Vanilla Suckage

I love the word suckage…it evokes thoughts of cocks, and gagging on them, on the taste of His cum, on the feeling of submission I get when I kneel at his feet, sucking on Him.

This is not that kind of suckage, however.

No, this is a brief “AAARRGH” as my vanilla life has sucked so much of the wanton out of me. Sometimes, it’s really, really hard to remember that I AM a slut. That I AM a lover of pain, and powerless orgasms. That I need my well to be filled, even as he drains me. I need to be renewed as His slut, and I need it soon.

We were supposed to meet earlier this month for playtime, but being ill, then several serious snowstorms all put the end to those plans. (He actually lost power for close to a week, though we did not. He got lots of wind, we got lots of snow. It sucked for both of us…again, not the good kind of suckage!)

Now we’re hoping that we can work out the time to be together in April. Easter, and birthdays, and life will try to muck things up, but if we both stay healthy, we might, maybe, possibly be able to eke out some time together for Him to beat me. (Just re-reading that makes me smile. Seriously, are we pain sluts fucked up or what?)

As much as I need to be beaten and fucked brainless, He needs to beat, to fuck, as well. Sometimes I forget that Dominants need that release every bit as much as we submissives do. Maybe it’s because they’re all quiet and stalwart about it, and can compartmentalize it better than subs can? I dunno, that’s my personal theory, anyway.

So, I’ll be writing off my frustrations tomorrow….my day off –at LAST;  last week my “day off”  got suborned and I’ve really been feeling the need for some down time, because as much as you all have been wanting to read chapters, I’ve been dying to write them!

I’m not slipping off quietly into that vanilla night. Nope, I’m grabbing my submission and pulling it up from my toes where it’s been tamped down and making those plans and more importanly, keeping them. As He said to me this morning,

you are mostly a pain slut who hasn’t had any selective pain in quite some time.

So true.

Painfully needy for pain…how’s that for an oxymoron?


A Bit of a Sad

Man, I’m so frustrated I could scream! In many ways, mind you. Sexually frustrated. Needing to be beaten frustrated. Tired of injuries frustrated.

Our playtime has had to be cancelled. I left it in his lap, but I knew he would decide to hold off.  My shoulder injury has worsened, and it looks at this point like there could be surgery involved. Himself has finally healed from his own shoulder issues (6 months!)…so he knows what I’m dealing with here.

And gods above, I’m so …happy? too. He said “While I revel in the pain I cause you, I don’t want you to be hurt…no..” he pauses, starts again…”I don’t want you to be permanently harmed by my accidentally hitting you and furthering the damage to your shoulder. If  you’re hurt by me, that’s one thing. It’s fun and it sexy and it’s what I do. I get pleasure from hurting you, slut. But I’m not going to do anything that would permanently disable you. Because you still need to take care of your family, and run your business, and live your life, and if I harm your injury then I’m affecting your daily life and that’s not what I do.”

It made me feel unbelievably nurtured. Warm and fuzzy and loved. Make no mistake, this caring, thoughtful man is a fucking bastard during playtime. He hurts me terribly wonderfully. But he gets it, that I still need to do stuff. Frankly, I know he enjoys me telling him how hard it was for me to work after he’s beaten me. How it ached when I sat, or how it made me wince to reach for something…he eats that shit up! The pain he’s caused, and its lingering after-effects are a turn-on for him. And, okay, for me as well. I freely admit I’m horny for weeks after a good play session.

But this kind of pain isn’t kink-inspired. It’s just life, and age, and work and who knows what happened that kicked it back up a notch or twelve. I’m really hoping to not have this surgery, but I won’t know any details for a few weeks at least. It’s the waiting and the not knowing that are the hardest part, really.


Sometimes? Life sucks even more that this slut can.



This is what a day off does to me… ~nilla~


“You filthy whore”

His words made her flinch. In her vanilla life, it was the epitome of horrific things to be called.  In his apartment, those nasty words only inspired her to deeper heat and a rising need to be fucked.

Now, his fingers buried deeply in her cunt, he’d found her soaked after he’d called her his personal cum bucket, after he’d pissed all over her tee-shirt. Her nipples had risen as the hot splash of urine cooled  quickly in the air conditioned room. He’d clamped them, over the doused shirt, laughing as her nose wrinkled and as she’d moaned.

“You love every fucking dirty thing, don’t you, you slut? You love to be called my holes, my fuckmeat, my ass-licking cunt. You get wetter the more I pull your hair, when I slap your face, when I gag you on my cock. Admit it.”

