Hurts…So Much, So Good

I am an aching, bruised mess.

My hair is mussed. Tied into tangles and knots it will take a deep conditioning to untangle. Seriously…it was soooo bad when he finally let me up off the bed, that I looked like I’d been electrocuted! Long hair scrubbed all over the damn bed makes for one powerful, somewhat terrifying case of bedhead!

My body hurts, just about everyplace you can imagine. (And I know you all have wonderful imaginations!)

He spanked me long and hard. I felt the tension ease away, even as the pain built. He spanked my ass multiple times through the day, then later near the end of playtime, my pussy.

And oh, the pussy smacking. It was brutal and hard. The harder he attacked my cunt, the closer the intense need grew. I came just from that. He called me a cunt over it, and laughed. It still surprised him that I orgasm from having my pussy beaten. And not once. Twice, my pervie peeps.

Well, actually. Uhm…(maybe he’s right and I really AM  cunt?!)

Okay, three times.

And after that third time, he pushed me down, pinning me and roughly finger fucked me to many, many more orgasms. Until I moaned at the slightest touch on my poor battered girl bits.

And then he did it again.

Now i sit, a slut filled with pain- from throbbing cunt to aching ass, from battered tits to pinched and bitten arms and shoulders. Exhausted. Used up. Made to cum too many times to count, made to scream and cry and whimper as he slapped the fuckity fuck right out of me.

Okay, he tried. I was still impudent, wildly silly, and at times, a growly beast with him. (To his utter delight!)

There are many stories to tell, but for now, this very tired, very sore slut is going to bed.

And smiling.





All worked up and nowhere to put it, she mused. Sitting in her car in the parking lot, key in the ignition, she pondered the last few minutes at the club, trying to see how he’d managed to not only totally turn her thinking around, but to totally turn her on as well, then send her on her way with all but a pat on the bum and a see-you-around-soon.

“Might as well have been ‘don’t let the screen door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!” she said aloud. Why had he shown her the door? It hadn’t been a total bum rush, but he’d not encouraged her to stay and hang out, either. Which was odd. He was attracted, he’d said so.

Hadn’t he?

Turning the key, she started her car, still trying to work her mind around the convoluted conversation. He had to have said he was attracted to her…or at the very least alluded to it. He had spoken of them becoming an item, of that she was sure.

She wasn’t sure if that pissed her off or excited her, but judging by the squirmy feeling in her pants, the scale weighed heavier on the excited way of things.

Then there was the encounter with that woman. Wow. If she was ever to swing even a little bit into the homo side of the equation? She’d likely be on her knees, begging that Domme’s  attention. Of course, she was likely used to the adoration of many, and just as likely, only chose a few. She’d met other Dommes when she was back home- she paused that thought, mentally redirecting herself. This was home now. Before was just another part of the past. Anyway, she thought, she’d rarely been so affected by someone of her own gender before. But Madame Fornea had that rarest of gifts, a true magnetism.

Turning onto the street that lead her home, she knew she’d never met anyone as immediately fascinating as Madame F. It was more than just sexual. There was that indefinable something that drew one in, made one want to be close, closer than close, to her. She listened with her whole self, and that was a gift in this day and age. She realized that Sir….Michael had that trait as well. Shifting in her seat, she noticed the wafting scent of arousal. Geeze. She couldn’t even think of him without being aroused.

“Stop. Just stop. Park the car, and go take a cold shower.”


She shook herself out of the daydream, and refocused on her computer monitor. She had to run the figures one last time, and she’d be done. Trying to not think about Sir Michael made him seem to float into her mind even more frequently.

He needed to stop doing that.


The call through her intercom startled her. She picked up the phone, listening a moment before issuing a soft “I’ll be right there.”

Taking the folder from the corner of her desk, moving hastily she went out her door, and down the long corridor to her boss’ office. A quick knock was followed by an equally quick reply to enter.

Going over the folder contents with Ms. Silverstein, they were interrupted by her private secretary.

“A Mr. Millett is here to see you, Ms. Silverstein.”

“Yes, I was expecting him. I forgot to tell you. We squeezed this in between his meeting schedule and mine. Do send him in please Natalie,” she replied, before turning to Addison. “We’ll have to finish this later, dear. I’ll ring you when my meeting is done.”

Dismissed, Addy slipped out of the office, and bumped into the man waiting outside the door. Hands grabbed her, then ran down her arms to capture her wrists for a moment.

“Well, well, look at you, crashing into me like this. It must be fate.”

