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?


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


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…


I still need IT.


HNT-Tired of the Nekkid?

Sometimes I wonder if all you all are just tired (bored?) with the titty show here every week. Not that I mind doing it (okay, sometimes I mind, which in turn makes it hot, because, you know, doing what I HAVE to do because HE ordered it, and doing it even when “i doan wanna”…all adds to the sick and dirty heat of it.)

Sometimes I’m totally uninspired about what to post…do I show bruises? Clap some clamp on there? Decorate them for flag day? Like, what? I’ve been posting titty pix here weekly for nigh onto 6 years or so now, that’s 300 tit pix. Normal tits, not those porn star perfectly sculpted by man kind of silicone bag tits. So sometimes they are droopy and sometimes my bra is squishing them, and once in a while HIS hand is holding one or the other…

A reader wrote to me some bit of time ago asking for rope bondage for my tits. I like the idea but M? He’s not into rope at all. It’s simply not his thing–and i’m fine with that. (Elastics were suggested but they don’t stay on my tits, something about my skin and the way  my breasts are shaped. I can get a tiny elastic on the nips but trying to wrap them otherwise tends to not work.)

In point of fact He felt that roping them would be a terrible waste of time when He could be hitting, grabbing, slapping, or biting them. He is very much into the torturing of my poor boobs, than the artful uses of rope. That’s the sadist there.

So in memory of that, I’m posting two older pictures that shows some of the damage that He can do to me with a cane. Happy HNT! (are you sure you’re not bored?!)

Playday bruises (I bruise so easily!)

a weighty reminder


Two days later:


HNT~ Follow-up to WTF*

Teeny tiny fingertip bruises…a nice little reminder when I look in the mirror, of His hands, His wants, His needs and how what He does fills me, centers me.

Reminds me too, that I am a pain-loving slut, that even without sex, without the release of an orgasm, the pain is amazing, clearing my mind and renewing my spirit.

 Aaaah…what a lovely “refresher” of why I do this thing we do…


His fingertip bruises 3 hours after a brief car-visit with Master.

*see WTF here*

HNT-Caned Boobs

The cane was a fucking bastard. Or HE was. Thwapping and slapping that fucking thing on the tops of my tits. Smacking the clamps He’d snapped onto my nipples, alternating with flicking the chain that joined my two tits together. Oh my gawd!  It hurt like fuck-all.


It was erotic as hell. The burn…oh the throbbing burn of the pain…

It was as fiery as hell.

I was a wet, limpid, wanton slut (with very sore tits) when He was done.



Very Pictoral HNT ~ A Visit With Master

A week before we met I got a wild hair.

Walking through the mall after my pedi, I came upon one of those jewelry booths. Now, I’ve had 3 piercings in my ears before, long ago, but the third hole kept closing. I decided on the spot that I’d give it a go again. And while hemming and hawing over which earrings I wanted, I saw these hoops, too. (I also saw a wicked kewl belly ring piercing…a blue-sapphire stone octopus!!! Yes. Tentacles on mah belly. But no. I wasn’t foolish enough to do that. (yet))

And the girl comes over and she says the hoops are for cartilage piercings. Long ago I had my cartilage done but had issues with that, too. And back then they didn’t use hoops to pierce with.

But they do now.


earringsI did NOT check with Master first.

This was a total impulse deal. Master had not seen them, other than this photo, IRL. So during our meet? He slaps them. Flicks them with His fucking flicking finger.


He did.

He doesn’t hate them. He may even kinda like them, though He did say (and I quote) “You look like a fucking gypsy!” By the end of the evening He seems to have come around to liking them a bit more than at the start of things. Phew!


He attacked me in the bathroom. Yes. While i was *trying* to get ready! HMPH! Does the Man have no decorum? (Will I die for saying such blasphemy?) I was totally shocked, totally ‘roughed up’, pinched and squeezed and slapped and generally brutalized.

I loved it.


In the bathroom? Isn’t that…yanno…my ‘safe’ zone?

