Y, Y, Y?

Yanno,  I kind of struggled with Y. Jz and I had a lovely lunch together today, and she reminded me that there were two letters to go and two days left in the month (and frankly, I’m down to the last hour and 18 minutes of Saturday!) so I’d best get to it.

That’s one challenge rule I’ll abide by, getting all those letters done within the month. See? I can be a good obedient girl sometimes.

But here we are, down to that last, lonely letter, Y.

Youth? Ha, I left that behind decades ago!

Yin Yang? Well, I do feel that I’ve finally at last struck a balance between the vanilla me and the dark inner me. I’ve got balance with M, though sometimes I do  get a little pissy when I think He’s ignoring me. Because let’s face it, I do hate to be ignored. *snorts out a giggle* I would be a very unsuccessful “slut in a cage” because I’m just not going to sit patiently by, waiting to be tapped into service. Totally not my dynamic with Himself, anyway, because it just wouldn’t work. I’m needy, and what of it? Yin, Yang, I’m in balance with that.

You?

Yes, you.

You have come and read here. The silly stuff, the weird stuff, the octopus stuff, the stories. You’ve come to peer into my maybe-slightly-more-than-a-little-twisted mind and imagination.

You are a big part of my continuing to write here, even though I have had some sporadic quiet periods.

Your comments are a blessing, though I confess to you all that I’m a full month behind, and won’t ever catch up…just ekeing out time to write almost daily was a challenge for me, and finding time to respond to you has been impossible to find. This working all the time is a bear for stealing my time away from writing.

You have been kind, and encouraging, and thoughtful, and understanding.

You get me.

You have NO idea what that means to me. I often feel quite dis-attached from this dark side of mine. When time eats me up until I’m a mere husk of sluttishness. When I can’t even summon the energy to masturbate (the HORROR!!). That dark side slinks down, hunkers inside a small dim corner, waiting until I find my slut mojo again. Remember, I can go a loooooong time waiting for that to happen–after all, it took me nearly a full decade to discover that there was such a thing as D/s, and that I was–at least in a perverted way–normal. Or more precisely–that I wasn’t alone in my thoughts. You have some of the same peculiarities that I do.

Y’all have some very dirty minds, you know. It’s very attractive. And because of YOU, it pulls me out of my self-imposed vanillaness and reminds me that yeah, it’s time to let the dark nilla out to play a while.

And finally, in my search for one more Y word that “fits” me…Yes. Yes Sir. Yes. Even “yesyesyesyessssssssssssssOMG Y E SSSSSsssssss”. You all can figure out what just happened there, I know.

Dirty minds think alike.

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Xenial

xenial

1.Definition: Friendly relationship between host and guest

Yes, you’ll find me very friendly…especially on Thursday!

20170427_230051

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Wicked

I smile every time I see or think this word. My immediate thought goes to my Master. OH, he is so very wicked, and yet he is also sensitive, and kind. His eyes, they are mesmerizing. I look into them and (though it’s often used in romance novels to excess) find myself melting into them. Of course, since this is a sex blog, it’s a very different sort of melting than, say, chocolate.

Although in both situations it can be a sticky gooey mess.

So maybe not so different after all. 😀 nilla=chocolate? Anyway, I digress. He has a wicked sense of humor, and a keen edged, dry wit that one might call droll. He teases, he taunts, he is rarely deeply serious. Until, that is, we are together, behind closed doors. Okay, sometimes not even waiting until then.

On our last playtime, his eyes met mine in the mirror. He was behind me, wrapping me up, his hands mauling my tits. I was whimpering  smiling as he pinched and squeezed and mashed my tender bits. But his eyes. Man. They’re a curious hazel, pretty, even. But there’s a wicked gleam in them when he’s hurting me, when he lets his Beast out to play.

He also likes to play wickedly/wicked hard. He lays out all the implements on the bed, one after another, so I can see them. He has 25 or 30 that I can recall, maybe more. He may not use them all (ha. As if.) but they are right there at his hand. In that wicked way of his, he’ll make me look at them if I try not to. (When he left the room to pee, I tried hiding a few of the worst. Yeah. Like that worked. NOT!)

He will torment my pussy, fucking me, as well as using toys, his fingers, until I’m aching and tender. I’ll whimper, “so sore, too much” and he’ll say, in his most soothing voice, “sshhh, I know, I know.  It hurts doesn’t it?”