She blinked up into the smiling face of the asshat from the club. The one who’d looked at her like she was a slab of tenderloin. She pulled her hands from his, or attempted to. She knew her right wrist would be bruised from his grip.

Her eyes flashed hot.

“I’m sorry to have bumped into you. Ms. Silverstein is ready for you now.”

She tried to move past him, but he retained his grip on her wrist.

“I’ll stop by your office on my way out…to discuss things with you.”

With another hard squeeze on her wrist, he smiled at her, a predator with prey between his claws, before sliding into her boss’ office. She hurried down the hall, not wanting Natalie to ask about the little scene. Thoughts of what the hell she was going to do now bounced around her head, but she was no closer to a solution when she heard his footfalls in the corridor.

“Here she is,” she heard Natalie say, then a murmured reply. In a moment, Natalie’s heels tap-a-tapped down the hall back to her office.

Her door opened, without even the pretense of a knock. He stepped inside, his grin feral as ever.

“We seem to have a situation here,” he said, his eyes roaming her body. “You work here and I know something that I’m sure you don’t want made public.”

“I know the same thing about you–”

His head began to shake ‘no’ even as she spoke.

“Isn’t the same for men as women. You skirts have to work twice as hard in being discreet, at being a model persona. Your boss won’t want pictures of you in a corset, your tits all but bare, gracing the cover of the morning news.”

“The news doesn’t show that sort of thing…”

“Of course they don’t. They’ll put a filter over it or something, but there will be talk, and speculation and who needs that for their company profile. But I can protect you from all that. Come here.”

Her back straightened.


“Are you so certain then, my dear, that your career can withstand this sort of humiliation and embarrassment?”

He stepped up to her desk, then reached out, snake-quick, and grabbed her left breast, pinching firmly.

“You have lovely tits. I want to hurt them. I want them. I want you. And I get what I want. I’ll wait for your answer by tomorrow noon.”

Shock had kept her immobile, though she decided not fighting would be better, like taming a bad puppy, don’t give it attention when it does a poor job. She swallowed hard, refused to look at him. The fingers slipped away from her breast, his feet moved to the door.

“I have your card. I’ll call you at noon.”

The door shut with a quiet snick behind him.



Admonished (again!)

If you’ve been reading here any amount of time you’ve likely heard me talk about “Like Day.” The evolution of the day isn’t so important just now, just the information that this is the one day that I get an Orgasm. Yup, just one lonely orgasm a week.

This past week, He didn’t have me do anything torturous the night before as he has had me do in the past. I was coming off of my cold/illness, and he was, well, feeling benevolent. Because I was out of commission most of the prior week, and playing catch-up from the weekend onward. I never got to bed Tuesday evening until 11:45 p.m. which, even for me, is ungodly late.

I should back up a bit, tell you about the Like Day rules.

  • There is only one orgasm allowed no matter how weak it is.
  • There is only Tuesday night to have the O…there is no “oh it’s midnight I’m good” on Monday, nor is there “oh, it’s midnight, I’m good on Tuesday.
  • There is only that window of time from when I go to bed Tuesday UNTIL midnight Tuesday to have my orgasm.

Knowing these long-time rules, I stared at my clock. Oh. Fuck.

fuckity fuckity fuck

How the hell am I going to get settled in bed with my toys AND get off with (now) 13 minutes left until midnight?? I wasn’t desperate for the O, since there’d been no teasing of the pussy the night before, no edging, no pain, nada. I knew I’d only get so close, and have to stop. The odds of coming before the clock struck 12? Insurmountable. Added to that, the cough medicine I take at night makes it even harder to come. Dammit! It’s a conundrum. I decide to not go for it, to text M, and lay it out for him.

That is exactly what I did, yet in the morning, judging by his response? None of this mattered.

Not to Himself. Nu-uh.

My text was very logical.  Gave him all the reasons why there was no way I could take my orgasm. It was the first thing he read in the morning, and I should have known that something would come of it. Can we just agree that sometimes I’m oblivious?

I was completely gobsmacked when I got his text while at work later that afternoon.

It said that missing my Like Day O would earn me the punishment of two half-O’s to be completed Thursday evening.

I gasped, and muttered “what????” as I reeled in my head over this. We’d been texting all day and there was not a hint of punishment. Not a whiff.

“When did THIS become a rule?” I said in my reply text.

“Just now.” He shot back.

Yet “what” that was the first thing I screeched  said when he answered the phone as I drove home later that evening.

“WHAT??” I’m not a soprano, but I’m sure my tone was far from submissive, and definitely in the upper ranges of sound.