His hand slipped out of her cunt and into her mouth.

“Admit it, as you choke on my fingers. Lap them clean, taste your nasty needs. Right there, yes, your pussy juice tells me all.”

She sucked, licked, lapped his digits clean one by one. Soft sounds came from her throat, cooings of desire and need.

“Fuck me,” she whispered when his fingers slipped away. “Please, Master, fuck me…!”

Not a whine, he hated whining. A soft entreaty.

“What do you want, cunt? Speak up.”

She knew he loved when she talked dirty. She, the proper housewife. Head of the school PTA, proper wife of a prominent city lawyer, she lay, spread open on the hotel bed, her pussy lips glistening pink, swollen and wet.

“I need you to fuck my cunt, Sir. To slam your thick cock into me until I cry. I need you to slap me and use me hard, Sir. Please?”

He stood just a few feet away, his thick shaft in his hand, stroking it slowly. The head was swollen and red, and she knew he felt the same need to hurt as she did to be beaten. He walked to the chair, eyes on her, and reached for the thin leather paddle.

“Open your legs. Wider.”

A quick pop of the paddle on her pussy made her yelp. He didn’t start gently, nor slowly. The blows fell like rain from a hurricane, striking her pussy with a fierceness that made tears gather and fall. He struck her inner thighs, then the swelling bud of her clit took a hard blow.

She closed her legs. Just a little. Just enough.

He paused, eyes widening.

“You did not.”

“I’m sorry Master,” she stuttered. He dropped the paddle beside her, strode to the chair. Quickly he returned to the bed, grabbing a leg, and heaving it up towards her shoulder. With rough hands, he coiled the rope around her calf, then grabbing her wrist, completed the tie around her forearm. Rising, he attached the end of the rope to a ring in the wall.

She shivered, torn between a secret delight, and an open dread.

He made short work of attaching her other leg and arm to the second ring, and she was secured, thighs, pussy and ass exposed and unable to be protected.

She could see the look on his face. Her pussy oozed. He was going to beat her ass savagely. Instead, he approached the bed, ran his engorged cock up and down her slit.

“You fucking whore. You’re even wetter than you were before.”

He rammed his cock to the hilt into her gaping cunt. She gasped, moaning loudly. Wet though she was, her cunt was not ready for such an abrupt intrusion.

“Owww,” she moaned.

He pulled out, then drove into her again. His cock felt like it was bouncing off her ribcage, he drove so deeply into her. His hands curled around her hips, pulling her towards the end of the bed, her shoulders straining as the rope holding her drew taut.

“Now I’m lubed.”

That was the only warning she got, as his cockhead pressed against her anus. His hips drove forward, piercing the tight rosebud of her ass, popping into her rump with a nearly audible sound.

“Aaaah,” he groaned in pleasure. “Your ass is so fucking tight. I know you hate this. I love that you hate this.”

She whimpered as he jolted his hips forward, working his way deeper into her asshole. She felt stretched to the breaking point, certain her rectum would tear and bleed.

“It hurts so fucking much!” she yelped, gasping. Her voice was choked with tears.

“Good, fucking goood,” he replied. Pulling out, he shoved his dick deeply. They groaned simultaneously, he in pleasure, and she in pain.

“Oh my GAWDDD…”she shrieked. “FUCKING OWWW…you’re tearing my ass APART…!”





He grunted out each word with a pull out, and thrust in. Moments later, his body was slamming into her ass, his hips jackhammering into her unprotected ass. Black lines streaked her face as her mascara ran in rivulets from her eyes. Her mouth was open, gasping for breath at the invading shaft of man meat. His head was thrown back, his belly muscles quivering as he raped her fanny roughly.

She thought she would pass out from the pain.  Her eyes flew open when she felt something in her pussy.

“You’re drooling pussy juice.”

His fingers slid inside of her, diddling her roughly. His thumb rubbed over her clit as her ass was split on his cock. One finger, three fingers, and he was all but fisting her as he fucked her ass. She exploded, her cunt spasming around the wriggling digits. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a wide O of soundless pleasure. Her asshole squeezed tightly on the shaft still slipping in and out of it, milking him.

He came, buried deep in her ass. She came again, his fingers buried in her cunt. As his cock withdrew, she came again. When his fingers pinched her clit, aching after the multiple explosions, she jerked and felt the sudden splash of liquid.

“Now everything is wet. You cunt.”

He laughed.

Then he crawled up the bed, straddling her face, one leg over her head, his cock lined up with her mouth.

“Time to clean up,” he said.