And I’ll nod, and he’ll jab his fingers into me, finger fucking me wildly until I come in a violent explosion, usually soaking the bed. I’ll whimper and flail, and he’ll ssssh me, and continue on until I fall into a state of near oblivion. He’ll kiss me then, pinch my nipples, stroke my cheek, then roughly fingerfuck me again as he bites my nipple cruelly. It’s so painful, so erotic, so hot.  To be so utterly, totally consumed by him. It’s wicked, wild, wonderful.

When he is at his most wicked, I know he is at his most happy. As his slut, that makes me happy. And it turns me on. And it makes me shiver in anticipation and not just a little fear. He can hurt me so much! And I love it. I love the high, I love living off the pain for days, and the memory of it for months.

Wicked, my M, in a nifty little word.

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The Victorious V

No, it’s not going to be vagina, though the thought did cross my dirty little mind, naturally! Nor will it be vulva, virtual, va-va-va-voom (another close contender!), or even the victorious I teased you with in the title.

Today I’m choosing Vanilla for my word of the day.

So many times I read “vanilla” in sex blogs like a sneer, or a put-down. “Vanilla’s don’t appreciate/do/understand…” and you can fill in the rest with whatever. And hey, I’ve done it myself in stories. Because if enough people say it, it must be an overweening truth, right?

Well, kinda.

It’s true that many vanilla’s don’t do the dark and dirty and dangerous things that those of us with certain proclivities enjoy. But even vanilla’s have feelings. Right?

Truth is, I owe a certain amount of homage to being a vanilla. Like growing up in a certain faith tradition, or with certain rules, it gave me something to “push back on” when it came to my sexuality. I always had certain fantasies. I always had a dirty mind. I always dreamed of being in certain situations. The darker, the better for my erotic fascinations.

But good girls–vanilla girls–don’t have those sorts of fantasies, right?

Explain then, the massive appeal of 50 Shades of Gray. Sure, sure, I know what you’re going to say, it was a terrible book with no plot, no basis in D/s reality. But D/s reality is different for each of us, isn’t it? Maybe it worked for whatsername and Mr. Gray because it was their particular dynamic. Whatever, I’m not trying to argue the semantics of that novel nor movie! My point is that a HUGE amount of people read that book over the summer  and fall after it was released. People, particularly women, gobbled it down the way people used to consume Jackie Collin’s books when I was younger. People really are fascinated with this stuff.

Would they ever do it? Who knows. That’s not the point, though. The point is that some vanilla  verge into this alternative universe, if you will, by virtue of those sort of books. Some may discover an enjoyment of spanking. Others could be attracted to bondage. Does that make them a D/s couple? Perhaps only in the most vanilla of ways, but still. It’s a step onto the path, (the road to hell?) right?

Nine years ago I would have told you that you were a freaking idiot if you’d said (in some prescient fashion) that I’d be writing a couple of sex blogs, some dark and dirty stuff at times. I’d have laughed you in the face, and walked away thinking you were a dork.

I was a very vanilla vanilla. Wasn’t I?

I only found my first few D/s blogs via a typo. Which led me to a porn site, which led me to another porn site, which had a blogroll on the side…and the rest is history.  I was reading tons of pornographic stories  so very badly written (not that I’m writing War and Peace, mind you!) that it inspired me to take a chance, to step outside of my vanilla norm and find a new side to myself. It gave me the language, the “shape” if you will, of what those fantasies I’d carried inside my head meant. All of this helped me define all those strange and sultry needs that I’d pushed aside for decades. Yes. Decades.

I worked at it, this being vanilla thing.  I ignored those dark yearnings, knew I was weird for thinking about them. Yup, I knew I wasn’t quite “normal” about my sexual deviance. But I tried very hard to shut it down and at least on the surface, I was a very vanilla vanilla.

And some parts of me still are, I guess. It’s a yin-yang thing, and I’ve found a balance between the dark side of me and the vanilla side. They overlap in places, and bump up in others. I’m not 100% anything, I guess. Who is, really? We’re all amalgams of  our experiences, wants, and needs. No dom is ever 100% asshole, beating on some person. No sub is ever 100%  a doormat, boot licking submissive.

The bills have to be paid. The car needs gas. The subway tickets need purchasing. Food must be bought and prepared. Families must visit, dogs must be walked, gardens must be planted, and life happens.

Sure there can be a D/s component to nearly all I wrote above. But it takes work and dedication and a certain mindset to make it work all the way, all the time. I’m not saying it’s impossible, not at all. I am saying it’s less likely to find that couple (or poly group) who can sustain it.

So here’s to the vanilla girl I was, who made it possible for me to really, deeply explore the other side of who I am. She was a good girl. She is a good girl. She’s responsible for many things, and handles those responsibilities with gusto (if not always with grace). And here’s to her shadow, who has learned that it’s okay to share the spotlight with the lighter side..because without her there would be no dark shadowy side at all.

