Her hands drew tight around the metal bar as she lifted to her toes. Biting back the cry of pain, she bit hard into the rubber ball lodged behind her teeth.

The faint cut of an instrument passing through air was all the warning she got before another blow landed close enough to where the first one did. There was no relief in that near-miss.

Pain exploded over the curve of her hip. Shoulders hunched, it looked like she was trying to cover her ears, to block out sound with her raised arms.  She panted through the raw hurt of it, short staccato explosions of breath through her nose. Tears fell unnoticed, sweat slid through her hair, plastering it to her scalp.

Another lash, harder than the others brought the first squeal. Her toes curled, her knuckles whitened as her body quaked with the fast hard pops. It was white-hot, it was molten.

She shivered as the sweat ran freely, twisted and turned to free herself. The bonds held true. She grunted, gurgled, drooled. He changed the rhythm of the blows now, slowing. Deep hard thuds against her thighs, ass, and back. Eyes closed, she absorbed them all.

Falling under the spell of the pain, the craving for it ignited the rocket that sent her spiraling away, out into the nether regions of her mind. She felt the connection between them-Him, the belt, and her- all joined in a unique meeting of mutual cravings. She let the stars take her sailing, feeling yet not caring, the sudden rush in the tempo of the pain-dance.

Breaking through the throbbing was the cool touch of His hand, soothing over her welted flesh, pulling her back to Him with just that simple stroke. Her burning flesh calmed under His hand, the heartbeat in her assaulted backside the twin to the rushing love she felt for this Man, who could hurt her so deliciously. That He understood her craving for His need to draw the hurt to the surface was nothing short of a miracle. Her fingers tightened and relaxed upon the bar He had tied her to.

The rustling from behind her assured. He was sorting through His Black Magic Bag.

The whistle through the air was her only warning as He struck her upper arm. Her hands drew tight around the metal bar as she lifted to her toes. Biting back the cry of pain, she bit hard into the rubber ball lodged behind her teeth.

Inside, she smiled.


She settled into the little yellow house easily. Her favorite things had been placed with care, turning the house into a home.  Nooks and shelves held treasured items, a ceramic butterfly, a cobalt vase, a bronze unicorn. Each day she woke up, knowing that she’d made the right choice to come here, that this place felt like home to her. Other than a few distant cousins, there was no one on the East coast for her to miss, or miss her.

She walked into town every few days, and explored. There was a great antique shop, a bit too rich for her blood, and a nice “reclaimed” shop on the other side. Ronnie and Pete, brothers, shared the space, often taunting each other over their selections. Although she couldn’t afford most of the treasures on Pete’s side, Ronnie’s “Flea Market” as his brother disparaged it, was a wonderful source of inexpensive treasures. There she’d found several nice pieces for her home, things that she could freshen up with a coat of paint, or leave “as is” and enjoy the feeling of history that came with it.  One or the other would load her find into their battered pick up truck, and drive it, and her, back to her house, and wrestle the piece into her house for her.

She became familiar with the ins and outs of the small town. Bert at the grocery store who could talk the ears off a brass monkey. Arnie who pumped gas and had a soft spot for older corvettes which he lovingly restored in his garage on weekends. Annalise, the hairdresser who seemed to know the intimate goings on of all the residents of  Port Harbour, Oregon.  She had a nodding acquaintance with just about all of her neighbors, and wasn’t it nice to feel a part of the community? Boston was a great city, but everyone had been isolated, living in their own bubbles. She had often wondered at the feeling of loneliness she carried with her, surrounded by so many people. But here? Here everyone wanted to know you. Ironic that she found that here on the West Coast, rather than at that bar in Boston where “everyone knows your name”!

After a few months, she began to get a feel for the ebb and flow here, and felt a bit less like a total outsider. People returned her shy greetings, and waved to her when she walked into town. For the first time, ever, she felt like she was “home”.

Her favorite by far was Miss Susan, who lived next door. Against the picket fence that separated their two properties was the most incredible country garden. Echinacea,  Brown-eyed Susan’s, Coreiopsis, and Daisies bloomed in profusion. Roses framed the southern end of the fence, while the largest blueberry bush she had ever seen took over the northern end. Stems and flowers poked through the fence,  overspilling their confines, and adding a bit of life to her yard. It was obvious that Miss Susan had spent many years working in her gardens, and Chloe considered herself lucky to be neighbors with her.  She was definitely a dabbler in the dirt, and hoped Miss Susan would guide her as she began planting her roots deep into the land of her new home.

Noting that the inside of her little house was in order, working on her side of the fence was becoming a priority.  She had time to putter now that the fast-paced insanity of packing up her household on the east coast was over.  She’d moved all the way across the country, sight-unseen, into the little yellow house that she’d found online, and fallen in love with.

The settlement from Uncle Richard’s estate had been extremely generous. His one admonishment had been to “go, live your dream, and write.” She missed his gruff love, and no-nonsense way of looking at life.  And he accepted her, fully and completely. He’d been uncle, father, and mother to her after losing her parents at a young age. He’d listened to her, guided her, and didn’t blink twice when she’d called him from a dungeon after her Dom boyfriend had driven off and left her there.  He’d come, taken her home, held her as she’d cried. He’d given her the advice to follow her heart, but don’t shut off your brain, girl. She’d never managed to shock him, even the time she had to have him cut off the handcuffs she’d locked herself into. She smiled at the memory. His eyebrow had raised, and had admonished her to make sure he had a key to any further devices. She’d always wondered if he… she shook her head. Not going down that road. She missed him, fiercely.

She had perused the online offerings for BDSM in her new home, but as yet hadn’t dabbled in the community here. Innately shy, it was really hard being the new fish in the pond. There was no Master left behind, never having found the “one” that she’d been willing to serve forever. She played, usually, on the edges of the BDSM scene.

She fell into a routine, of sorts. Up early in the morning, as soft breezes moved through her house, the scents from the garden stirring her to wakefulness. A 30 minute yoga stretch, then tea and some sort of muffin to begin her day.

She sat on her deck, finishing her first cuppa. Today was a gorgeous morning, blue skies, soft midsummer breeze teasing her hair, and the scent of flowers a sweet lure. While she very much wanted to dig in the dirt, she needed the discipline of sitting at her computer and writing, first. Carrying her mug and plate in from the deck, she moved into the den, and tapping her computer awake, began typing.

At His look, she slid to her knees, lifting her breasts as He had taught her He liked.