When we were talking the other evening, I told Him that. That I had thought the bathroom was a “safe zone”…His  laughter interrupted my little speech. I frowned at the phone as He laughed that deep, belly-laugh of total amusement.  And maybe I pouted a little bit. The laughter ends, but there is a big smile in His voice, still.

“Oh nilla, there is NO safe zone once we are together.”

“Well, I know, You’ve said in the past,I’m not “safe” once the door is closed and locked–”

“Fuck that! From the moment we walk into the lobby, slut.”

Damn if that doesn’t make me all tingly, too. And it’s true, He has gotten me good in the elevator several times.  He laughs again, then snorts.

“Safe zone? My God nilla.”

I can all but see Him shaking His head at such silly slut ideas.

first night crop

Yeah, that’s my right arm and side there. Fucker got me good, He did. This, by the way, was taken as soon as I got home. Yes, these are same day bruises. (I bruise *that* easily, AND He pinches *that* hard!)

There was one bruise on my side that caught my attention just after I took the picture above…



…do you see it? Master gave me a heart!

Not so many bruises on the tits this time, only from His mouth (only, she says..!)…but remember that OTK (over the knee) spanking I mentioned the other day? OH, that was heady. It’s both embarrassing and a terrific turn on for me. It’s been a long while since I got one, AND a long while since He gave me one that lasted so long. This is the “first night” result…(and maybe a few crop and pink brush bruises dotting the landscape…)

bumNot a bad butt for a 55 year old slut who hasn’t walked in over 4 months. 🙂

And since Master always loves His slut to flash her tits, I shall conclude my little pervie peep show with this:





Color me Painful

It’s been…what? 72 hours or so I guess, since I was with the Man. Some bruises are blooming in shades of indigo and puce. (Silly aside here, did you know puce is a brilliant pink? I always thought it was green but it isn’t.) So some parts are pink-red, some are blue, some are blackish and some are green. I’m a rainbow! And depending on how I move, I feel some of the things He did to me. The bites on my right shoulder are especially tender today.

It’s funny how the pain comes in waves like that, isn’t it? It can take days before the full brunt of our playtime registers on the pain scale (she says as she shifts her sitting position to alleviate the ache on her right butt cheek.)It helps me remember, and keeps me in that spaced out zone too. There was a moment, there, when I was chanting “the road to bliss is filled with pain..” and He heard me.


I repeated it.

I couldn’t see Him, face buried on the wall, but I could *feel* Him grinning, like a little kid who sees the bike under the tree on Christmas morning.

He nailed my back with the rubber threaded whip from Wolf and made me cry…and I totally forgot the chant then.

I did, however, find my bliss. Took some time to get there since up until that point He’d been slow and steady and methodical in giving pain…enough to keep my attention, to keep me turned on, but to not push me over the edge, you know? It’s a delightful balancing act…too much and the slut goes into blissland too fast and HE doesn’t get to enjoy the delivery. I’m not sure how He judges it, really.

He and I wanted pictures of my new “fuck me brainless” shoes, and we took a series. It was hard getting good light as the sky was pewter gray outside the window, and the soft yellow glow of the room lights didn’t make for optimal photo’s. We took this one:

red shoe twoand it came out okay. We won’t win awards for it, to be sure, but you can certainly see the shoes!

Later we took a few pictures of the shoes with me on my belly, feet kicked up in the air behind me. I heard the little snap that the camera makes, another.

There was a long pause.

The Man moves with an amazing amount of stealth, have I mentioned that? He can move *silently*.

Which He did.

Fetching a little surprise for me. A series of whacks with some fucking thing or other on my ass.

“Thought you were issuing an invitation there,” He says, His tone innocent.

Rubbing my now red and aching butt with one gloved hand, I gave Him a glare.

“I thought we were taking pictures.”

I flop back over onto my belly, muttering.

“I wasn’t ready for that.”

“Oh well,” He says cheerfully.

