He Insists

So there I am, muddling along in the day-to-day of my life. I have been so busy between kid stuff, work stuff and house stuff that I’m up and running the moment my feet hit the floor every morning…so busy that I rarely eat breakfast these days, and chug my one cup of tea between the various tasks for taking care of my family (including fur-kids!). For several days I only sent a goodnight text to M…at midnight.

And then.

I did a thing.

You know how one day you just get tired of the same old, same old? Yeah, I hit that point a week ago, and I cut my hair.

Now, M loves long hair on women. I know that. And I’ve been growing my hair for 12 years (with occasional ‘big’ trims)…but it hasn’t been short-short since he’s known me. And you know,  he’s not the day-to-day Dom that manages stuff like that. He doesn’t care what I wear, doesn’t care if I wear underwear or not, it just is too much micro-managing for him. It used to bug him when I’d ask about changing my color, or getting 4″ of hair lopped off.

So I just plunked myself in the hairdressers chair and told her it was time for a makeover. My hair was lank, and damaged, and tired. My red was more trending towards orange, and I was just tired of managing all of it.

She took off somewhere near 9″ and then added lots of layers (I have super thick hair). Now it’s bouncy and vibrant, and a deep coppery red…and I love it. It barely skims my shoulders in the back!  It takes me 2 minutes to style and boy how nice to not have the chore of keeping it up. No more braids, no more ponytails…and no more headaches, either. If you have long hair that you put up in a pony or bun, then you know what I’m talking about.

While I’m sure he’s not pleased with my decision, he also understands that sometimes you need a big cut to make it nice again.

So that leads me to his text early last week, insisting that we have a play time in June. Yes. HE initiated wanting playtime. So we’re going for it, hopefully mid-month. I was stunned, and happy, and glad to know that he still wants my fat o…hrm…if I say that word, Jz will be on me again…my fat, 59 year old ass. It’s nice to be wanted, isn’t it?

“I hope you beat me good, M,” I said. “I suppose you could beat me for cutting my hair,” I continued.

“Nilla,” he says, and I can hear the voice in my head as I read his texted response, “I’m going to beat you for breathing. I don’t need an excuse to do so.”

Which just makes me laugh. It’s just so M.

Keep your fingers crossed, Peeps, that things continue to flow and we get a second playtime already, this year. When you’re only averaging 3 times a year, having another time to fuck like minks in such a short time frame is a gift of immeasurable value. And if all goes well, despite him not loving my hair, which I know he won’t, he should hopefully at least not loathe it either.

 

 

Bluesy Bruisy

This will sound weird, but it was a gentle playtime. He’s always hard on my tits (both nipples were PURPLE when we parted!), and my belly, but the ass is always up in the air.

No, not like that.

Oh, okay, maybe sometimes like that.

ANYWAY…

I was bent over the bed, and his hand thunks down on my ass. Gods, I LOVE his hand thunking my ass. It hurts, hurts a LOT, but it’s also freeing, you know? I know you know! My ass is glowing, and it hurts and there’s this thuddy deep ache. And I’m flying, soaring through the fire and into bliss.

Can’t tell you what happened next because truly I was zoned the fuck out.

At some point I’m on my back and he’s been slapping my tits and thighs with this fucking wooden spoon, and I’m gasping, and then his fingers are inside me and I’m moaning because now my pussy is getting sore, tender and sore, and I’ve already had orgasm after orgasm, and then I come again, hard, twice more. He traces my lips with his wet fingers, ordering “Taste yourself” and then he starts slapping my pussy. I come just from that, a pain-induced orgasm.

He makes me a deal. If I can make him cum with a blowjob, I am done being beaten. Good thing, too, as our time was shorter than usual, and I was getting perty danged sore by then.

For a long while I wasn’t sure I could do it. But my hand was under his thigh and I could feel his muscles quivering. Finally his hand presses my head hard against his crotch, his cock in my mouth, my tongue busy swirling, sucking, swirling…and i feel his belly lurch, feel the sudden tightening just before he groans.

It’s a powerful feeling, to hold a man’s orgasm, to cause it. Not in a domme way, just in a slutty way. There wasn’t a power exchange, but a passion exchange. For this moment in our time together, I was giving him pleasure with active intention, rather than pleasure by his choices and actions upon my body.

Does that make any sense?

Yes, he made the bargain, but it was me who did the deed, so to speak. He certainly gets pleasure from my cries of pain when he slaps me, or pinches me, or when he forces me to cum repeatedly. (Fun at first, but after, definitely torture!) This is a whole different thing, where he isn’t the Verb in the dynamic…I am. I’ll let you ponder that one before I go off on a pontificating tangent, which I’m already in danger of doing.