That didn’t quite carry the force her Dominant would portray. She crossed out, and began typing again.

…..liked demanded she offer herself to him. Her heart beat thickly in her chest

Thickly? Who’s heart beat thickly? She sighed, back spacing to correct that, and became aware of the oddest noise. She’d been in many a dungeon in her sexpliots back east, and the sound of some sort of implement striking flesh was unmistakable.  The moans were soft, and sounded far away, but they weren’t all that far away.

Curiosity burned. Was someone into kinky sex in her neighborhood, or was someone close by being victimized? So many of those crime novels were centered here in the northwest, likely for good reason. She went out to her deck. The sounds were coming from Miss Susan’s house!

She was alarmed, and dashed around the fence to the gate that separated their backyards. Through the gate, across the yard and up the back porch to Miss Susan’s door. Her hand on the knob, she froze for a moment at the next yelp. She turned it softly, then stepped in.

As in her house, the cellar entry was in the kitchen. The sounds weren’t coming from the basement, however. She moved through the kitchen and into the hallway. From above, she heard a muffled thump. Heart pounding, she bolted up the stairs, swinging around the newel post and heading for the one closed door. Flinging it open, she froze.

Miss Susan, dressed in a leather corset and thigh-high boots turned, scowling. Tucked under her arm was a short leather crop, as she  lifted a heavy leather bag up onto the bed. At the top of the bag she could see a thick coil, which she knew was a whip. And on the cross in the corner of the room was Mr. Caruthers, the manager of  Union Bank, Port Harbour branch. His shock of snow-white hair was unmistakable  despite his current, naked, state.  His body was covered in red welts, from his calves to his wrists.

She blinked, shocked to her core.

Miss Susan strode up to her, eyes narrowed.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Chloe leaned back, away from the force emanating from the woman.  And stuttered out her explanation. While she wanted to look more at Mr. Caruthers, her gaze remained locked on the Domme in front of her.

“And you just barged in here to “rescue” me?” Her tone could have shredded paper.

“Well…I…yes, yes Ma’am. I did.  Don’t…don’t worry. I …I understand what is happening here…I’m a submissive, and …”


The tone brooked no argument. Chloe fell silent immediately. Miss Susan pointed at her feet with the crop. Chloe fell to her knees. The smile on Miss Susan’s face chilled her, more than a bit.

“I’ve always wanted a girl,” she said softly, tapping Chloe’s chin with the end of the crop. “In here I am Suki, but you may call me Ma’am. You are not to speak unless directed, understood?” At Chloe’s bemused nod, she smiled again.

“What is it you do over there all morning, huddled over your computer? Speak.”

Chloe swallowed, hard. “I ….I write erotica, Ma’am.”

“And have you published it?”

“Yes Ma’am. I write a blog, and I’ve had four books published, under the pen name Star Williams.”

“I’ve read some of those!” This came from the blindfolded figure across the room.

Suki crossed the room, and administered  a dozen hard blows across his pale bottom. There was, in that little bit of respite, time for Chloe  to admit that she was feeling nervous. Her white-haired, gardening elf of a neighbor had transformed into a fierce Dominatrix. She struggled with the duality. The woman before her, likely more than twice the large man’s age on the cross, and half his size, was very much in control in this space.

Watching the scene, more than a bit mesmerized, she didn’t feel embarrassed. She didn’t feel out of place. Maybe a bit weirded out by the sudden transformations she was privy to. Then again, she was considered the odd duck in her family. And this sort of thing was…it was like an erotic fairy tale come to life. She felt Mistress’s eyes on her, assessing.

“Tell me, girl.”

Her eyes rose to meet the intense gaze of Suki.

“Are you wet?”

The Best Part…

The best part Sunday was when we were playing my new game, nilla.

I groan a bit, then giggle.

You weren’t giggling so much when I nailed your ass with the “fucking pink brush”, little girl.

“No Master, that’s the truth! I HATE that fucking thing!”

know! It’s the gift that keeps on giving, nilla. And YOU gave it to me!

I roll my eyes, still disbelieving how very much He loves that fucking thing, after nearly 2 years. You know how people like something for a while, then get tired of it? Like, I had a thing last fall for Greek yogurt. I ate it every day for lunch for a month, then a bit more sporadically as a snack before leaving for work in the afternoon. Now, I’m rarely eating it. I got tired of it.

Not Master.

He finds something he likes and he sticks to it. He loves everything about the damned fucking thing. The gel handle for His comfort while he beats me. The wide paddle of it as it nails my ass to the fucking wall. The *sound* of the impact is like that of rolling thunder. Not a mere “thwack” or “thud” or even “splat”, but a rumbly *BWOP*.

I, on the other hand, can barely make a sound. Only the sudden rushing of indrawn breath lets him know I’m sit alive, as my body arches, my mouth opens, and my fingers claw at the wall.

Speechless with the sudden, shocking, incredible pain.

Ah, nilla, the sound of your silence is so beautiful.

The Bastard laughs.

But this is only the opening salvo in a game that he has come too enjoy immensely. The game is called “Name That Impliment of Ass Destruction” and it’s exactly what it sounds like.

He wacks my ass and I must guess the tool. Once I have my breath back, of course.

Two correct guesses in a row suspends the game…for a while. But before we got there? I’d had orgasms. And foot torture. And pinching of my spare tire which is verrah painful. Egads. Shit. Hellfire. The Man is brutal.

I can always, always guess the pink brush. But he has a few toys that I can’t judge on pain alone. I try to vector the amount of flesh that feels the impact, the depth of the pain, the tingle or burn afterwards, all of which help me judge what the fuck he has just hit me with.

It sounds so logical and analytically clinical, doesn’t it? Except. Yeah. Orgasms. Tickle torture. Pain. All swirled into a cocktail that leaves me totally dazed. I’m already flying, buzzing from the endorphins.

But wait! There’s more!

He adds a new dimension this time. One that fuddles up my data transmissions even more than the miasma already swirling in my brain.

He has this fuckingly brutal (yeah, I’m overusing the word…trust me, it is the only one that fits!) plastic salad fork. It’s not used for beating, but for scratching. He scratches over the welts and bruises and hit-marks with the damned fucking thing, first in one direction, then in another. Until my ass is painfully throbbing, hot, aching, raw-feeling.

And *then* he fucking hits me.