She gulped. Ass to mouth was not on her list of things to experience. His eyes held hers, and she knew he was testing her, pushing her limits. For a long minute their eyes stayed locked. Her cunt throbbed even harder.

When her lips parted, she felt her pussy gush again.

Teacher Meeting

She hurried down the corridor, the scent of “school” jogging her memory of passing through these same hallways as a younger version of herself. Now instead of an armload of books, she toted a briefcase. Instead of fashionably torn jeans and heels, she wore a nicely tailored suit and sensible heels. Instead of running late to class, she was running late to a meeting with her son’s math teacher. How she hated school, still. As she approached room 235, down at the far end of the corridor, the classroom door opened and a couple came out. The woman was biting her lip, and the man wore a fierce scowl. As they passed her, she heard him mutter, his tone aggrieved,  “I told her to spend more time on her algebra than at the mall buying bras.”  The woman embarrassed “hushshshshs” made her grin. Stepping up to the door, the grin faded, replaced by a straightening of her shoulders as if girding herself for war. In a way, perhaps she was. Taking a calming breath, she stepped inside.

The room was full of student life, papers on the walls, notes on the chalk board, and the impressively huge teacher desk at the front of the class. The man seated behind it was busy writing in a large notebook, ignoring her. She stepped deeper into the room, clearing her throat. Still he didn’t look up.

“Erm…excuse me, Mr. -”

His head lifted and he barked out a terse “you’re Gregory’s mother,” interrupting her. She swallowed. Why did teachers still make her feel like she was in 8th grade, fighting zits and boredom with equal fervor? His quelling stare made her realize that he was still waiting for her reply.

“I…yes. I’m  Anna Williams, Gregory’s mom.”

“He’s struggling with algebra this semester.”

“It’s not his forte, no. He’s try–”

“No, he is failing to pay attention in class. His brain seems to be located in his penis, his attention has been focused on another student in my class, one with an impressive set of pectoral growth.”


“Tits. He is fascinated by them. Not that they aren’t impressive, to be sure, but in my class, his attention should be on X’s and Y’s and not C cups.”

She blinked. Had she ever had a teacher be so incredibly blunt before?

“Come, sit.”

He pointed to the chair directly at the side of the desk. It was a power position, she noted, one that she’d often employed at her job. It made her spine straighten, her lips thin as she took note of his game. Moving to the front of the desk, standing tall, she defied his nod towards the chair. A very faint smile crossed his lips. If she hadn’t been glaring at him, she might have missed it. His gaze traveled from her face, dropping slowly down the full length of her, pausing on her own impressive rack. The smile widened, just a fraction, then slipped away. His finger tapped the planbook in front of him.

“Your son has scored moderately well on tests, usually missing a decent grade by a simple misstep.”

It took her a moment to focus on the words. The very obnoxious oogling had unsettled–and to her discomfiture, aroused–her. She blinked twice, her brain catching up to the words.

“So…in other words, he’s not doing poorly, but not up to your exacting standards?”

“In other words, he could be doing much better if he focused on more on algebra  and less on cleavage.  There are other things that could bring his grade up.”

“You’d allow him to do some extra credit to bring up his grade? OH, gosh, that would be wonderf-”

He interrupted.

“I didn’t say that.  Come here, Mrs. Williams.”

He pointed to the floor beside him. She frowned, annoyed that he kept interrupting her.  Fuck him! She marched around his desk, glared down at him. His hand slipped  around her waist, as he leaned forward. His head was between her tits before she could say a word.

Leaning back, he looked at her, not at all put off by her looming over him.

“Nice tits.”

Her mouth opened, closed. His hand was still around her waist.

“On your knees, now. I think you know exactly what needs to happen here to raise that grade.”

His cock was hard, she could see the outline of it against his pants. It was also enormous. The hand around her waist moved off. Cupping his hands behind his head, he leaned back, smiling a wolfish smile. Oh, there was a challenge there. She glanced back at the classroom door. It was half-open, and she could hear the janitor’s cart moving from class to class.  She gritted her teeth.

“Bastard,” she hissed, before dropping her briefcase on the chair, shrugging out of her jacket.

“Lose the shirt, the bra.”

It felt like she was stripping off her armor, kneeling there topless, defenseless without her “Bitch Boss” suit on.

She knelt between strong thighs. Looking up, she noted the half-smile again.

“Aren’t you going to…you know. Take it out?”

“It? By “it” I take it that you mean my cock?”

She nodded, blushing.

“Say it. Say it properly. It’s not an “it”. It’s a cock. It’s my cock.”

“Aren’t you going to…take your…cock…out?”