So back to my original thought. After playtime, I had one very obvious bruise on my tit–it was already deeply purple, as were my nipples. I was too high to feel any of the deep pain..it was all endorphins by then. The next day I wake up feeling AWESOME.  I’m dazzled by the bliss I’m feeling, and get dressed.

Wait.

What the fuck…

I look in the mirror, where to my shock, my belly is peppered with pinchey bruises! Some are quarter sized, others are bigger or smaller. All from his bedamned fingers! I’m still feeling good, but now amazed as well. It’s been three full days, and those bruises are not going anywhere anytime soon. He pinches hard and deep…and long. I have to beg for him to let me go…he loves that.

And yes. I’m still high on endorphins.  It’ll be summer before our next playtime, but I’ve got this little glow inside that should hold me for a while. Unlike candlelight, this glow is purple. Blue. Going to blue-green. And it hurts, sooooo good.

Beyond Bliss

We met midday, and talked. It was a face to face catching up time for us both, and time for Him to see some changes that I was worried about, namely the fairly new blonde streaks (he is NOT a fan of blonde in the least, yet he was kind enough to say it looked okay, but he really prefers it the other way.)

And then it was time to drive to the hotel.

I’ve been off again/on again nervous. It’s been 8 months after all, and neither of us are young. I didn’t know what to expect. Of course, I never do with him anyway…he’s always changing things up.

We only had 4 hours of playtime…we both needed an early return to our vanilla lives. But beyond the sex, and the blowjob, and the beatings, there was just us.  Time between to cuddle up and talk about our lives. Time to be held, to touch one another, to just be.

It was a precious time.

And yes, there will be sexy stuff to come, I promise. He came, I came, (and came and came and came as he tormented my poor aching pussy), he beat, I moaned.

There was one funny moment. (okay there were plenty, but this one is the one springing to mind just now)

I’m laying, bound wrist to ankle, blindfolded.

“What am I forgetting,” he says to himself as he (finally!) stops pinching my belly, ass, thighs and tits.

Sagely, I kept quiet.

(I know, right? A modicum of self-preservation at last!)

“Oh, yes,” he says, moving away. “nipple clamps”

“I brought mine, Master,” I offer.

“No, don’t need ’em. I brought my own.”

WTF, I think. He brought his own? He doesn’t have his own…*I* have his…

SNAP!

“How’s that?” he inquires. His voice…oooh, it’s smooth as silk, kindly and sweet, like a person asking if you’re warm enough while proffering his coat.

Meanwhile, back on the bed, my back is arched, my mouth is open, and I can barely catch a breath.

“Owwww….fuuuuck,” I manage.

“Oh.” I think I hear a smirk in there, but I’m not sure, since, you know, blindfold. The side of the bed moves as he gets up.

“Good.”

yeah. Definitely a smirk there.

S N A P

OH HOLY FUCK!!!  I’m just getting used to the first one, and now the right one goes up in flames. HOLY FUCK!

“Hurts?” he asks solicitously.

That’s the truly evil part of his sadism, the kindly-old-gentleman voice he uses to see if you’re really hurting.

I can’t speak. I’m literally drawing breath through the walls of fire that emanate from my right nipple.  I nod vigorously.

He flicks the clamp.

“Oh, gooooood,” he says. And he slaps my pussy.

And laughs.

So yeah, he brought his own clamps! Later after he finally removes them (torturously, of course), he shows them to me. The wired, French clip style clothing pin. They were very tightly sprung, way more tight than regular wooden clothes pins.

“I do like finding little gems like these when I’m out and about,” he says, a boyish grin on his face.

“Uh huh,” I say, unamused.

“Wanna try ’em again?” he says, opening and closing the peg in front of my face. I clap my hands over my tits, and shake my head.

“Gee thanks, but no, Master,” I say.

He grins.

 

 

In The Midst of Chaos…Him

Other than the fact that it is still snowing off and on up here in the frozen north (I still have small bits of snow around the yard from Monday’s surprise storm~UGH~) things are not going badly.

I’m desperately overworking myself but *shrugs* it happens to all of us at some point in time, yes?

I barely have time to write Him each day as I’m up and out or up and running the household…but you make time for what’s important, and at least I can say Hi.

Except…somehow in the middle of this self-created chaos, there is Himself. A flurry of texts between us, escalating as our play time nears. He has been teasing me…just little jabs, really. About our meeting …in JULY. I know he’s joking, but it creates a little zinging repartee between us…

And it creates an eddy of need. A swirl of desire. I don’t know about you, but when I’m vanilla-swamped, I tend to lose my libido. Well, that, and the lingering depression about the winter that won’t end. I need outside time. I need my gardens. I need Him.