The deep, silky smooth tone of his reply should have warned me. He’d been thinking Dom thoughts all day since he’d read my midnight text. This, oh this is a dangerous thing. And hot. Did I mention how fucking hot he is when he is in full Dom mode? It always catches me up, a surprise, not unwelcome, but still a shock when it happens.  So much of the time we’re just two friends talking on the phone. But then there are those times…and Wednesday was one of them…when he is…full-on Master, and I feel exactly as if I were standing in the room, in the corner, with Him behind me.

“Your Like Day orgasm is a gift, nilla. A gift from me, to you.”

There is a pause. I know not to speak, and he is holding me in suspense. After each sentence, there is a meaningful pause.

“When you ignore my gift, that’s a problem.”

“Problems need correction. you need correction.”

He stops. There are no more words. I’m reeling in shock. I never considered, from his point of view, how it would look for me to squander his gift, throw it back in his face, essentially, though he didn’t put it that way directly.

There is like…45 seconds of silence from my end.

“Nilla…? Hellowww? M to nilla……”

My mouth opens and closes and yet no words come out. Finally I stutter out…

“i..I….uhm……….yes…yes Sir.”

“Good,” He says. I hear the satisfaction in that word. He knows he’s got me right where I’m supposed to be, the place  I forget to be sometimes, when the vanilla life is full upon me.

I’m not the business woman then.

I’m not the mom then.

I’m his slut, his.

I remember, in a flash of intense memory in this split second, his hand grabbing my cunt, squeezing it hard, making me whine and whimper as I lay half-under him. He is looking down at me, his tawny eyes so fierce. He growls at me, his voice low and intense and hungry.

“This. Is. MY. pussy. M I N E.”

His words, his ferocity, made me shudder with joy and love and pain and the intense thrill of being wanted that much. Such an amazing memory, recalled with his one word response to my remorse.


His sexy, whiskey-warm voice, that one word, that “good” flashed me back to our play-time memory, of being fully claimed as His.  I’m right back in that headspace, sitting in my car, driving home from work.

Connected. Redirected.


And happy to be owned by such a devious, mean, and delightful M who cares enough to send the very best….and punish me when I forget it.

I am (as he often reminds me) a very lucky slut.



Punishment update:

I had until Thursday morning, for this first infraction, to decide the punishment I must submit to. I can do the two half-o’s on Thursday and have my next Like Day O next week.Or I can forgo my next TWO Like Day O’s and have no further punishment.

I really hate half-o’s. (Conversely, they are uber hawt, too, right??)

But I really REALLY hate the thought of 3 weeks with NO O!…

Oh dear. It’s a dilemma. What would YOU choose? 






Tuesday, When He Pulls Out The Dom Card

I have a task. It’s fairly new, instituted at the end of January. And I was given a “pass” for  several weeks while I was really sick. But I’m not really sick anymore, in fact, nearly recovered.

I forgot the task. Oh. Fuck.

Monday night I’m supposed to have a half-O, to be edged to the point of twitching and total distraction. The idea, aside from giving Him pleasure at my needy pussy, is to make my Tuesday orgasm even more intense. So it’s a good-bad thing, you know?

But I forgot the task.

And I told Him, last night, on a night I was supposed to be enjoying my pussy to the fullest. I will have a punishment tonight (two half-O’s, the first with the small anal plug, the second with the larger one)…which I of course deserve.

But the thing that made me shake in my boots was this. His voice drops, gets silky.  It makes me hot, and wet, and horny, and scares me too. Imagine that, that just the smallest change in the tone of his voice can do that?

“Did someone forget who’s in charge here?” He says.  I think for a moment that my heart just stopped beating. And then it beats like crazy.

“Uhm…kind of? It’s been a long while and…”

Did someone forget who’s in charge here?”  He repeats.

“No. No Sir.”

My voice is small and whisper quiet. It wasn’t the 7 words. Okay it was, but it was the TONE. The Delivery. The Dom, steel wrapped in velvet, who slid through my phone and into the gut of me, reminding me.

“I won’t forget again Sir.”

“See that you don’t.”

We haven’t seen one another, face to face, in over a month. Haven’t had playtime since last Autumn. But all of that doesn’t matter. For us, it’s more than just playtime, more than just punishments and rewards. It’s about U/us…our dynamic, our connection to one another, and TTWD.

And if ever I forget that hey, we’re not just some vanilla friends sharing lives via the phone…He never fails to jerk me back to the reality of the collar (visible or not) that is around my throat.