 

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U, The Unassuming but Busy Letter

I really like U words. They often are fun in the mouth (yeah, yeah, I know, things in the mouth, nilla, you must have an oral fixation, nilla…but I had to say it!) and they describe such a plethora of things. Take…ululate. I love that word. Yes. One can love words, trust me. I love to say it, love to use it if possible. It is often used to describe the sound of grief, this is true. However, it also nicely conveys that sound when a woman (or man, let’s not be sexist, nilla) is brought to an amazing climax…”She ululated loudly when he applied the hitachi to her clit for her seventh orgasm.” for instance.  Or “His ululating cries reverberated around the walls of the dungeon with every snap of the whip on his tender ass, and rose to a crescendo as the tip teased his balls on the reverse stroke”.  That would definitely create an ululation!

There’s also the similar word to ululation…..which is undulation, that sinuous, hopefully sexy movement I make when He has cuffed my wrists to my thighs and I am attempting to flop undulate my way across the bed, and away from whatever he’s doing to me at the time. (That was a champion, paragraph-long, run-on sentence there, wasn’t it? Un-believable!)

I am fond of unperturbed. It is a word that totally describes M. He has only been annoyed with me a very few times, because he is pretty unflappable. Things just don’t bother him (which perturbs me, btw!).

There are bunch of  “Un’s” that spring to mind.., unwelcome, unhappy, unwanted, unlovable. None of those are happy words. Un words are “not” words, and who really likes those? And it doesn’t work–where you would really want it to– as a prefix for words like fat, for instance. I’d like to be unfat, but instead I’m at an unhealthy weight, you know? Somehow it just sounds worse the latter way.

Of course, there is also Universal, which conversely doesn’t mean “not”, and instead means all encompassing. Isn’t English a confuddling mixture of rules and unrules? (I just made that last “un” word up!)

Which reminds me of another un word that does make me smile.

Unruly.

Which I am, whenever I am with Him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes it…but he really does seem to like making me “ruly”!

(yes, it really is a word!)

 

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T is Most Definitly the Tits

That was an extremely popular saying in the ’80’s. “It’s the tits!” Didn’t matter what it was that was “the tits”…a new movie, a cool car, whatever it was, if it was above and beyond the best and neatest, it was given that silly little expression! What a fascination tits are. It starts when boys are 10 or so I’ve noted with my own boys. It kind of shocks me to know that they are oogling other women’s breasts. I mean, they’re kids, right?

But they grow up, and turn into boob-fiends. I don’t know a single man who isn’t into tits. Or maybe it’s just the men I know? Haha.

Of course, women, too, are into looking at boobs. I am. I know, I’m bisexual, but even women who aren’t, look at other women’s tits. None of us can help it. We’re ALL boob fiends, aren’t we?!

But what is it about our mammories that are so enticing?

20161203_000046-1

Is it that soft round curve as we lay on our sides or back? (Though at my age they’re not quite so perky when I’m standing up! Nor are they floppy bags, mind you!)

Maybe it’s that tight bud there at the tip?

Tip Top Tit Tidbits. That’s alotta T’s there!

nt

Maybe it’s the grabbing of all that meaty, tender flesh? With things like these?

hnt1

Maybe it’s just the random sneaky peaks…through hair,  or sitting, slut-patient waiting for Master to play with them, or peaking out of a shirt?

No matter what makes them attractive, they sure get a LOT of attention here!

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Seriously

So…here’s what I’ve been thinking. I’m hoping it comes out sounding coherent. If not, eh, you can ask me what the fuck do I mean and I’ll answer!

I have a few blogs and tumblr posts that I follow. One in particular that I love to look at while masturbating because the pics are pretty hot. *edit per H.H. politely requesting this*

Here is the tumblr blog that always makes me hot and bothered(and sometimes more bothered than hot, but we’ll get back to that!): kindlybeatingher

And the blog: Bondageblog

Here’s the thing that gets to me sometimes.

The comments. I’m not sure if it’s the poster, or the original poster or what, but sometimes the comments strike me as seriously creepy.

I’m an emancipated woman. We fought for the right to vote, to stand up and be counted, but there are some people who say “your place is on your knees scrubbing floors, keeping your eyes down and being obedient.”

Seriously.

Seriously?

Is this relating to a 24/7 couple? If so, yes, it’s totally, TOTALLY within their right to craft their dynamic however they see fit, however it works for them.

For. Them.