It’s like he throws an invisible line to me, wrapping it around me, so that I feel the tug of Him and his needs as clearly as if he’d spoken them. He doesn’t, mind you. It’s all mind-fuck and alluded to…but after alllllll these years, I know him, how he communicates, and can see him wrapping me up…but am helpless to stop it. Spider and fly, moth to flame, he snares me, pulls me outside the daily grind and makes me remember the hot, wet, slick spot between my thighs. He makes me forget my to-do list, and remember my wanting list.

Wanting to be fucked.

Wanting to be beaten.

Wanting Him to use me as he chooses.

Not a woman setting about her daily routine, but a slut pulled out of that day stuff, and tugged relentlessly towards the velvety darkness that feeds us both. Until all I want, all I need is Him. His hands bruising me, his mouth consuming me, his cock filling me. Until his brutal need is sated, and my need to be brutalized is fulfilled.

We Have a Plan!

Sometimes I lose faith in what we…or maybe that should say W/we, are. I’ve been pretty good about not being whiney but yanno…it’s been 8 months since I’ve seen my Master.

Yes.

EIGHT. FUCKING. MONTHS.

Sure we text a few times a day (like, good morning, good night, and some days a flurry of notes back and forth)…and I try to be respectful of his time, but sometimes it feels like I’m driving the relationship thing forward (or off a cliff?) all by myself. If I didn’t text him for a day, he wouldn’t write. Then,  I get all pissed and mad and think to myself,

well fine. (no, that should be in caps in full snarky mental voice) F I N E. He doesn’t want to reach out to -me-, and I have to instigate ALL communication, so fuck him. 

I do that. Yes, sad but true, nilla is not a perfect little princess of a slut.

Now, bear in mind that all this is all happening between my own ears, and actually reflects nothing in our relationship in the real world.  In the past I would act on impulse and snarkfest him with a shit-ton of texts saying things like:

okay you don’t like me anymore okayfine

sure sure don’t reply, i don’t matter

whatever. i’m sure you’ve got more important things going on than replying/showing you care/calling the slut who’s been yours for YEARS

And on it would go. Then he wouldn’t reply to any of that, and eventually we’d talk, and he’d say

“nilla, what has changed? Hasn’t this been the way of us all this time? Sometimes I’m busy, and can’t reply. But nothing has changed. I’m still your M. You’re still my slut. All is well.”

So now I just repeat that in my head when the nerves fester up and explode…’he hasn’t called or texted and he mustn’t need me anymore’…is covered over by

‘nilla, nothing has changed…’

and it helps. Because I hear his voice saying it, and it stops the freefall.

But because I was feeling…lost? I dunno. Adrift. There, that’s a better word…I did send him a text mid-week:

‘are we still even a thing anymore? all we seem to say is good morning and good night…sigh

And he replied right away to that.

yeah it’s a problem – we are both pulled in many directions – we’ll work it out.

and I had to add my two cents

I hope so. We are pulled apart by life and I get that. I just miss you.

note the forlorn, sad voice there. Then M, being the M he is, and who knows exactly how to snap me out of my funk says

Keep that thought when I’m beating you.

And with that, the sun comes back out, I smile, and I know that everything will be okay again–eventually. And with that in mind, I shoot him a text a day or so ago and tell him I’m feeling desperately needy (do all you Domly types love to hear that?!), and he pulls a date out of the air and damn if it isn’t an open day on MY calendar too! So, peeps, we have a playdate in 2 weeks.

TWO WEEKS!

Of course, now I’m feeling old (sorry Jz) and fat (sorry Olivia) and gross. Me, who is usually totally not worried about this shit in normal life. So what, I shrug, I’m round. So what, I say with a smile, I’m short. So what, I’m coming to a fucking HUGE birthday in a matter of months and the wrinkles are popping. (that one still kinda makes my knees shake a bit…still growing older certainly beats the Big Dirt Nap!)

I have to *consciously* remind myself that he doesn’t care about that shit. I’m sure he’d be thrilled with a slender(er) submissive who was 30 years younger …hell, I wouldn’t say no if a genii appeared and offered that, but you know what? I love and adore him, but… he’s got his own wrinkles, his own messy hair, his own tummy.  Neither of us are winning beauty contests here. We’re not in this for the (what I call) “glam-porn” where every tit is perky and bouncy, and every torn blouse is arty and sexy. Nope, just two old farts who will have the *best* time banging on one another (and banging one another!)…until I’m begging him to stop making me cum…and he’s refusing to stop.

Ah. See? You’ve all let me vent and now I’m not feeling so terribly gross after all. It’s not about the looks…it’s about the actions, the way we make one another feel, and being together. It may be an odd way to show love for one another, but really, when all is said and done, I’m okay with that!