The smile turned raw again, making her shiver.

“Oh no,” he replied, his voice a hot whisper in the quiet room, “that’s part of making the grade, little girl.”


Her hand trembled as she lifted it to tug at his zipper. Her eyes flashed up to meet his quickly, then back down.

“It’s…a little…snug…” She spoke softly.

“I have every faith you’ll figure it out.”

She did. Reaching into his slacks, taking out the huge length of him, in awe and not just a little nervous about this.

“Open the top button. Take out my balls too. Start by licking them. Slowly.”

She wouldn’t look at him now, only focus on the task at hand. If she finished quickly then her son would pass algebra. Her fingers cupped his balls, gently; her head bent to lap softly at the flesh. He smelled, a mix of sweat and urine and that man-scent. Her pussy, she could feel, was intrigued. Dear gods, this was just …wrong. She should tell him to fuck off, go back home. Instead, her lips encircled the head of his shaft.

She’d always liked to suck cock, she reminded herself. This one was a beast, and she hoped she could take it all the way. She wished–somewhere in the darkest naughty place in her mind–that he’d knock all the shit off his desk and fuck her brainless.

Her lips stretched around him. Relaxing her throat, cupping the underside of his penis with her tongue, she pressed her head down a few inches.

“This isn’t working.”

Her mouth popped off his cock and she stared up at him.

“Get the rest of those clothes off.”

He watched, impassive as she glared at him, all the while shedding her skirt, her pantyhose, her shoes. Pausing at her panties, his brow raised. Very clearly he was saying “all”.

Fine,” she huffed out a breath, slipping the granny panties she wore to work down and off. She could play the nervous woman, but instead, she thrust out her tits, her hip jutted forward. She had a fine body, despite the years it wore, the babies she’d popped out of it. She’d earned every damn line, stretch-mark and soft curve. Fuck him.

“Nice,” he replied, running his hand along the side of her breast, down her belly.

“On the desk. Head hanging over.”

He helped her up, tugging away her hairpins, leaving her long hair hanging down the side of the desk.

“Knees up, spread a little. I want to look at your cunt when I fuck your mouth.”

“When you…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, her mouth filled suddenly with the fullness of his cock. His hips pressed forward, she gagged, feeling the head slip into her throat. He pressed his thumb against the lump showing clearly against the taut skin of her throat.

“My cock. Mmmm. Love the way that looks in you.”

She couldn’t cough, couldn’t gag, couldn’t do anything. Eyes watering, she tried to shake her head, but he held her firmly. As he pulled out, she gasped, coughed.

“Very good. Let’s try that again, but longer this time, eh?”

Longer? Dear gods….

Again her throat distended, engorged by the thick shaft of him. His balls pressed against her nose, filling her with the dark, sexual scent of him. She needed air, needed a breath, needed to not feel him half-way to her stomach. Fingers pinched her nipples, lifting her full breasts. There was no air for the scream that stuck in her belly. OH! It hurt! Her tits were big, yet he lifted them high.

He pulled away, and she coughed, gagged, groaned. His fingers still held her nipples, rolling them now in his tight grip. Dropping of them should have been a relief, but he slipped back into her mouth, and began to slap the round orbs, his touch leaving heat, and handprints, behind. She said something, but his cock shoved the words back into her lungs. He held there, plugging her, his hands battering her tits.

She arched, her back rising from the desk as she came.

“You naughty girl. Coming all over my important papers.”

He pulled out of her throat, leaving her face streaked with tears, drool, precum. He was iron-hard. Moving around the desk, he tugged her until her ass hung off the edge. Her legs came up as he lifted them over his shoulders.

Oh thank gawd,  she thought. She needed to be fucked so badly. Her pussy throbbed with the intense need. Her tits throbbed from the beating, her clit announced her readiness, rising hard, thrusting invitingly toward him.

He slicked the head of his cock along her pussy.

“Not ready yet, I see,” he murmured. Before she could react to that, he slapped at her cunt. Her clit shrieked, her pussy quivered. He struck hard, the simple brutality as arousing as the silence. When she tried to close her legs, tried to drop an ankle to shield herself, he leaned forward, keeping her open and accessible, and pinched her nipple hard enough to make her scream a little.

Damn and she prided herself on her stoicism.

fuuuuuck! Ow ow ow!” she cried as the biting grip did not relax.

“Legs. Stay. Open.”

