Pondering…HNT with lots of words!

Back in the early days of M and nilla, we met almost every month for the first year. It was a time of hot needs, of getting to know one another, of rushed visits between needing to be other places, of kneeling in restaurants and not caring, of the joy of wearing his collar, and the excitement of picking out outfits…

It was all so new for me. Being a submissive…discovering the words for the feelings and erotic fantasies I’d been having for so much of my life. It was as much about discovering who I was, as it was about discovering how to please Him.

Of course, eventually the new wore off, as it does.  We started to  have playtime less frequently… every other month, every 9 or 10 weeks…and now, two old farts that we are, we’re lucky to meet up 3 times a year. This fall will mark our ten years together. Almost a decade, FFS!!

And it sucks that we don’t have the same “gotta get together” vibe that we once did.  I’m pretty sure my need for him has not burned lower than it was at the start. Would  I still meet him monthly if the opportunity arose?

YOUBETCHA!

Real life, however, has other plans. Back then my kids were tiny toddlers. Now they’re well on their way to  young adulthood, and their needs have grown as well. Not the constant care of them, not like before, but in the needing to be places and often in divergent area’s…which means less free time for all of us. Free time is a bygone entity, at least for now. Added to that, that I now run my own little business, AND still work for someone else (which means I’m pretty much working somewhere every day of the week)…it definitely shorts the available time *I* have. (And of course, it’s all about me, right? LOL!)

Add to the mix that Himself is pretty busy as well.

And fuck, we’re old  not younglings ourselves. That heated fire will still consume us whenever we meet, then leaves us laying in a contented smoldering glow. We cuddle. We laugh. We touch one another. It’s sometimes nice to just be. Together.

And there’s another factor as well.

You’ve perhaps heard the adage “If you want to keep moving, keep moving” ? I think it’s the same for my libido. Sure I masturbate quite a bit. But…these days it’s almost more about helping me sleep than it is about actually getting off. Okay not all the time, but many times.

So I fall into these…phases, I guess, where I have random and fleeting thoughts of D/s, of being beaten and used, but it’s up there in the same realm as my other fantasies. If it’s not really happening, my body tends to stuff it into a sleep sack and slot it away someplace.

I stop feeling the need.

And I wonder, is it a thing of growing older? is it a thing of being so busy that I crowd it out by necessity? is it a thing that because I can’t do it as often as I want, I *make* myself too busy to miss it?

Maybe…all of the above?

All I know for sure is that I am not getting “it” as much as I’d like to. And I think I don’t need “It” after I’ve gone time with out it. I convince myself that IT doesn’t really matter at all anymore.

Until I’m scrolling through my own photos and see the things he’s done to me over the years. Until I see the bruises, remember how they got there, and realize how damp my panties are. When I see this

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taken a mere hour after I got home, and can still almost feel the insistent tap-tap-tapping of the wooden spoon on my tits, remember his fingers in my cunt, how he fingered me to several explosive orgasms as he sucked my nipples purple with bruises; oh yes, I remember.

Oh, those craven feelings, the want and the need and the oooohs and the Owwwwws and the flying and the bliss and the joy…that’s when I remember…

Yeah.

I still need IT.

 

Bruised Meat

There was much hitting (as one would expect) during our playtime. Pinned, arms bound criss-cross, I could not stop Him. Despite twisting, turning, wriggling, He slapped arms, thighs, that OMG-TOO-TENDER! spot where ass and thigh meet…and my tits. His hands squeezed, slapped, pinched, shook and molested my poor tits until I was crying.

And then he took the spoon to them.

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This is how they looked an hour after he attacked them…and this is how they looked last night, 3 days later:

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Pretty, pretty bruises.

 

HNT ~ D/s Style

I’m still floating. Still in a really, really good headspace. I’m pretty much an “up” person these days, with occasional dips into low places, but then again, that’s part of the human condition, right?

But after playtime with Him? I’m so hurty-excellent that I’m getting much accomplished. If only you could see my ass. A full three days into this and sitting is *still* painful. Really painful.

And I’m in a constant state of horny, which is good. And bad. My head is spinning stories, my mind is finangling another playtime and and and…but wait.

I’m going on and on and it’s HNT day! Okay, here ya go…

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Heh. Those are not tits now, are they? (totally laughing my butt of imagining all you all’s faces.)

You must admit that it’s a purdy sexy pic though, right? I love the way M’s legs frame mine…and you can’t see it but He is pinching my nipples and I’m taking the picture around his arms. There was incentive to get it right the first time, but he had me take two just in case.

Or just to pinch my nipples longer.

So here’s the set up for the “real” HNT picture.