“Your ass is *almost* the same color as the shoes,” He says, His voice, amused, comes from right beside me.

He whacks me again as I yelp.



HNT- 70’s Flashback..It’s the tits, man…

Do you remember that expression from the late 70’s? “it’s the tits” was briefly a phenomenon to describe any kewl thing, or something super groovy. (I am not making this shit up. Really.)

But if we flash forward about 30 years, we find out that (at least in MY relationship)…it really *IS* the tits…

It works like this…I send Him pictures like this (at least one titty shot a day, since my Guy is a real tit man)…

nipsand later, He gives me tits like this:

bruisyWhen all is said and done?

We’re both purty happy. 🙂

Happy HNT!

nilla rambles…yes, again

So, where is my head tonight as I write? Ah, a funny thing you should ask. I did get some face time with Master after work tonight, which was really nice. We talked, flirted. He pinched me some on my arms, tickled me a bit (why, why am I so fucking ticklish??!!) and it was a nice chance to “touch” one another for the first time since play time.

I told Him of some of the “negative” feedback regarding the HNT pictures, comments which surprised me, frankly. He reminded me that TTWD is a continuum…and though *I*’ve been here for 3.5 years, many readers are “new” to me and to U/us…and haven’t followed the path to where we were, and where we’ve come from, and where we’ve yet to go.

And that helped give me some perspective.

I’m very proud of my bruises, you see. They prove something to me, several somethings. That I am strong. I often feel like I’m not, you know. Because I’m also so very, very needy, which makes me feel…you know…weak.

The bruises prove something else. That He can hurt me with love. Because HE needs it. That we’ve found this connection of yin-yang that pleases us both.

They are beauty marks. Marks of His love for me, written all over my body. The bite marks are especially special…reminders of a ferocious bout of sex and pleasure and pain, a dance of primeval lust. Marks of my love for Him, that I can take this pain, that my body transforms His beast beatings into a lust-fire so intense it’s a wonder we aren’t both consumed by the conflagration.

This blog is not just a place of sexy stories, but also the place where I talk of my journey. It’s the place where I found myself when I first started questioning why. Why did all those “perverted” stories that I’d been reading turn me into a wet puddle of goo as I surreptitiously read them? Why did my heart pound and my pussy ooze when I read of real people. Real women? People who did this…for real?

They called themselves “submissives”. . . but who did that, really? Let themselves be used. “Holes” they were, there to be used however their “owners” wanted. Kaya was my first, soon followed by doubleknot. They were sexual slaves.

I was so far removed from all of that. I was a good girl-a good woman. Sure, I hadn’t had sex with my spouse (a woman) for years. Sure I’d always had feelings towards both men and women. But I was a lesbian. And I was a good girl.


Except…I began to suspect that I wasn’t a good girl. Not in my head. Not between my legs. I tried to “quit” and went a month without reading any of “those” blogs. And found myself curious. Insatiably curious. What if.

What if I wasn’t a “normal” woman, what if I had these submissive feelings for real?

I was a good girl…except for that one, niggling question.

Ah, that “except” has made all the difference, hasn’t it?

I keep that poem by Frost where I can read it every day. The Road Less Traveled. I’ve even posted it here. It is my “touchstone”, or what some might call a defense–for I, I took the road less traveled by-and that has made all the difference.

So–I ask you to not judge my Master, nor I, by my bruises. By His ability…no…His desire to make me, mark me, as His, nor my desire to bear them.  I ask you to not judge Him or me, at all, just as you would not want to be judged for how you and your Master/Sir, or slave/sub/girl/boi handle your relationships.

You’ll never know where this journey will take you as you move along…maybe you’re a dabbler and you’ll stop at a few spankings. Maybe you’re adventuresome and will want to pierce, or tattoo or brand your slave. Maybe you’re so enthralled with your Dominant that you’ll do just about anything (barring of course, removal of limbs, having sex with cattle, or harming family members…you know, sensible stuff.)…the point here?