Pain, layered over and under pain. His voice whispers in my ear, his breath moving my hair, the heat and smell of him so fucking appealing. I was shivering, not from cold, but from the beating, and his heat behind me, was so enticing.

what was that, little gir? Hmmmm?

The pain causes fog to rise in my brain, the jungle beat of the pain in my ass so intense that I feel like he can hear it. The heat right *there* where the impact was, so fiery. What the fuck was it? Fucking silver cake thingy? The fucking olive wood spoon I gave him two years ago (that he recently rediscovered in his toy bag)? I have NO idea, so I guess.

His chuckle is rich and greedy-sounding, a person getting exactly what he wants for his present.

hmm hmm hmm…NO! Wrong…

Scratch, scratch, scratch… WHACK!

More chuckles, moans, groans…the game goes on for a long, long, long time.

Left buttock - beaten, scratched, and whacked with the wooden spoon (the round O's that kinda look like hearts, which is total irony!)
Left buttock -beaten, scratched, and whacked with the wooden spoon (the round O’s that kinda look like hearts, which is total irony!)

When it’s done, he pushes me hard, backwards, and I fall, gasping, to the bed. He lands upon me and begins to assault my pussy and tits, hitting my cunt so hard that he told me it looked like cooked spam.

Which he decided needed tasting.

Lips, teeth, tongue and beard all working over my burning throbbing aching pussy…his laugh as I came, hard, over and over again, vibrating against my clit with more force than my dildo ever could.

Later, I’ll try to get my subspaced head clear enough to tell you of my “best part”…but it is so hard, you know? Because really? The best part is any time that I get to spend with my Master.


Oh, My!


Lookit what my writing friend Will Crimson found for me on the interwebs… now I want one. LOL! Isn’t it charming? It sends creepy yet erotic shivers right up my spine…

It’s a doorstop, of all things.

You may remember that Will has my absolute favorite-of-all-time Tentacles series…if you’ve never read it, I highly recommend all of the series. Let’s see if I can find you a link…ah…here you go… 🙂

Will has several chapters to this story, so do yourself a favor, have your best vibe nearby, curl up and get comfy, and read them all at once…guaranteed, once you try one of His tentacle stories on …you’ll be hooked (yeah, pun intended)…!


Another “oh my”…….?  While YOU are sitting and reading me here, *I* am sitting or laying or standing…being beat, fucked, head-to-the-wall, and other various and sundry tortures.

Like “piggie tickling”.

Like whallops with the fucking pink hairbrush.

Funny aside here…I got myself a *new* hairbrush. It was time. But *Master* loves the old hairbrush, so I’ve put it into my bag for work, where I wear my hair up. That way I have it accessible for brushing out, right? We met at Starbucks a week ago…remember the story of His “new best friend” that I wasn’t quite sure *who* he was?

Well, I forget why now, but I was pawing through my work tote while Master was talking to the guy…and I pulled out my pink brush, and a few other things…and then stuffed everything back in.

On MLK night, He and I were talking. He was NOT in a good mood, and I was cheering Him up, some, and then out of the blue He asks me why I had my pink brush with me.

“You saw that?” I said, astonished. I was certain that 100% of His attention had been focused on his “best buddy”…. yet obviously not.

The Man is simply amazing that way.

“Of course I saw it…” He says, almost exasperated. “That brush and I have a cosmic connection, nilla.”

I snort, then giggle.

“Of course You do,” I mutter around giggles.

“He is my favorite, and after all, nilla, you introduced us…”

Yeah. Right. My (stupid) innocent bad.


Oh my (gawd)!


There is yet another “Oh My”…sometime today (I think, or maybe Monday?)….and …. maybe it will be YOU who did it to me…

My blog will surpass 400,000 hits!


So…. thank you…it’s truly awesome to watch those numbers go up and up…You did that…coming here, reading what I have to say, commenting…all of you have been part of this journey with me…some a long time, some new…but whomever you are…thank you. I am truly blessed to have such a loyal and horny fan-base! 🙂


Saturday evening on my drive home from work, I was talking to the Man. Well, He was talking, I was listening. A bit of banter, a bit of whining…oh, okay, a LOT of whining.

You see, I’ve been on worse than O-restriction this last week. I had one orgasm, Tuesday. Feels like a lifetime ago.

And rather than just leave me feeling sexually “dead”, He decided to leave me sexually aware.

Very aware.

Half-way-there orgasms suck. You get almost to the brink of explosion…and pull back and stop.

It’s torture. It’s arousing. It’s incredibly frustrating.

It leaves one feeling constantly needy, constantly wanton.

Constantly wet.

He loves it, LOVES doing this to me.

Tonight (Saturday as I write this) He ramps it up even more, and ever so casually.

So tonight when you’re having your two half-o’s….

“Wha–wha–wat?? MASTER? Wha-th-huh?”

He laughs, the brute, and then continues.

Why nilla, you’re all flustered. Yes, you lucky slut you get two half o’s tonight! Six minutes apart. Have one, rest, then the next at the 6 minute mark.

He doesn’t even tell me not to fuck it up, no “oops”…because He knows I won’t. I’ve texted him after ever fucking torture session, each one worse than the last.


And you’d best be aware of the time, slut. This needs to be done by 10. I’ll watch for your text. I won’t read it…just the time stamp.

At 10, If you are not done, you’ll need to give me a third half-orgasm.

Oh, and full chicklet outfit…including the ass plug. Capiche?

I repeat.


Well…it’s ten past nine already. I desperately need to get my ass upstairs and get to it. Adios mi amigo’s…(do continue reading however, as I’ve written this post all during the past week, just so you’d have some titillating (? really?? Seriously, my life just isn’t that titillating — no, it’s not —  really! But you all are curious so, …well….I try to accommodate!)


My vanilla week was kind of crappy…no one could go out in the cold and burn off energy – ergo child wars that erupted over the least things… sigh…an angsty teen, monotonous chores…just everything seemed blah.

But it’s midweek as I write this now, and I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be with Him. Behind closed doors with Him. What it feels like to have His fist in my hair in a place where no one can see Him push me across the room with it, or bend me over His knee. Where no one is there to witness Him slapping my cheek, or pinching me, or putting clamps on my nipples.

What does that feel like, again?

At home, I can put the pegs on so that they cause pain–but I control it. Too tight? Oh, move it here. Too loose? Oh, just fix it there. Sure I’ll do it to the best of my ability…and there are many nights that I’ve sat with tears in my eyes as that fucking chicklet outfit hangs down between my legs, weights pulling my nipples to the floor (or so it seems) because it hurts so much, because I swear my tits are on fire from the searing pain of it.