And that I’m His.




Squeeze (5)

The ride home was  a blur. She wanted to ask questions, but couldn’t make the words form. His hand found her breast as they cruised through the last lingering traces of the day. The crimson sky had faded to a dusty rose; stars appeared as his fingers squeezed around her nipple. Holding onto the orgasm that threatened was as hard as holding his semen in her ass. She bore down, squeezing her bottom half. Her body pebbled with erotic goosebumps as she tried to not think about what would happen when they entered the kitchen.

As the car turned into the driveway, he looked over where she sat, staring forward, hands placed on the tops of her thighs. He bade her to sit. Her breath came in shallow, short puffs. Her body was on fire, a cauldron of lust, embarrassment, excitement, fear, and nerves.

He did not open her door, but rather, walked to the slick car that pulled up behind theirs. The two men laughed, a sound carried clearly to her hyperactive ears, despite the closed windows. Jumping at the sound of the door, though it was foolish, she looked up at him. Those eyes. Those compelling baby blues were smiling down at her, his hand extended into the vehicle.

“You go with him,” her husband said, watching her. “I’ve got some setting up to do. You can park her in the living room,” he finished, holding the door open for them.

“Good, that will give me some time to check out our little play toy. Have I your permission?”

The rest of that conversation must have been non-verbal, because she didn’t hear Sir’s reply. Then they were in the house, Sir bolting upstairs to their bedroom, and …gosh, how was she supposed to address him, anyway?

“Excuse me–”


Ye gawds! How could she ever talk to him? It was like he was a magnet and she a little bit of steel shavings, tugged relentless towards him. Lowering her eyes, looking at her shoes, she spoke softly.

His finger found her chin, tilting her gaze to his.

“I am not overfond of doormats. I am certain that your Sir prefers his sub to be a bit feisty as well. Right?”

She nodded, yes.

“Then let us have no more of the ‘must stare at the Dom’s feet’ nonsense, shall we? I much prefer spunk to passivity.”

He paused, letting the electric charge of his finger tingle through her as he smiled kindly at her.

“Now, let us begin again. What is it that you wanted to ask me, slut?”

She found her voice in that assurance.

“How shall I call you? My husband is Sir…”

“You could call me Lord.”

Her eyes widened, and she was sure that her mouth opened in shock. He laughed, the sound rich with his delight.

“How about Sir K, then? My given name is Ken, so that works for me.”

“Thank you Sir K.”

Her husband’s voice came from the kitchen. Vaguely she recalled hearing him clatter back down the stairs, but Sir K had been mesmerizing her so she’d not fully attended to that.

“Bring her on back to the kitchen, Ken,” He called.

His fist gathered a large amount of hair, shocking and inflaming her. He tugged her forward, keeping her one half step behind him. Stepping into the kitchen, he pulled her forward.

“What? She’s still dressed? I’m surprised!”

“Easily rectified,” said the older man with a smile.


okay, it’s not the end…yet…and this is short..but it IS Friday and I DID promise…this will have to hold you for a bit, dear perv’s. ~nilla~

Squeeze (2)

y’all…this was supposed to be a stand-alone but you threw SO many good “what-if’s” at me…how could I resist? uhm…does that make me “easy”? Yeah. I thought so too. 😀 ~nilla~

He sat across from her, glancing from the menu to smile at her. Frankly, that certain smile made her nervous as hell.

“Be a good girl, and go to the bathroom. Remove your panties and bring them to me. You don’t really need them. You’ll keep that sweet asshole of yours puckered up, not let any of my juice slip out. I have every faith.”

He tilted his head just that wee fraction, his eyes dancing with delighted mischief. So different from the brutal ass fucker of less than an hour ago. Now he was playful, teasing. She was so turned on, denied an orgasm, used only as a vessel for his pleasure. It was her joy to serve him thus, but she was so wet, and the seat of the chair would bear her mark if her undies were gone. And his boss was coming, for crissake. Her mouth opened, but the little curve at the corner of his mouth told her that asking for a reprieve would be pointless.

It didn’t take long to slip into the bathroom stall, remove her panties, wipe her moist slit, and wash her hands. The panties were folded into a discretely small package in the palm of her hand, ready to be handed off to him.

Her step faltered as she neared the table. A tall man was standing there talking to her husband, his back to her. Her skirt had no pockets, and she’d left her purse with him. Her hand clenched around the panties. What to do? She slowed her pace.

“There you are, come meet my boss.”