I’m laying on the bed, already smacked and mussed up and breathless…

“M, can I ask a favor?” I say, my voice kind of quiet and breathy. Then I think about it and say “Nevermind. I can’t believe I was going to even say that. What was I thinking.”

“What nilla?” he says. My sudden change of heart has caught his attention and his eyes sharpen,

“it’s nothing, I changed my mind,” I say, rolling over.

Big. Fucking. Mistake.

He slaps my ass then when I roll to my tummy to attempt to get away from the slap, he lays atop me to stop me. His hands dig under me, and finding my tits, squeeze them, knead them, in a rough, fierce grasp. Now I’m whining and thrashing but he’s pinned me you see. No place to go.

“What nilla?” He says in my ear, his voice amused, and also, brooking no denial.

“I…I did a pic last week a vanilla blackandbluepicture and …and…”

He pinches really hard and I squeal. His laughter shakes through my body.

“And?”

“And I wonderedifyouddoadsversionofthepic”

I said in a rush.

He crushes my tits, then rolls off me, pulling me up off the bed.

“Okay.”

I stand hands at my sides as He takes my tits out of my bra, picks up the wooden spoon I gave him in a moment of sheer stupidity and wanton abandon, and twirls it between his fingers while holding my eyes with his. Holding my tit in his hand, he starts slapping it with the spoon. He switches to pinching my tit, exposing my nipple and swats the fuck out of it. Over. Over. Over again.

Oh.

I almost came, right then. The pain was sharp, intense. Blow after blow. When he was satisfied with one area, he chose another. I was shaking, almost crying.

“Oh” he says, and drops my tit. “I almost forgot this one,” and he scoops out the other tit, and starts beating it as he had it’s mate.

There was biting in there, but honestly by then I was seeing stars and moons and totally out in blotto land. So here you go,  you pervie peeps! This is the D/s version of Black and Blue:

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(And those bruises are even darker now. This was what I took when I got home after playtime)

 

Thanks(giving) for the Mammory Memories

It’s Thanksgiving here in the States, and the annual tradition of turkey and stuffing and all that good food and companionship and family and friends–and the time to give thanks for our many blessings–is upon us.

I do give thanks for the vanilla parts of my life, very deeply rooted gratitudes for the blessings of my family, my home, my life.

But with this other side of me, there is a different richness of blessings.

I’m blessed to have a Master who knows me as well as He does, who spoils me and teases me and urges me to be a better me. Who loves me for being the slutty little whore who begs for His attention, for being the painslut who loves the slap of His hands upon my body as much as I love the gentle kisses He sometimes bestows. I love the feel of His fist curled up in my hair, the slap of His toys on my ass, the brutal bite of His teeth on my shoulder, the way I go in looking nice, and come out looking used. I love the pain of being fucked to orgasm so many times, (with so many toys, with His cock, with His fingers, with His mouth,) that I can barely walk when our time is over. I love that we’ve made it work for all these years and keep growing closer entwined in each others needs.

And I love the way He marks me.

Three months ago He did this….(it still makes me very wet to look at these pictures…) and I’m ready for more. So yes, I’m greedy–but I have deep gratitude that His needs mesh so well with mine, that He is the answer to the question I discovered lived inside of me. So I’ll have that turkey and veggies, to be sure, and enjoy them fully. And later, not much later, I’ll enjoy the feast of His time and attention. And maybe come out looking somewhat like this once again.

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Happy Thanksgiving, and Blessings to you, pervy peeps!

 

“Painterly” Bruises HNT

He really nailed my tits with His wicked little cane. It’s so thin, so innocuous looking. But the way He flicks it across, over, and around my breasts is wicked and painful and, of course, wonderful. I love it, even when I suck in a sharp breath when He’s hitting the same spot over and over again. The throb that’s left behind–days later–when I touch or accidentally bang it makes me horny all over again.

painterly boobsI love the way the “painterly” effect on my phone app makes it look like He painted me with purple and blue smudges. Who knew that my beloved Master was an artist? 😀

 

HNT-Mammory Memories

How I hope to revisit this particular vision when we meet this weekend…

(Master, will you cane my tits? I’ve been fantasizing about it endlessly…?)

(*sound of deep, dark laughter* Oh nilla, you silly little slut. I’d be happy to make your fantasy a reality. VERY happy.)

And He was.

And I was.

And even now just writing about it makes me wet all over again..

 

Leftie

HNT- Bruised Memories

I’d asked for it specifically. Pleassssssse Master, please work my tits over, hard. Don’t spare me…I…need it.

I begged for a week or more before our meeting…and this is what came of it.

It’s a fond memory, one of pain and attention (oh when His focus finds a target,–it comes full-on) and weeks of bruises. A blessing and a curse to remember this so well…
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