“Yes. Yes. I will. . . please…ow…”

He dropped the nipple, slapping at her tit-meat a few times, before returning to her cunt. She swore she could feel the lips of her cunt swelling. Her flesh turned pink, then red. A thick bruise formed where his ring met her flesh. Head tossing side to side, she bit her lip to keep from keening aloud. Forever passed before he stopped. His cock once again trailed down her slit.

“Much better. You’re as wet as Niagara Falls, you slut! I think you like being treated hard.”

Her head rolled from side to side.

“Please,” she muttered.

He paused in the stroking of her slit with his shaft.

“Please? Please what slut? Please, explain.”

“Please … fuck me.”

“Are you looking for a better grade for your boy?”

“N…no…I…need you to fuck me.”

“You want it hard, don’t you? You like it rough. You want my cock to rape your soaking cunt, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Yes, rape my aching, wet cunt. Please, please!”

“So wet. So fucking soaked.”

His cock never stopped, slowly fucking the length of her slit. Her sensitive swollen lips gripped at the massive shaft, her pussy lubricating him. The press against her anus surprised her.

“But not your pussy, I think. I’ll take a better, tighter prize today. But cheer up, Mrs. Williams. Your son will get an A.”

He shoved hard enough to move her back across the desk, her skin screaming where it had stuck from sweat and gripped. Her anus stretched, her mouth opened wide, but no words came out. Her breath was trapped somewhere deep in her belly as his cock pierced her tiny puckered asshole.

He fucked relentlessly. He fucked forever. Tears leaked down her eyes, tangled in the long streamers of her hair.

“Oh dear. I can’t cum in your ass…it might ruin your expensive suit, Mrs. Williams.”

His cock pulled out of her rectum with a pop. Fingers stretched the hole, then the sound of a cell phone clicking a picture.

“My insta-followers will love this gaping asshole shot,” he said. His grin was wide, his cock pulsing, a drop of precum oozing.

She had no words for this final humiliation.


“Okay. I’ll come in your mouth. Good girl asking so nicely.”

“no…no…I didn’t…you just…”

“I had no idea you were such a dirty slut, Mrs. Williams, but we do what we must for our children, don’t we?”

He tugged her back across the desk, held her head firmly. His cock smelled of shit. Her shit. She closed her mouth, but he pinched her nose until she gasped for breath. The whole length of him  slid inside her mouth, across her tongue, into her throat. He stroked once, twice, before stiffening and grinding against her face. She felt the pulsing, the hot wetness at the back of her throat. He didn’t ejaculate in her mouth, allowing her to dilute the taste of her poop.

He pulled free, wiping the excess from the tip using a hank of her hair.

“Time to get dressed now, and scoot on home.”

His tone was neutral; she was nonplussed. Numbly she dressed, slipped into her shoes. There was nothing to be done for her hair, so she finger combed it. When she would have smoothed out the blob of semen, he stopped her.

“Leave that. Consider it…your grade.” He smiled, back in his chair, fingers templed together as he watched her dress.  “Have a lovely evening, my dear.”

She looked over her shoulder at him.

“You’re a real bastard, you know.”

He smiled.

“So I’ve heard before.”

Taking up her briefcase, she thought about stomping out of the room. Her anus throbbed, and her pussy ached with unanswered need. She’d deal with that later, but she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of moaning when she moved. Head high, back straight, she made sure her hips had an extra swing as she left the room without a backward glance. Quietly, carefully, she closed the door until it clicked behind her.


He packed up his stuff, ready to leave. She’d been a hot piece of ass–in every sense of the word. He stepped out into the hallway, locking his door and pocketing his keys.

“Night, Harry,” he greeted the janitor.

“Night Mr. Williams.”


On My Knees

amazing the memories that float to the surface weeks and weeks after a play time with Master…

He called me to kneel between His legs as He sat in one of the stuffed chairs. I was there a long, long time, longest ever for kneeling that way. He pulled my head to His chest with my hair, then held me close. I could hear His heart beating steadily under my ear as His hands moved over my head, down my neck, over my shoulders. It was a gentling thing, then the solid whack of His palm on my shoulder, or my upper arm. There was no rhyme or reason to it, a long series of strokes, then a period of hard solid slaps.

Time stood still for me. Occasionally He would pick up one of the implements that He’d placed along the flat arm of the chair. A dog grooming brush (the kind with the metal teeth). A small hairbrush. Sir Wolf’s cake spreader (covered with tape to protect skin from cuts).