But it kind of scares me just a bit that this misogyny isn’t just pertaining to a playtime, or a role play or scene play, that this is what these men, and some women too,  truly, deeply believe. I guess it scares me because of that kid in California a year or two ago who killed a girl because she wouldn’t date him, because it was his right to make her do what he wanted her to. There’s websites dedicated to this mindset, and that scares the crap out of me. Not because of me, mind you. No one’s gonna go all hot and crazed over a 50+ old lady. But I worry for my daughter. And yours.

I don’t want a society that thinks it’s okay to rape girls, womenkind, because they want to.

Sure, I think rape-fantasy is something 99% of women have. Most feel guilty about it, and some want to role-play it (consensual non-consent), and some live in fear of that very fantasy.

Then there’s me (and others like me) who write about it. Because we know it’s a naughty, human, dark, dirty, terrible, terrifying, lust-inspiring thing to put our darkest fears into public forums to be absorbed by our readership and twist that fantasy button up into a tight little knot.

I’m a slut, and I fully own up to it here. I love to be beaten, fucked, ravaged. I love to be taken just however He wants me. I love to be told what to do, and how to do it, when we’re playing. But he’s taught me that it isn’t okay to live that way in my day to day. He doesn’t have time for it, and I don’t have that sort of … opportunity, I guess, with my kids being older and more clued in to what’s going on with mum.

So that’s my confession on a Friday night when I’m tired and thinking about things with my other brain. (I think it’s my no-filter brain!). I’m still going to masturbate to those wicked pics, and be turned on as fuck by them. But I’m going to remember one other serious thing.

It’s hot, except when it’s real.

 

 

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Ravaged

Full confession. I could not think of a good word that starts with R, or at least one that sparked any kind of writing/creativity. “Really” was one option, but really is a limited choice.

Did you know you can google “words that start with R, or any letter of your choice? A plethora of options will appear (the magic of the interweb never fails to impress me!) and there are list after list of such offerings as boggles the mind! Quickly skimming the list, I decided that I didn’t really need “rattlebrained” nor “Rastafarian” as my R word. I staunchly defend that I’m really not rattlebrained–at least most of the time! Nowadays we tend to call that disorganized (I’m not), overprogrammed (I am), or manic (maybe some days I can be frantic but not manic).

Anyway. There in the middle of the pack was Ravaged.

Oh.

Ooooh. And yanno, it’s HNT day here at Casa de nilla. What better word of the day than ravaged? Because it so exactly describes what M does when we’re together. He doesn’t maul (yes he does), mangle (oh yes), or maim (mmmhmmm)…but all of them, ergo “ravage”.

I’ll include a “pristine” picture first…20170419_142355-1

soft, smooth skin. Not an M in sight, not nowhere, not no how. Safe for the nonce (though I would wish it otherwise, truth be told).

This would be an “after” photo:

20170228_131802-1 from our last playtime, my tits ravaged by his mouth and hands. Like this…

Marlborough-20150117-00184

or this…

a weighty reminder

which became this after a few days “bloom” time:

OUCH!

Ravaged. It’s a good word, don’t you think?

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Is Quintessential Something One Calls Oneself?

No. It’s something ascribed to you. To take the “title” would be…well, embarrassingly conceited.

Ergo, I will NOT say I’m the “quintessential sex blogger”…because I’m not.  But it’s such a lovely word, isn’t it?

I can say I’m the quintessential slut for M. He’s kept me for 8+ years now, and isn’t planning to give me up, though he teases me from time to time about selling me for the $5 he needs for lunch money…*eye-roll*.

I might be able to brag that I’m the quintessential planner. I have schedules up the wazoo, all perfectly timed. (Life is what happens when you are making other plans, nilla.)

Yup.

But I’m also quite adept at adjusting schedules and getting everyone where they need to be and, even more importantly, on time.

My calendar is color-coded by family member. There are charts. I shit thee not, I’m that  person. I can tell you where I’ll be 5 months from now, on Tuesday at 3 pm. Or where my kids will be. Or where the cat will be.

For reals.

Then there is Master.

We’re trying to plan a new playtime, since ours for later this month had to be bumped. Grrr. But it is what it is, and let me tell you, it was some piece of work to even get him to admit that he wasn’t going to make our end of the month beating/sexing/playtime.

“Nilla,” he says, his tone exasperated and yet mild.

“Yes M?”

“What day is it?”

“It was Tuesday when I got up this morning.”

“You’re being a smartass nilla.”

“giggle. uh-yup!”

“What is tomorrow, nilla.”

Now *I* sigh.

“Tomorrow isn’t here yet, Master,” I say, my tone dragging low, monotone.

“Good girl. Do I know what the fuck I’m doing in June, nilla?”