But for Him to do it means His way. Too far up the nipple so it bites a ton? Too frikkin bad, slut.

Oh, don’t want my finger in your asshole?

Suck it up sunshine. They’re His holes and He will do as He chooses.


My choices are not merely mitigated, but abrogated. Gone. *poof* dust in the wind. My choice is to go into that room with Him, and remember what it feels like to be a fully submissive pain slut.

Is there dread?

Maybe a little. The oh-my-gawd stinging, deep pain of that fucking pink hairbrush is a remembered pain. It takes my breath away. It leaves one hell of a mark. It hurts. 

It sure as fuck-all hurts.

Mr. Belt might show up…and if he does, it will be after FPH has thwapped me a bit…so rather than being a lovely stingy pain…it will hurt like holy fuck-all.

Who knows what else will happen? Not me. Not even  Him, I would bet. He’s had a shit week, a really shit week…and while He wouldn’t make me bear the full brunt of it…I’m sure I’ll get some of it.

That pleases me, btw.

To be His tool of release? Yeah, there’s a pleasure for me in that.

In the end, I’ll be bruised, and achy, and sore, and tired, and well-fucked and orgasmed out…until then, a long rest-of-the-week of partial orgasms lays ahead…(if I had any doubt the Man was a sadist…He has well and truly laid that to rest!)

So as you sit with your Sunday coffee, that week of partial o’s lays behind me, and He lays ahead of me.

What a lovely “Oh, My!”  that is to anticipate.


He touched her with a tenderness that belied his intent. His strong hands brushed over her bare flesh, sometimes light as a feather, then deeper, rubbing strokes, setting her skin alive with sensation.

He’d forbidden her to speak.

That single forefinger, pressed to his lips as her mouth had opened to greet him when he entered the house had been all she had needed to obey the unspoken word. An hour home and not one word spoken between them; he’d trained her well. A flick of the finger had seen her stripping for him, a slight tilt of the head had sent her to lay across their bed.

She wondered at his mood during these times, as if the unseen, unknown demons of his day swirled through him like milk in coffee.  Yet still that tender touch as he lay behind her, running up and over the soft hill of her hip, down her thigh, across her knee. Again he touched, as if mapping her…up her spine, making her shiver, then over the slope of shoulder to reach and cup her right breast. His hand held there a moment, weighing the orb in his hand, gently rolling the nub that rose at his touch.

She felt the soft butterfly kiss on her shoulder, then the nip. She bit her lip to not cry out, knowing the bruise would form just there, where his teeth had marked her as his.

The bed shifted as he moved off, the floor creaked as he crossed it. She imagined him standing in front of his wardrobe. That door opened silently. She imagined him looking at all the toys of pain that hung just inside, each weapon with its own hook or holder, all tidily put away. Which would he choose, she wondered.

The floor creaked, shifting under the weight of his mood as he returned to where she lay, a blank canvas waiting for the release of his darkness. In the stillness, the wooosh of the crop through the air was audible, yet the blow and the sound reached her simultaneously. She went rigid, fingers clawing into the counterpane as the reaction set in. For a moment only, there was just the sound of leather striking flesh; the burn came seconds later, the whimper stuck in her throat. A second blow, fast on the heels of the first made a sharp report in the room, followed by her short gasp of shock and pain.

Each blow was heavy, full of the weight of his need, followed by increasingly desperate whimpers from her. Her body was criss-crossed in ribbons of welts, the pain waves of heat rippling across her, and still he slashed.

The floor creaked, signalling respite. Her head slumped against the mattress, letting tears flow. She didn’t hear the floor creak, but the heat of his hand rubbing her welts brought solace to her heart.  His fingers traced one brutal welt that rolled under her bottom, and curved down her thigh. She sniffled back a sob; so tender that flesh, so easily hurt.

He lay over her and lapped her tear-streaked cheek.

“More,” he whispered. “Feed me your tears.”

Rising, she heard the floor creak, and knew there would indeed,  be more.


Fucking Hairbrush!

The worst “toy” in His arsenal by far is the pink hairbrush.

I was lucky enough to get some insight into exactly how much He loves this weapon of ass destruction while Sir P was visiting with us. I’d been sucking cock, and been fucked, round one, when Sir put me on the Wall where I’d been (blindfolded) when he had come into the room with Master.

I was startled, and happy, when Master came up behind me and ran His hand from my shoulder to my flank, a kind of petting that I found reassuring. I hadn’t been all that certain that He was still in the room with us! I remember pushing my ass back into His caress..and His responding slap.

Reassuring, certainly.

I can’t speak to His purpose in the smack. To me it was a way for Him to let me know that He was, indeed, still present. But in truth? He was teaching Sir P.

He hit me again, harder, then moved away. I hear Him rummaging through His toybag, then *smack*…FSCT appears.  It stings, but my ass has been “conditioned” a bit by His earlier smacking, and it’s a pleasurable pain. A quick sting, then the burn of “mmmmmmm”….and then that stops. He turns and speaks to Sir P, telling him that I enjoy being smacked, and that I bruise extremely easily. He calls him over and shows him the bruises from last Saturday’s play, now 8 days old and still deeply purple, on my upper left side by my breast.

There is more talk, soft, and I can’t hear…in truth? I don’t care. It isn’t my business…in this I am His tool. Tools don’t speak unless asked to.

And then He disappears. His voice comes, doppler-like, from the bathroom and I know what it is He has come out with …the fucking pink hairbrush.

“This is my alltime favorite toy,” I hear Him say to Sir P. “It was so sweet. So innocent. She hates it, and that gives Me great joy.”

Ah….it adds to His joy that I hate this particular implement. And then He explains that I’d brought it to a meet more than a year ago, showing Him in my naivety that I’d found a solution to the tangled mat that my hair had become…but what glowed in bright and brilliant light as a perfect Dom toy…and knowing that I’d brought it in such innocence, knowing that I hated it, all added to the thrill He got from it.

It was enlightening.

And then He hit me with it. And I muttered a fast “thank you Master” through gritted teeth.

And He laughs. Just roars.

“Aaah,” He says, to Sir P…”that was for your benefit, P. nilla, tell him what you really say when I use this on you…”

And He smacks me again. I try to climb the fucking wall to get away from it…which makes Him chuckle.


“That’s the spirit!” He says. “And what else?”