Sometimes He would take one of them, and sitting up, would deliver a series of strikes down my back or arms or both. It was painful and soothing, like being fed steadily yet slowly. I need pain. Okay, I don’t need it to live, but I crave it. I guess I’ve always played a bit with pain. Even as a kid I’d poke and prod at scabs (my mom was forever telling me to stop picking at them! But the pain gave me a curious thrill even at 9 or 10) and I had no idea. NONE of my friends did it, just me. So the craving for pain runs very deep. This pain, His pain, was all at His whim, and balanced with the gentle strokings, the occasional tugs on my hair, I remember it all braided into one sensual experience though there was no “sexual” touching.

Sometimes I’d just lay there, cradled to His chest, and we’d stay just like that. Time didn’t move for me, it was one of those rare, almost meditative moments where I was simply existing in wholeness. It was one of the most peaceful times I have ever had as an adult.

Then He’d shift and I’d feel the steady thwap against my back, His fingers buried in my  hair holding me there, even when I squirmed, as the implement hammered at my back. It was soothing and magical and painful–and just when I thought I couldn’t bear it–He would stop.

The crescendo came when He tugged me up from my kneel (as I creakily rose) and up over His knees. I told you in a prior post about that, the long, long intense session of spanking, over His knees, like none we’ve had before. I confess, my ass hurt for several days after that, a delicious throb whenever I sat. It is a good memory, this one.

My vanilla life has been near to overwhelming me, so that sometimes I forget I’m a slut, I’m a submissive, that I’ve got another side of me. The pendulum will swing back the other way, I know it will. Life is ever working to balance itself, after all. It will be a long while before we get another play session, so for now, I let the memories of that other time rise.


What nilla Says to Sir Wolf

Dear Sir Wolf,

My Master is deeply appreciative yet again of your SO generous gift. I, on the other hand, am far less…enamored of it. Or them. Or…*flaps hand in the air*…whatever. The thing is, that little green bag seemed so innocuous. Those lovely handles. The seductive curve of the rubber straps. The smell of them, even.


oh HELL no.

Those fuckers…my GAWD, Sir. Those fuckers….*shakes head, looks skyward for words to describe them better*…yeah, fuckers it is.

There i am, you see, face to the wall. Forehead must stay there, per Masters “orders” (orders being His hand shoving my head against the wall and saying “stay there” in that mean terse voice that’s so annoying–and a damn turn on too, damn Him–). He pulls my head off the wall, slaps on the blindfold, then shoves my head back. Thunk.

I hear the sounds behind me. I have no idea what He’s doing back there on the bed. Sleeping? No, there is the sound of things being moved in His wicked bag of tricks.

“You know, nilla, someday you will have to write another letter to Wolf and let him know how very grateful I am for this bag of implements.”

There is nothing but silence then.

You know, Sir Wolf, that when you Marines want to, you can  be too fucking quiet  move so silently. I didn’t answer because…well, I know what’s coming. Or think I do. He puffs a hard breath into my right ear, which means He has moved from the 2nd bed all the way across the room, behind me by less than 5 inches, and I never heard a thing. And trust me Sir Wolf, I’m listening for all I’m worth. The fucker Master is just that good. I jump at least 3 inches into the air (quite a feat in 6.5″ heels) and shriek.


Like a fucking girl.

Yes, Sir, I know I’m a girl, but I don’t usually react to being startled that way. Shrieking. Sheesh.

I digress.

He has blown in my ear, and laughs at my discomfiture. I’m holding onto the wall and trying to slow my racing heart and not call Him the fucking Bastard that He is.

“You will, won’t you slut? Write Him a note for me? Let’s see, what should you say to show your deep gratitude for this gift?”

I think to myself “Dear Sir Wolf. You are a stinking rat bastard. Love nilla” but wisely do not say this aloud.

He taps me on the ass with one toy, not too hard.

“No, nevermind. Here’s something else. We’re going to play name that implement.”

He pauses again.

“No, no, that’s too easy for you. I think we’ll play ‘name the color of the implement. Specifically the handle of the impliment.”

My heart has fallen to my knees. He’ll keep hitting me until I guess it correctly. And some of those fuckers hurt like…like…well, like the tormentors they were created to be.

By you, Sir Wolf (you bastard).

Thank you?

He takes up the toy and whacks my butt with it.


AH FUCK…I try to climb the wall, unsuccessfully. I try to catch my breath. At this I am successful, finally slumping forward and gasping.

“Let’s do both sides so that you can get the full idea.”

And before I can yay or nay this (I know, not that I *ever* had a choice in that! but one slut can dream, right?) there is a harsh WHACK WHACK on the other side of my ass.

Now, I don’t remember which one He started with but I called out what I thought it was…and damned if I wasn’t right. He was kind of startled by that, thought it was a lucky guess. I am leaning more towards “subliminal learning” since the whips have been my header for over a week, and I see it every time I proofread something that I have written.