“No Master. ” I sigh heavily into the phone.

“Pick a day, nilla. I’ll try to make it work before July rolls around.”

“Master, you’re such a bastard.”

“Thank you nilla. One tries.”

I laugh, I can’t help it.

He is the quintessential Bastard, truly.

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P is Fun. (But is Pee better?)

Yes. I was. I was going to write a blogpost about pee. Because for a long time (and perhaps sometimes still) I had a fantasy/fetish about being peed upon. It’s gross, and it’s hot. It’s nasty, and it’s degrading…and it’s hot.

But I can’t truly get past the whole “piss in the mouth” thing. That, my friends, is a fetish killer for me. It’s not for others, so this is NOT a judgement, it just hits my own “squick factor” button. If I am watching a clip of piss play it turns me on. If it develops into piss drinking or piss in the mouth, *click*, I’m done. Maybe it’s because I’m the mom of boys, but whatever is the baseline, it’s just so not my thing.

So today’s P word can’t be piss, no matter how hot it is (clever double-entendre notwithstanding!).

I ponder some more, throwing P-words through my head like flash cards. Putrid. (uhm. No.) Pink. Labia. Still, no.) Push. Pull. Pucker. n…ow wait a second.

There’s  a word I can get behind. Pucker.

Pucker up for a kiss.

And yanno what else?

Your butt has a pucker too.

*laughs naughtily*

Yeah, yeah, so does mine but we’re talking about your butt here, not mine. That funny little puckery target. The dark-ringed tunnel of depravity. The bung-hole of unearthly delights. The perverted dipping well.

Oh baby fuck that ass!

Yes. I’m not a fan of anal. I know, it sounds like plausible deniability, doesn’t it?

She hates it unless she’s gettin’ it.

Yes. It’s true. I do.

But we’re talking about your asshole.  Remember? How vulnerable does it feel just now, now that I’ve drawn your attention to the susceptibility of that tight sphincter? Are you tightening up your thighs, your cheeks? Shifting a little bit in your chair? You are, aren’t you?!  I’m sure you’re sitting there feeling all protected. Your butt cheeks tightly clenched, protecting that dark rosebud of nefarious pleasures. But you know how easily accessed that spot is when you’ve been grabbed by a hunk of hair, thrown over a chair arm, the back of the couch, a bed, your pants yanked down roughly. No, your tightly clenched muscles are no match for the one who is planning on taking that ass, on lubing that passage with a quick spit of saliva, and a satisfying hard thrust to plunge, bowels deep, into your gut.

It’s not all that different from needing to take a dump, is it? (I told you. I live with boys!)

Oh, nothing really can match the feeling you have when you take a really satisfying poop, right? That fullness, semi-painful, followed by that sensual pleasure as it slips out of you, as your anus closes tight after stretching so far. So far.

It felt good.

It does feel good.

The in and out of fucking that tight hole? Well, it too feels good. There are so many sensitivity points along that quivery, muscular tube. Tied up in the physical feeling is the emotional: that feeling of being violated, of being forces, taken and filled in a dark and perverted way. The feeling of being obscenely stretched, of being used, fully. Then too, there are his groans, ones of pleasure. He has captured and taken his victory over you. His groans are the culmination of the pleasure of the hunt, and the pleasure of your hot, tight asshole. You know that while you’re struggling, your rectal ring is milking his cock, a tight band like a small fist around his shaft as he pumps into your so-very-tight hole. It’s an amazing sensation. It hurts, and yet when the rubbing gets intense, as he’s raping your asshole frantically, the spark ignites within your yearning pussy. It’s weeping for his cock, wanting to be full of him, waiting to be pounded into oblivion, but that thick man-meat is not thinking wet cunt, it’s thinking hot, tight ass.

As you come, as your empty, wanton pussy tightens and juices flow, so too does your ass tighten. He’ll groan louder, pound you harder. Your rectum will begin to burn and hurt, yet your empty cunt will weep even more to be the one he fucks.

You crave it.

Crave the pain. Crave the yearning for your cunt to be used as he’s using and destroying your ass. Crave the thick strands of his come to be filling your aching, empty pussy, instead of the deep abyss of your bowels.

He’ll make you hold it. No shitting this gift out, he’ll say. He’ll want to watch it ooze out of your now-stretched hole in it’s own time. You’ll fart from all the air he thrust inside of you, and you’ll be embarrassed when he teases you about it. If you’re lucky he’ll like your sopping cunt enough to finger you, or lick your throbbing clit until you come apart one last time.

So.

*pauses, takes long breaths*

Pucker up, pussycat.

Yeah.

Pucker.

 

 

 

 

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