And of course He hits me again, laughing. (Why does He enjoy that? Being called a fucking bastard? I dunno.)

Later, after Sir P has cum on my face, showered, and departed, I’m back on the Wall. In my mind, what happens next is …an affirmation. That I am still His property.

He bites.

He takes big mouthfulls of my skin…shoulders, ass, arms, and bites me savagely. It hurts, hurts enough to draw gasps and tears. The last bite on my right shoulder was more wicked than all the others. And I sob a little, drawing a “What?” from Him, with a wicked edge of the Sadist in His voice.

“It *sob/gasp* hu-*sniff* hurts, Master.”

“Ohh, okay then.”

And He takes up the fucking hairbrush and *beats* the spot where His mouth has ravaged me.

I hate that fucking thing! But I do very much love the after-effects…  🙂

Tears for Master

It was an eventful playtime. And I’m jumping all around on the timeline because…well because things come into my head and I want to explore them here. So think of this as my talking to myself, with you all overhearing me 🙂 !

I spent a lot of time on the Wall this visit. Was pacing around the room feeling nervous. He came into the room, saw me, and put me on the Wall, firmly (head-bang-wall).  A few ass swats. And pinching. And armpit tickling.

In short, torture.

And then He walked into the adjoining room and talked to my Pusy Date, leaving me to stew on the wall. It was neat, to be there on the Wall, just a thing. An object d’art, so to speak. I was deep in subspace when He was gone…it is it’s own form of containment, although I am not secured in any way. I’m allowed to lift my feet to ease my aching toes in the 6″ heels. I can bring my hands down for brief periods to relieve my shoulders, but mostly, forehead on the Wall, hands just about headheight, palms on the Wall.

I made the mistake of thinking He’d left once, and brought my hands down, and rubbed the sore spot on my ass.


The solid whack on my ass startled the fuck outta me! He was still in the room! Fake-out!

Then He is right behind me, pushing against me, pushing me into the wall. Grabbing my wrists, one in each hand, He slaps them up onto the wall over my head.

“You fucking keep those hands up on the wall, capiche?”

I don’t know if I said “Yes Sir,” or if I nodded, or what, because my heart was racing from the firm tone. He is never mad at me, but He watches me way more than I ever give Him credit for. And I love it. Love every fucking minute of it.

And eventually He does go to see PD. And I don’t move, except for the occasional shuffling of my feet.

Time shifts in my head, tho I swear, I promise myself that I won’t forget, that I’m in the moment and aware…but I can’t tell you now, whether it was during that, or before that, or later, after Sir P has gone, that I’m on the Wall, and He decides to try out Wolf and wordwitches “gift” to Him.

Wolf? I fucking hate you.

Just, yanno, in the true spirit of things.

You’re devious and mean and make the most awful toys.

That thin whippy thing with the “spaghetti noodle” falls? Holy fuckity fuck!!

Fuckity FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

That bastard wrapped around my body and “kissed” my wrist. It’s twin did the same up over my shoulder. I have long thin bruises all over my back and wrist and shoulder. I fucking hated that one.

You know Master beats me hard. I like it that way. But this time? It was brutal. I so very much needed it. The days leading up to this meet were wicked and intense and stressful in my vanilla life…and now I am…


Calm in mind and body.

At peace.

It’s a breath of fresh air, even as my body creaks through all the aches and pains. Every movement hurts, and reminds me of what He did to cause it. It connects us, the pain Giver, and the pain receiver. And even now I grow wet as I move and feel the ache in my muscles, my skin.

He took out the flail with the wicked “S” curves cut into the heavy rubber falls. That thing? Wicked. Wicked. Evil. Painful. It’s mate has straight falls, but it makes no matter. They carry an intense heavy blow that leaves a deep and violent sting. I felt like I was being flayed alive.

O wait. I was being flayed. 🙂

And it hurt so intensely. And my wrists were cuffed to my thighs, all I could do at this point was take it.

And cry.

It’s rare for Him to drive me through pain and into tears. I was sobbing quietly against the wall, the pain just so intense. He stopped, after a bit. Came to my side, and wiped the tear that was dangling from the tip of my nose, but didn’t touch me other than that.

It was ….I don’t think I can put words on the emotions swirling in that memory. Gratitude that He was beating me so hard. Grateful for the tears. (He’d told me He could bring me to tears quite easily, a long while ago, but that I needed to grow before He’d ever do it.) Grateful for a Dom that knows me well enough to push me through this, and was caring enough to take the tear, without saying anything about it.

And as odd as it sounds? It is one of my strongest memories thus far, one of pain and tenderness.



It was a thing that she had never dared to do. The monthly munch often had contests, and she had thought from time to time of trying them. But she didn’t have a regular Dom, she didn’t have a big “exhibitionist” fetish, and she wasn’t at all into public play.

She could blame it on the drinking, maybe. The weather was cold and raw and wet, the week had been long and frustrating and busy. Here, at last, was a chance to unwind and just be. Not the good little office machine…but just a woman.

Okay, a slut, but still a woman.

The sign on the door had made her roll her eyes.

“A Tip for a Tit”

Tit Contest Tonight!

Are you “sub” enough to submit to titty torment? Are you Dom enough to make them squeal?

Sign up at the bar!

(all proceeds donated to Breast Cancer Research:

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month!)

She’d had a drink. And another. And the fine print under the sign read “all proceeds to go to breast cancer research”.  And somehow her name and a $20 bill had gone across the bar to Mick, who had collected both with a smile and a “good luck, lass!”

Which explained why she was standing here, hands tied behind her back and her shirt neatly folded over them. A Domme paced before the group,  gearing them up. She’d flick a nipple here, encourage good posture there.  Twelve women, all the same as her, wrists bound, tits thrust forward. A crowd had gathered, and Jess didn’t know if it was the giggles and pointing, or the drinks, but she felt a rush of lust between her legs that shocked her.

She was not an exhibitionist!

The Master of Ceremonies, Sir Malcolm, came to the front of the stage to face the twelve women.

“You have chosen of your own free will to submit?”

Twelve heads nodded nearly simultaneously.

“You have all paid the price of admission, and I thank you for your donations. Soon you will pay an even dearer price,” and he turned to the audience with a snicker. They laughed.

“Bids have been taken from Masters and Mistresses who have chosen to winnow you down from the twelve, to the one. The One will receive a special prize, but I won’t go into detail now. You have chosen to submit…and so you shall.”