It’s not for me to judge your kink.

Nor is it for you to judge mine.

I’m not going to feel put off by those who think my bruises are extreme, since they please me too much. I just really needed to get this off my chest.

Because bruises of the body? Those I’m happy (and desirous) to bear for Him. Bruises of the spirit caused by naysayers? Nah. Those I’m just going to let those slide on by.


Sunday, Sunday, Unsexy Day?

hmmm…maybe I shouldn’t say that. Someone on facebook posted a great link about a mom, who told her daughter she was beautiful, but when told that she herself was beautiful, too, poo-poo’ed it.

She was middle-aged.


Stretch marked.

Her breasts had lost the fullness of a 20-something girl, and had sagged.

But wait a second,  she thought…was she setting her daughter up for future self-disappointment? Not many of us have the body of mick’s Mistress Molly. No time, no energy, no time. But does that make us “un-beautiful”…?

Sure to mass media, perhaps. I’ll never grace the cover of Rolling Stone. Okay, coz I don’t sing much in public but *waves hand*…that isn’t the only reason. Even Playboy, for all the good it has worked towards with gay marriage, and open sexuality, and not being ashamed about feeling sexual…contributes by having 18-year-old bunnies…how the hell can I compete with that?

But still…does that make me not beautiful?

Master tells me I am. It’s rare, but He has said it from time to time. (it always makes me …shivery-proud-happy when He does say it.) It doesn’t come from a mass-media perspective. It comes from the physical, from the connection, from the submission…it’s a “package beautiful” I guess.

This woman’s point on Face Book was that we are all inherently beautiful…and that to not be open to that in ourselves, we are, in essence, teaching our daughters that when they hit 30, or menopause, or their hair grays or they have children and gravity and stretch marks…then they are no longer beautiful.

pish-tosh to that!

So today I *am* owning my sexy. I *am* owning my beautiful. Yeah, my nose is crooked, my smile isn’t brilliantly neon white. (oh what those peeps doing mega tooth whitening gonna pay down the road…)

My beauty is my own. My freckles, my wrinkles, my soft belly…all mine. All earned through the gift of living for more than half a century.

Holy fuck.

Half a century? Man…that’s fucking old!

But still beautiful after all these years!


Master and I, if you haven’t seen in various comments, are back on track. He sent me a very personal email late on Tuesday, and I snuffled and sobbed my way through it. Snuffled at work. And finally got permission to text Him. We have yet to “speak”…but even being allowed to talk via text was an improvement.

Do you Dom/me top-types have *any* fucking idea (pardon the disrespect implied there) how hard it is on us sub-types when you withhold yourselves from us that way?

It is torture.

It is pain.

Really, really bad pain.

If I could have safeworded myself out of it, I would have. It hurt so much I didn’t think I could bear it…and I’m a very strong submissive. Maybe not Kaya strong, as far as pain goes, but I can take a lot of pain.

But I couldn’t have lasted too much longer without His touch, that’s for darned sure.

Writing helped. I wrote thousands of words in a few hours, the passion just pouring out of my fingers until I could blink without crying. It sucked out some of the sad, and put it into a more cope-able format for me.

I was in a bad way…and I thank you all for your kind words, thoughts, and hugs. It meant a lot to me. I won’t respond to those individually, because it will only make me cry all over again…but know that your words gave me solace. And I thank you, humbly, from the depths of my not-so-aching-anymore heart.


This is the weekend leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday here in the USA…and I’m busy between home life and my job, which is very holiday dependent, ergo..I’m working extra shifts. Am very much hoping that I’ll be able to sneak in some Master-time, as we’ve not seen each other since play day. (big pout)…not to mention the whole “nilla was a bad submissive slut” thing. I really want to hug His neck, kiss Him, love on Him a little. I’m sure He wants to pinch me. Bruise me. Make me yelp.

In other words…heal one another, fully and completely. Does anything say “I love you, you dumb slut” more than fresh bruises?

I didn’t think so.