 

Still Riding the High

A week ago I was an aching, tired, cum-drained slut. Most of the bruises have faded, though the bite on my ass shows no signs of leaving anytime soon. The memories have shuffled, rising like bits of flotsam as I go through my busy days. I stop, smile, have a small internal shiver.

I know he had a good time too–his texts are often teasing, meant to heat me up.

I was remembering about when he finally untied my arms from their tight criss-cross. We were shifting and moving all over the bed. It is a fuzzy,  orgasm-fused memory, as to the how of it, but I was on the floor, on my knees. I think  He’d been smacking my ass, but I’m just not sure.

Anyway, the how isn’t the important bit of the memory.

Things had been getting progressively fiercer. I was ramped up, he was ramped up, and suddenly, unexpectedly, he grabbed me and threw me up and onto the bed.

By my hair.

His fist grabbed a huge hunk of my hair and simply hauled up, up and onto the bed without regard. Just a giant heave and I was there. It hurt like hell, and I remember being so turned on. He fell onto my back, his hand pressing my face into the mattress so hard I could scarcely draw breath, and then he was biting my shoulder, biting it hard.

I screamed and writhed under him, and he flipped me over, and clamped his teeth onto my nipple while his hand dove down to my pussy.

He finger-fucked me furiously, giving no quarter.

This wasn’t a gentle kind thing. This was a violent, fierce taking, and I loved every aching moment of it.

When he takes me, uses me for whatever he wants, it makes me feel…cherished. Owned. Needed.

Special.

There’s no better feeling for a pain-loving, needy slut like me.

Things You’d Only Hear From A D/s Couple

No, this is not a category on Jeopardy, but I’d bet many of my pervie peeps would do well with this, yes? *laughs*

“Master, I simply do not understand your fascination with my asshole.”

“Nilla, I *love* your asshole.

Yes. He did say this. It made me laugh. It made him prove it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

“Master, I’m so going to pinch  your nipples.”

“Ha. Good luck with that slut.”

I tried. I got a quick flick in and almost…almost … caught that little man-nip between my fingers before his fingers, firmly affixed to my belly flab, made me shriek and let go.

He, for the record, did not.

Let go, that is.

Not until I fell over on the bed and cried and whimpered and pleaded.

And yes.

I tried again, and yes, met with the same fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

“You really like pushing the envelope, slut. I only hope your ass will be able to cash the check your smart mouth is writing.”

Catching the ever-so-slight warning in his tone, I shut the fuck up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

*gales of silly, hysterical laughter as he flops on top of me*. He pins me in place and says “no one has more fun than you, nilla.”

Immediately he begins  the slow, tortuous tickling of my underarms with his gently brushing fingers (SO BRUTAL! Gentle brutality to be sure!), alternating with the swirling tip of his tongue in my ear canal and outer ear. I know it’s an erogenous zone for many, but for me it is a very, extremely ticklish area.

I wish I could stop laughing.

I laugh until I’m gasping for breath, crying.

He stops and bites my shoulder fiercely.

I stop laughing and arch, screaming with the pain.

It’s fucking devious and I cannot keep up with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

“You’re a real slut, nilla.”

“Thank you Master.”

 

 

 

 

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.

20170827_144228_Burst01

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

20170830_225113

Pretty, pretty bruises.

 

“Give Me…”

His finger circles my clit. I’ve come, and it’s sensitive and I’m hot and slippery and needy. Again. He laughs at my obvious need, his fingers pinching, squeezing the bulbous sex button before slipping back down my sodden slit.

A solitary finger enters me.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls softly into my ear.

The single finger is joined by another, then a third. Slowly he pushes into me, rubbing against my spot until I’m arching.

He pulls out, and I’m left gasping, right on the edge.

I may have called him a fucking bastard then. His hand rises to my mouth.

“Taste,” he says, “taste yourself on my fingers.”

A finger slides across my bottom lip.

“Salty,” he says, “Sweet.”

“you, girl. That’s you.”

Slowly he presses the other digits into my mouth, across my tongue, down towards my throat, almost-but-not-quite gagging me.

Just as those salty-sweet slicked fingers had caressed my cunt, so now did they fuck my mouth as my tongue swirled and flicked over them, cleaning him. He laughs, a soft chuckle of sound, then pulls them free.

“Here,” he says, turning my head with his free hand. His mouth takes mine, lips barely touching before he pulls back a fraction of space.

“Give me. Give me…” His word is a fierce yet quietly growled order.

“More,” he demands, lips against my mouth. I press my lips harder against his. Our mouths suck and take greedily from one another. I moan as he sucks my aching tongue hard, then bite his lip when he frees it.

As our mouths mate, his fingers press into my pussy and begin the dance of lust again.

 

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.