He paused a moment, looking at each woman carefully.

“The safeword for tonight’s contest is RED. R-E-D. Got it? When you’ve had enough, bow out by saying the safeword. You can safeword at any point in the contest. The contest is over when the last of the two safewords. Understood, subgirls?”

Again, all twelve heads nodded, nearly at the same time.  She almost rolled her eyes, a dozen dumb sluts- it was the makings of a joke, somewhere.  Yet there she was, smiling and nodding along with the rest of them.

Okay, it was more of a grimace. What the fuck had she been thinking? Geezuz. Blame it on the alcohol, but when she saw the first Dom step up with the wicked-looking riding crop, it shocked her sober.

He went down the line, smacking each tit firmly. Twelve girls, 24 quick slaps of the quirt. And He paced back, hitting a bit faster, a bit harder. Two girls down from her, a tiny-breasted brunette gasped as He hit her nipple and yelped “RED!” loud enough to be heard in Wisconsin.

Clarissa almost rolled her eyes. Yet, everyone’s pain was different. Mistress Nyte released the sub, catching Clarissa’s half-frown and winking at her, out of view of the audience. The crowd had doubled, avid eyes staring at the women bound on the stage. All of them had pink slashes on their tits. The Master was allowed one more forward and return trek across the stage. She hissed a terse ‘fuck’ as he struck her nipple firmly, and felt the answering jolt in her pussy.

She’d always been turned on by nipple pain.

Each Dom or Mistress had paid for a chance to titty-whip the volunteers on stage. One by one they dropped subs, some trying valiantly to not cry, others holding their beaten boobs as they went off-stage, drooling snot and tears down their faces.

Clarissa hissed as a Domme hit her hard, cross-hatching over her first pass. There was no rule as to which tit, or how many blows they could land as they moved down the line, and this Domme had hit her quite a few extra times.

The proof of that lay, not only in the red cords of welts, but in the trail of sex juice that was leaking from her in a steady stream. She’d had two orgasms already. The Domme leaned close to speak into her ear.

“You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you? Cumming like a slut all over the stage floor? Tsk.” With a smile, she struck hard across Clarissa’s left nipple, rousing a surge of lust and a loud yelp from her. Blessedly, she moved on, finishing her pass on the stage.  A loud moan at the far end of the group made her look down there. She was surprised to see that there were only four girls left, including herself, and one was even now safewording out.

“REally?” drawled the Domme? “Say it again so all can hear you, girl.”

“Red.” Her voice faint with pain, the blonde at the end with what had to be triple E knockers gave up. There was a rousing cheer for her effort, as she was escorted from the stage.

“And then there were three.” Sir Malcolm faced the audience, waving at the three girls with a flourish.

“Shall we take bids on which one leaves first? Silent bids please, and the girls will now be blindfolded.” At his words, three of the participants slid blindfolds over the remaining sluts, blinding them to the proceedings.

Clarissa hated blindfolds, she much preferred to see what was coming at her. But she wasn’t writing the rulebook here. There was assorted shuffling up on stage, and the sudden and shocking feeling of a fiery explosion on her right tit.

She yelped, even as she was struck again.

“Fucking ass!” She hollered. There was a second of shocked silence, then hilarity as her words were repeated. She heard feet, and another girl yelling. And the third girl, once struck, crying “Red, RED, RED!”

How was it even possible that she was one of the two finalists? The thought came and went as a series of slashes against her thrust out tits took her breath away.

The orgasm was vibrant, and vocal. She was lost in sensation, even as fingers came to touch her.

“What a slut you are! Dirty girl…cumming all over my stage?” He spoke quietly, but she recognized Sir Malcolm.  Another sharp blow made her cry out in a sharp ululation of pain. Then he moved off and she heard the other girl cry as well. She wasn’t sure what the fuck he was using, but it fucking A hurt!

And suddenly, the other girl cried out “RED! FUcking RED!”

The crowd was wildly chanting, and hands came and tangled in her hair as her mouth was resoundingly kissed. A hand rubbed at her pussy as a tongue claimed her mouth, and she came, hard against the probing fingers. That hand rubbed her wetness on her tits, making the welts sting.

Her hands were freed, and her blindfold removed.

“Congratulate our winning slut! Thank you for your generous donations; we’ve raised $1000 for breast cancer research. A portion of that is going to buy wax for several of the whips used tonight…”

The crowd laughed. Sir Malcolm had a way of making everyone happy.

“and you, my dear little slut,” He looked down at her, “have won an evening with me as your boon companion.”

She swallowed hard. Sir Malcolm was a very  popular fixture at these events. And he was going to stay with her? And here she’d been thinking about leaving soon…

“Your obligations for tomorrow?”

She blinked. Tomorrow?

“I..uh…” Geezes, she sounded like a stupid teeny bopper. She was dazzled. And pain-high. And horny as fuck-all. Her brain had fallen out somewhere. She shook her head.

“I have no idea. I…”

He smiled down at her, tolerant.

“It was brave of you to come out of your shell that way and try something new. I’ve been watching you for quite a while. I would never have guessed that tonight would be your blossoming, but you did good, girl.”

“I’d like to take you home. Or to your home. Get to know you better. You never stay long at the play parties, or the munches, but I would like you to be my companion. That is your reward, little one. For coming out of your shell. For baring far more than your tits.”

Dazzled, she nodded up at him. Who would have thought that showing her boobs, and getting titty-beaten would have brought her to this place?

This she no longer “blamed” on the alcohol.

He pinched one bruised nipple, and lead her across the floor to the bar. Pushing her into a stool, he stood looking down at her as the bartender offered two glasses of wine.

“To new adventures, little one,” he said, his eyes intense. She smiled, tipped her glass to his, and sipped.

“And to fucking good times ahead, Sir,” she said impudently.

“Indeed,” He replied with a grin.

And pinched her nipple until she squealed.


quite long. extremely naughty.  for sin just coz she asked!  ….~n~

She wasn’t sure which she hated more…the sound of the heavy steel doors clanging shut behind her, or the smell. The long corridor led down into the bowels of the state penitentiary, the concrete floor and walls echoing back the sound of her heels. The guard escorting her to the Warden’s office was silent, his footfalls quiet but for a subtle squeak from his left boot.

Why the Warden needed to meet with the ADA this late in the evening, and a Friday to boot, was a mystery, and no small annoyance. She gave her all to her job but it had been a particularly grueling week and all she wanted was a nice Italian dinner with Wayne, a glass or two of Chianti, and a nice leisurely fuck.

