of happiness that He’s feeling better enough to punish me.)

(but only a little.)









Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls…


“Yes, I agree, slut. Those are all perfectly valid reasons why you fell asleep before you did my two required half-O’s.  However, it also doesn’t matter.  I make the rules–you are expected to follow them. Always.”


A lesson and a reckoning in one short phone call.