He strikes me with the next one…and I got that one too. First blow, even. Now He’s a bit amazed.

Third go, and I got that one. And the next…almost…I thought there were some that were bi-colored, but not the handles (tricky, Mr. Wolf. Verrah tricky, damn you.) He whacked me again and asked me to be more specific.

“WHITE!!” I yelp as it bites into my tender backside again.

“Well nilla,” He says, His voice a combination of proud and bemused. “I have no idea how you did that but you did very well. Very well indeed.”

And that, Sir Wolf, is how I freed my ass from the tyranny of that dastardly little green bag of yours. His. Whatever.

And thank you. No really, Sir, thank you. Master definitely appreciates the bag and all it’s rotten contents. Maybe next time we play, my ass will write you a letter. It will sound like “Poot”…it will smell foul, and mean “fuck you, Sir”. With love, of course. 😉



One More Day

I’d like to write a story for you. I really would. I even started one, and have words, paragraphs of them,  for the several stories floating around in my head. But I can’t settle, you see. I can sit here and dash this off, something that pours from my head that is my experiences. I don’t have to do deep proofreading to see if all my “she’s” stayed female, and that my verb tenses are correct, and that I spelled “orgasm” (and all the other words) correctly. You wouldn’t believe how ofetn I misspell words. (see what I did there?) And because I started life as a secretary typing on a Royal typewriter, I backspace and correct as I go. Sometimes the words fly faster than my fingers can go, and anyone that I IM with can tell you I’m a super speedy typist (even with the typos!).

But more than just editing, I can’t make my brain focus on anything sexual just now. I haven’t had an O in 4 days and He’s ramped me up and made me so fucking horny. The thought of writing anything sexy just makes me MORE turned on … and it’s not time for fulfillment yet.

And I can’t focus. I’m flitty, flighty, bouncing around from thing to thing to thing. I try really hard to not speculate on what will happen because…well, with Him? Anything can happen. There is no ‘formula’ and I never know exactly what He will do and I doubt HE does, either. He doesn’t plan, exactly. No…that’s incorrect. He doesn’t script a playtime, though He brings a lot of things with Him to torture me with just in case. 

Yet my mind isn’t blank. Rather, it’s filled, filled with thoughts of Him. The remembrance of His scent. The feel of His hands gripping my fingers (or some other convenient bit of my flesh). That wicked gleam in His eyes, the curiously compelling half-amused smile (see, too smart to call it a smirk!) He often wears when we talk. The way He can tie me up with words until I’m stumbling and stuttering, to His intense amusement.  The way He ties me up and smacks the fuck out of me…


No can’t think of Him smacking me (I just got this *wicked* throb in my clit. tsk. I’m *such* a wanton whore.) without being deeply affected. Stopping that train right in its track!

We spoke tonight, briefly, the first time we’ve had time to talk (and okay, I was hiding from His devious tasks) all week. He has planned a half-o…actually more than a half-o…a “you better get right to the fucking edge nilla, right to that edge, where your feet are kicking the bed, and you’re moaning swears at Me, and hating Me, totally to the edge…

And fucking STOP. RIGHT. THERE.”

He paused, and my heart was thundering in my chest. His words excited me even as they made me cringe.

“I want you to be restless. I  hope you don’t sleep a wink. I hope when you do your jobs tomorrow, that you’re tired and cranky, your cunt dripping in need. That’s what I want, slut.”



The Sadist has awoken, pervie friends, awake and plotting and enjoying every last task he’s gifted me with this week. And it gets more intense. I become *more* needy. And it won’t take but a touch for me to explode when we finally meet Sunday.

So for now, I’ll exist in liminal time, that time between. Soon enough (oh, so not true! Not soon enough at all!) it will be Sunday, and I’ll be ready. Pain is promised. Pain is needed.

And an orgasm or twenty wouldn’t come amiss, either.


He Began…

…with the text “and don’t forget to bring the bag of Wolf’s special gifts to Me.”

*big gulp*

I texted back some innocuous “okay” type of thing, but inside? Quivers. The header you see there? (last day for that as I have new shoes to show ya’ll tomorrow) That’s the contents of The Bag. And they are scary in the hands of a fucking mean Master. Okay He’s not really mean in the bad sense. But He is a Sadist and He doesn’t go at all easy with these things. There is no warm up. There just is *WHAM*.

And the thought of it, of packing it and bringing it and laying it on the bed for Him…

Well dammit it made me so wet.