He turned. Stunning blue eyes, silver streaked hair, a wide smile. He was older than she’d expected. He exuded a magnetism that she was immediately drawn to. She’d been surprised when Sir had told her he was changing jobs last fall, but she felt something when he turned those intense eyes on her. It was no wonder that Sir had decided to leave a job he hated to work with this man. He had said that he’d never regretted it. He worked hard, but there were rewards. Financial. Reasonable hours. A great group of people to work with. And a boss who listened to his employees, cared about them, believed in the team he’d gathered around him. All this flashed through her head as she looked up into those amazing eyes.

He held out his hand to shake hers. Automatically she started to move hers forward, before the sensation of the panties made her stop. His large hands settled over hers, trapping her hand. And her panties.

His smile grew wider. She knew he knew. It came in one of those intuitive flashes. She knew that Sir had told him about them. The blush suffused her face, and she felt the sudden need to sit. Under the table, preferably. Or outside, in the car. When he released her hand, her panties were no longer in her possession.




He opened the clothes pin, removed it from his fingertip.

“Those really pinch, the little fuckers.”

ur ellng eee…”

A long string of drool hung from her chin. She stood with hands over her head, secured to the hook in the ceiling. The single hard slap to her cheek drew tears, which slid down to mingle with the spit on her chin.

“I didn’t ask for your commentary, slut. I was making an observation.”

He fastened the pin in his hand to the top of her inner thigh over a thin length of cording. Leg held open by the spreader bar, she had no way to keep his hands away. Her breath came in short gasps out her nose, a growl sounding low in her throat.

“Of course, it’s going to hurt you a lot more than it will me. And therein lies my pleasure. When should I pull the rope, slut?”

He tugged at the end of the rope, putting tension on the bottom few pins, making her whimper in pain. Releasing the cord, his finger flicked a few of the wooden pegs, which lay in a line from the topmost curve of her tit, to the inner curve of her thigh. His smile turned wicked.

“Of course, I still have this line…”

He held up a second rope, then jiggled a small rattan basket. It was full of clothes pins.

“…and all these.”


He Throws me a (curve) Ball…

so…ya’ll know that M and I are wicked football fanatics, yes? (American football, that.)

So we’ve had this bet thing going all season and I’ve been *wicked* good at it, earning O’s like crazy each gameday. So this week I sent Him my bet without talking to Him first.


What the fuck was I thinking? We’re not a vanilla couple. We’re not equals. I never *asked* but I did ASSume.

Yeah. That makes me an ass.

So the game starts and I’m all happy, and suddenly the Patriots are winning by a mile and the points rack up much higher than all the talking heads on sports radio had anticipated (after all, Detroit was reputed to have a blazing defense.)…and I read a text from Him.

In this game, you LOSE an O from your O-Bank for every point scored over your prediction.

I …my heart just *fell*. We were already 3 points over when I read that, and a sudden touchdown (7 points) totally wiped out my bank. Like–ZERO. And then we headed into negative territory. I have no way to call Him, as I’m home with the family, and only minimal text ability for the same reason and I’m dying inside to know what the ramifications are for going in the hole.

When I leave for work, I call Him, but the game is still on, and He won’t tell me what happens now.

I do recall sputtering….”but…but Master!!  This means I have NO O’s before our playday….”

and His unsympathetic, “aww, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

So…I still have no idea about what the bill will be…but the advantage has all fallen into His hands.

It’s totally unfair…

…and perfectly right within our dynamic for it to be so.

(Isn’t that maddeningly hawt???!)


Liminal Time

It was like a breath, held and waiting for exhalation.

That long, long pause as she lay spread, legs raised high, tied to the topmost notch in the tall four-post bed, waiting.

The bite of the clothes pins, the rub of the rough cord that lay against her skin in a long snaking line. The tug of the pins against the tight skin of her ankle was as arousing and painful as the ones that snaked up her inner thighs.

He worked his way up her torso, laying the line, pinching skin. He spoke not a word, intent on his work. She didn’t break the silence or his concentration. Occasionally a sharply in-drawn breath slid from her lips as he tugged her flesh into compliance. The clothespins bit, the rope rasped, and anticipation burned.

Up and over her breasts the line moved under his hands.  Her body ached at each pinchy spot, at each rasp of the line as he worked his way up her body.  Holding here in  liminal time, she tried to not think of what was to come, but to just be, to live in this moment, accepting these small nips of pain.

Looking up at his face, she knew the moment he was done, that her body as his canvas, was complete.

And liminal time unzipped.


inspired by THIS post @ Ancient Owner