She’d picked up the phone on the fourth ring; her hand had been on the knob of her office door.  She could read the lettering on the glass panel as she looked longingly at it, even as she picked up the phone.

“Assistant District Attorney McGrath” she huffed into the phone, controlling her urge to scream. Seriously, would this week not end??

“ADA McGrath, Warden Bines here, up at county.”

She controlled the heavy urge to sigh now. Bines was an old fuddy duddy, slow-talking, slow-moving warden. Getting him to the point would take longer than driving to Il Forten, selecting an appetizer, and eating it.


“Yes Warden, what can the DA’s office do for you?”

“Well, I’m not really at liberty to say over the phone, ADA McGrath. I really need you to come here. ”

Now she did sigh. “Warden, are you aware that it’s 730 p.m. and the DA is gone for the weekend?”

“Don’t need the DA, you’ll do fine, Miss.”

“Can’t you just …” she paused, drew deep from inside her patience well. This was so going to cost Alex! Come Monday, he damn well would head-pat her for this! “Fine, Warden, I’ll be there in 20 minutes or so.”

“You’ll be met.” And the humm of the phone rang in her ear.

Well, fuck. So much for dinner. So much for wine. So much for the fuck. She left her office, closing her door softly, deliberately softly.


Now here she was, clacking down the dingy, depressing hallway to meet with the warden about who the fuck knew. She tried not to think about Italian food. Tried not to think about Wayne, likely keeping the reservations and having his other sometimes date Linda meet him; and tried not to think of that dumb fuck of a ho eating her steak dinner. And then eating Wayne.

“Focus, Argi,” she urged herself. Argentina McGrath was second to no one. Not in court, and not in the bedroom. So fuck Linda-ho. Matter of fact, fuck Wayne, too! She could do so much better than a PI who flunked out of cop school twice.

While it seemed like hours, in a very short span of time, she was escorted into Warden Bumfucks office. She needed to stop thinking of him by that name, else she’d fuck up and actually call him that sometime. After all, they were on the same side of the law.

“Warden.” She graciously extended her hand, leaning across his desk.

“Argentina. I may call you that, right?” He was tall, not too big, not to skinny. Well proportioned. A man of late middle years, his thatch of thick white hair was neatly combed to the side. He looked a bit like Tommy Jones, that actor from that alien invasion movie with Will…whatever his name was… His smile was genial, as was his manner, but somehow, he always made her nervous.

“I’ll get straight to the point.”

Oh never that she thought, stuffing down her smarty ass remark, and smiling in what she hoped passed for encouragement.

“By the way, can I get you a glass of water? No? A cup of tea perhaps?”

She shook her head again. She’d known it was too much to ask for Warden Bines to really get to the fucking point.

He looked at her, leaning back in his chair, fingers templed. He turned to the omnipresent guard.

“Chuck, take ADA McGrath’s coat!” She tried to wave the enthusiastic Chuck off, but nothing would do but to disgorge herself from the folds of it, and pass it to him. She sighed, aloud.

“Warden, perhaps if we can get to the issue at hand? I’m afraid I have delayed some personal plans….” her voice trailed off.

“I am ever so sorry about that, Argentina. But this is a situation that …well, only you can handle.” Once more he looked at her over his cradled fingers.

“You see, I really need you.”

She wondered if he was attempting some lame-assed flattery. Oh holy FUCK she thought, get to the point!!!

Seriously, she really wanted to scream. Well, that, and beat the fucking words out of Warden Bumfuck with her Gucchi bag. Even if it was a knock-off!

He continued to look at her, and then a slow smile crossed his face.

“Well, Argentina, if I can’t interest you in a refreshment” and here he paused, raising a brow in one last inquiry, snapping out a fast smile at her terse headshake ‘no’, “let’s get down to brass tacks.”

At last. She wondered what his reaction would be if she got up and did a cheer. Her expression never wavered as she mentally bounced  up from her chair, waving imaginary pompoms, singing out ‘gimme a B…”

“I’ve had an inmate finally turn over on one of his former …associates. Now, we’ve offered to reduce his sentence, which he’s talked about agreeing to. But there is one last key name that we need from him, and he’s holding out for one last thing from us.”

“Well, Warden, I’m not sure I can assist with that form of dealmaking….” her voice trailed off.

He nodded to the guard, who turned and left the room. Must be something big to let your personal guard go, she thought. Her interest was piqued.

“As a matter of fact there is only one thing Carlo wants.”

“Carlo? Carlo Vesputin…”

Warden Bumfuck nodded sagely. “I see you remember.”

“Hard to forget the first person who threatens to kill you,” she replied drolly.

The door opened behind them but she didn’t turn to look. She saw the flash of uniform in her peripheral vision, and knew the guard was back.

“Well, he’s changed in the 4 years he’s been a guest of the state,” said the warden, “and now he’s ready to ante up the rest of the group responsible for that armed robbery at First Union Bank.”

“hmmmm” she responded, cautiously. “So, what does he want.”


The voice came from behind her. It was still resonant, thick now with lust. She whirled in her chair, her fingers gripping the arm of it hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

He’d not changed much physically. Tougher, harder, leaner, perhaps. Still that dangerous sexuality oozing from him. His eyes were intense, burning into hers.

“I want You.”

She turned back to the warden.

“What the hell is this about, Warden?” she snapped, using her best no-nonsense court voice.

“Well, little one, the guy hasn’t had sex in over 4 years, purty  close to 5 if you count time served leading up to his court appearance and trial. He wants to fuck you. If I make it happen, he spills the rest of what he knows, and I get the coup. It’ll help my campaign immensely.”

It was no secret that the Warden had big political plans, hoping to jump into the Mayors Office next November.

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “No fucking way.”

“Now, that’s no way for a little lady to speak is it?”

She didn’t like the look on the wardens face.

“This is…preposterous. NO. I refuse.” She all but leapt from her chair. She crossed to the coat holder, missing the look between warden and guard. She lifted her hand for her coat, only to suddenly find it cuffed.

“NO!” she screamed, her heart beginning to race as she realized that Warden Bumfuck wasn’t giving her an option here. She tried to fight, but there were three of them.

It wasn’t long before her clothing lay in tatters on the floor, and she was bent over the wardens desk.

The wardens face, red with exertion and excitement came close to hers.