*stamps foot*


Why why why? Coz I’m a masochist? Because I’m fucked up? I dunno. Just the way I’m wired. But it did totally turn me on. I was a hot soggy mess all that day, and the next. Every time I looked at that text I got a little pop of “turn on”.  I’d try to not look at it, you know? Avoidance? Fear? Extreme excitement? But I’d always scroll back to read His order.

There is so much. So many pieces of this day. So many bits to linger over. The bruises, which I may or may not show. My tits are totally purple and pink and blue. He caned so wickedly. And I bruise so easily. I had bruises in the first 5 minutes of play. And just touching them, seeing them, running my hands over them, leaves me lost in memories.

I’m such a wicked girl.

And I like it.


He’s been texting and teasing me about Big Red ever since last Sunday, when I first learned of the New Butt Plug and his presence in Master’s arsenal.

It fills me with no little trepidation.

It rocks me with a wild lust.

Isn’t that fucking weird?


I’m scared of that fucking thing…yet I am (kinda, sorta) looking forward to His dominating me and making me take it. Scared, and turned on.

Not scared as in “He’ll do whatever He wants to me no matter if it will permanently harm me”–He is very careful with His belongings. Meticulous, even. But the teasing, the subtle torment He’s laved on me via text and phone calls? Oh, yes, yes, yes.

Major turn-on.

“I am so looking forward to fucking you while Big Red resides in your asshole.”

Just writing that, His words to me on Thursday via text, makes me shiver, makes my pussy quiver, turns my belly into hot wet jello.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read that particular text.

It’s so sadistic, so Dommy, so very much what I crave. Even without the big event happening, I’m already a nerved-up, turned-on slutty mess.  It can’t get much better than that as a set up.

Keep your fingers crossed, for a playdate is in the offing, hopefully in early December. It’s been a while, and I’m anticipating our playtime, even while I pause and shudder at the thought of Big Red.

You know.


(you’re a porn erotic writer, nilla. Say it.)

(oh myyy)

In my ass.

Broaching the tight (nervously tight) boundaries of my asshole. And staying there awhile. Being fucked in my pussy, while my ass is full.

The thing of so many of my masturbation fantasies, come to reality.

And then there’s the beating I need. That He has promised me. It seems we’ll come together at a crossroads of mutual need. He needs to beat someone–and this particular someone slut needs to be beaten.

It doesn’t get much better than that.


15 minutes

in 15 minutes

I’ll have you melted

into a soft wet puddle on the floor.

it will happen that fast–I know what buttons to push, you see. I know what it does to you when I grab your nipples like this…yesss…and twist them just like this.

your knees wobble a bit, your eyes open wide, as does your hungry mouth. those noises…so sexy…grunts…moans…whimpers…the sound of an animal. no words, no cohesive thought…just the guttural sounds of pain.

the pleasure is there too. I can smell it, rising from between your legs. your cunt is dewy with it, slippery and slick with wanting. you want something more, I know, more than the torment I visit upon your nipples.

those pearls are hard now, little pebbles between my thumb and forefinger. I love how they feel when I roll them this way. nubbins with a firmness that I like to squash–just to hear those noises from you.

in 15 minutes, how many orgasms will you have from the pain you suffer for me? when I grab your titties this way, my entire hand crushing them in my grip, my knuckles white, while I leave deep red impressions on your soft skin?

it makes me hard.

watching those marks bloom across your flesh, knowing that I am the one who painted them on there…knowing that you desire to be hurt as much as I desire to hurt you. lean into me…let me smell your fear and curiosity.

so fucking sexy.

your tits are hot against my chest, but my hands seek a new target. your ass is full and succulent, a perfect canvas for my next work. my cock is pressing hard against my jeans. my belt slips from the loops, folds over my hand, and lashes that softness, as you lean against me.

a fistful of hair moves you to where I need you to go…over the edge of my chair here, don’t fucking move.

the jolt of your body as my belt slaps your ass feeds a hunger in me. more…take more of this, sweet cunty whore. your ass turns red in stripes…my eyes dance over the hot marks. I did this. I lashed you, my slut. the silver tracking down your inner thigh is almost my undoing…you cunt! you seek to distract me here?

my hands sting as I slap your bottom; I hear the familiar whimper as you cum, watch your body tremble with the effects of your orgasm, smell the succulent scent rising from you.  a puddle forms as liquid slips from you.

in 15 minutes, there will be a bigger mess on the floor between your thighs, as I fuck you brainless, and cum deep inside your belly.

I will enjoy the view when you lap it up.