“You can yell, scream whatever. No one will hear you except the two guards outside my door, who, by the way, are waiting for their turn.”

He stood, and pulled his thick leather belt from his beltloops.

“Nasty naughty girls must learn a lesson before pleasures of the flesh,” he said, his tone sonorous.

She heard him come behind her, felt his thick hand caressing her ass before the first blow fell hard upon it. She yelped, then determined she would not give him the fucking satisfaction.

By the 20th blow, she was sobbing, begging for him to stop. She couldn’t hear the whistle of the belt as it cut the air over her ragged cries.

It had barely sunk in that he was done when she felt a cock pressing against her pussyhole.

“noooooo” she moaned, sobbing in earnest.

He sank deeply inside her.

“Say what you will, ADA Argentina McGrath, your little cunthole is well and truly lubricated. I wonder how many times you came during the Wardens ‘warm up’ exercise.” He tutted insincerely at her. “Such a naughty little slut hiding inside the proper little ADA.”

His legs pressed against her burning ass, his cock filling her, stretching her. Her belly was full of him, full of cockmeat.

“Feel that, little cunthole? Feel how perfectly my cock fills you? You are loving this aren’t you, my little prison slut.”

He fucked her slowly. Steadily. His fingers smoothed coolly over her burning ass cheeks, occasionally slipping under her to rub at her clit.

He laughed when she came the first time.

“Greedy little cunt.”

He pressed harder, deeper, his balls now slapping rhythmically against her clit, exciting her body, shutting down her brain as she felt the primal urge to fuck.

When at last he came, he was buried deep inside her.

“Name the baby Carlo, eh, chicka?” He whispered in her ear. She felt him wipe his cock on her thigh, the sound of feet receding, of others coming closer.

“I promised him first fuck, but mine now, whore. Gonna make you our little prison whore tonight. Made plans did you? Well, plans change. And I took the liberty of checking your phone, calling your boyfriend. Told him you’d be here most of the night working.  No loose ends to worry about. By morning, you’ll be done here. You’ll walk funny for a while, but you’ll be a better ADA for this.”

His very pomposity was so fucking annoying. He leaned against her ass, holding her hips.

“And when I’m mayor? I’m certain I’ll require many closed-door meetings with our special ADA adjunct. You’ll be my own special envoy between the DA and Mayor’s office. A nice bump in pay, and a nice bump in your ass.”

His cock pressed against her asshole, then pressed harder. She fought the intrusion. Squeezed her anus tight, tight.

It only hurt more when he finally burst through. She screamed, once, loudly. The resulting audience cheered, clapping. She lay, defeated as the warden pumped her ass. His dick was long, not too thick, but hard as a fucking rock.

It took forever for him to cum. It took less time for the next guard to come up and fill the hole he’d stretched to gaping. Warden Bumfuck, and wasn’t that an appropriate name now she thought in that floaty place she’d withdrawn to, came around to where her face hung over his desk.

He picked her head up by her hair.

“You bite my prick and I’ll empty every cell in A block to let them fuck you. Got it?”

She nodded, hazy. His cock, went from asshole into her mouth. She wanted to puke. She wanted to scream. She sucked him clean, fearful that he would indeed open the entire cell block.

It became a steady path, from ass or cunt to her mouth. Some came in her mouth, and at some point she realized she was servicing new guys, guards and prisoners alike.


She woke in her car at daybreak. She was wearing a white men’s shirt. Her heels, coat and purse were beside her on the passenger seat. She felt sticky under her ass, and sore.  Her jaw ached. Her pussy throbbed unpleasantly.

She thought of all the sperm floating around inside of her and wanted to vomit. With shaking hands, she found her keys, and after two attempts to put it into the ignition, she started her car and drove home.


She paced back and forth through the kitchen burping the baby, half watching a quiz show on the television.  She wiped spit up on the diaper that hung perpetually from her shoulder these days, and carefully placed her son into the day-crib she kept in here. She rubbed her hand over his dark curly hair as his fist pulled up to his rosebud mouth.

Turning back to the television, she saw the crawler across the bottom of the screen…”Projected Mayoral win to  Warden Jackson Bines….”

Her nightmare hadn’t ended on that morning10 months ago when she woke in her car outside the state jail.  It seemed it was only just beginning….

A Licking

with thanks to Wifegonebad …inspired by her HNT….go…look….yum…
She hung, suspended, exhausted.  He had told her she was going to get one hell of a “lickin” tonight. From the deep south, she knew what that had meant. She was going to be beat. Hard.
“His arm must finally be tired,” she thought, because at long last there were no more blows to absorb.
She hurt. Throbbed. Her tits, pussy, legs, back, arms. No place was immune to his whim tonight, no place was left unmarked. Even her cheeks were reddened by his slapping hand, something she loathed. Something he knew, and forced her to work to accept. His will, his pleasure.
She could hear him moving about the room, had no idea what to expect now. He’d crammed his cock up her ass, making her cry aloud at the invasion, no lube, no stretching, just
“take it, slut.”
Oh, her cunt was wet, not to mention lonely. Tonight, apparently, was only about his needs. He…
Her angry ruminations were interrupted when she felt something cool dripping down from her shoulder to her chest. She smelled something but what the hell was it? Her head rose fractionally, releasing some stress on her neck, and she began to get her feet under her, rather than just hanging as she had been a moment before. She couldn’t speak to ask what was going on, not that he would tell her anyway. The ballgag was worked deeply into her mouth and she could only offer unintelligible grunts. She preferred to be quiet rather than sound like some monkey from the jungle. Still, the oozing continued, cool, ticklish, drifting down to her breasts, gathering on her nipple before dripping onto her foot.
The contrast of the thick, cool fluid against her burning, welt-covered flesh caused goosebumps to erupt, and her nipples rose, jutting out far from her tits. He loved her nipples, spent long times playing, pulling, biting, sucking them. He clamped them, slapped them, and photographed them. Now they were covered in some kind of goop.
She felt his tongue flat against her chest between her breasts. He was lapping slowly up her torso, slowly driving his tongue under her breast, circling around the globe until finally, finally, he lapped at her nipple.
“Hmmmmm,” he murmured. “Sweet, so sweet.”
As he continued to adore and suckle her  nipple, his hand dipped between her legs and flicked at her clit. A long, low moan escaped from behind her gagged lips, her hips thrust against his probing hand.
“Looks like I’m going to get a whole lot of honey tonight,” he whispered against her breast, “and you’re going to get a good licking.”