I need Him.

I like to pretend that I don’t, you know. That I’m a normal, vanilla woman. That I’m busy in my life, my career, my family. That when I go to bed tired at night, I’ll just sleep.


I don’t sleep. I look at Tumblr, at all the nasty little blogs that I follow. I get wet when there’s forced blow jobs, when there’s rape scenes, when there’s double or triple penetration pictures.

I throb, thinking of them.

And then I think of Him. Of the dildo in my ass when he fucks me. Of the feeling on my ass when he bites me after spanking me ruddy red. I remember the shocking pain of his pinching my tits, my belly, and the intense pull of his mouth on my nipple when he sucks my tit into his mouth…and bites.

That’s when I pull out my toys and it doesn’t take but a moment to cum.

I’ve been walking around in a half-aroused state for days now. Despite some really shitty stuff going on in my vanilla life, I’ve been able to shake that off. But not this…need. Not the desire to be slapped around, fucked into oblivion, beaten, and bitten. He’s one of those Doms who likes to make me cum. And cum. And cum. And when I think there’s nothing left after hours of this?

He makes me (yes, makes me)  cum again. And again.

Until I can barely think, barely walk, barely move. I’m a puddle of slut, in every sense of the word!

I miss that. I miss Him.

I hunger.


I’ve had an amazingly difficult, emotional week. I had a physical thing that has temporarily marred me physically, and it blindsided me.

I’m vain, you see.

Yeah, I’m overweight, the short, round sub. But I’m still okay with how I look, until this past week.

I told Him he should uncollar me. That I couldn’t see him for a year until I heal.


First world, very vanity driven issues, nilla?


Sometimes we just can’t get out of own way, can we?

He sent me a text within MINUTES of my sending.

Get off your fucking pity party train.


He doesn’t care. *I* care enough for two of us, but to him? It’s a non-issue.

“Make a play date for late October, early November.”

I haven’t done that yet. I’m still feeling pretty sensitive, and though I’ve stopped the pity party tears, I am still not…not sure? I dunno. I want to be perfect for him, you know?

He just wants to beat me. The only thing *He* cares about is the color my ass will be when He’s done playing with me.

He’s pretty fucking awesome. And in that no-nonsense way of his, He has managed to quickly snap me out of the doldrums of what could have been a very serious fall into depression.

I was on the very edge of tetering into that black hole. He not only pulled me back, he threw a lasso around my neck and lifted me back. So far back that I’m starting to think about ….


You know…at the end of October.

Or early November.



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? 






Perverted Pleasures (2)

They hadn’t told her of the butt plug that awaited her in the limo, nor of the resounding, over-his-knee spanking that Master delivered as they pulled away from the curb. His hand was large and covered a huge amount of ass with every blow. He spanked hard, down her thighs, across her hips, up even to her back, the slaps echoing inside of her somehow.

It was as she lay there, across his lap, gasping through the tears, that she felt the probing against her pussy lips.

“She’s so fucking wet.”

“She’s a slut. She’s gonna be wet.”

“Good for her–lotta lube–the natural kind!”

The two chuckled a moment. The large hand pressed against the base of her neck, as his other slapped hard at the bottom of her butt. One slap, two, six. The same fucking spot over again. Nine, twelve slaps. Fifteen. Twenty one.

“How many was that, slut?”

“Twenty-one,” she spoke, the sob hitching in her voice.


He struck again.

“I have a fondness for round bottoms, and round numbers,” he said with a laugh. “Proceed, Peter.”

There was pressure against her asshole. Though she tried to lift her head, Master’s hand was like an anchor, holding her in place. As the pressure grew, she tightened her anus.

“Fighting it.”

“Good enough. She’ll learn.”

“I’ll get the rubber mallet…”

“WHAT?!” she squeaked, her voice snaking around his shoelaces.

There was a sudden firm push and whatever he was doing landed deep inside her asshole.

“OH FUCK! That hurts! OUCH!”

“Stop fighting when he puts things in your ass, then.”

“It burns.”

“Does that when he uses toothpaste for lube. It’ll tingle for a while. Remember to not piss him off again, slut or he’ll slather it with icyhot gel…then you’ll really have an ass of pain.”

He tugged her up from his lap, and pressed her to the floor.

“Sit there. Yes, right there with your ass stuffed full of rubber. I know it hurts, doesn’t it?”

He handed her a bottle of water and picked up his phone. In a moment he was busy texting as she sat, ignored. A foot prodded her tit.

“My cock wants your mouth. Turn around.”

Sir’s limp cock hung between his splayed knees. Even flaccid it was big. She scooted forward, wincing at the fullness in her ass. It felt like she needed to take the biggest shit in her life. Her anus throbbed. Her lips encircled his shaft, sucking the head into her mouth, the thick head resting on her tongue.

“Right there. No…no sucking. Just hold it in your mouth and keep it warm and wet.”

His fingers reached down, grabbing her nipples and tugging as if to move her closer.

“No–don’t move. I want to see how far these babies will stretch.”

She moaned around his cock as he pulled slowly, firmly, steadily. It felt like he was trying to rip her tits off of her chest by her nipples. Yet she also felt like someone had set a match to her clit. The throb there was incredible. Her body was so alive!

“No cumming.”

The deep voice of her Master interrupted her introspection. She couldn’t really speak with a cock in her mouth, one growing steadily firmer.

“Wa Ma trr?”

She tried, but earned a cuff to her ear.

“No talking with my dick in your mouth, cunt!”

It was incredible, the connection between her nipples and her cunt, the way every jostle of the limo tugged her tits this way and that, adding to the ache that his fingers coaxed from them. It was incredible how wet she was, how much she wanted to suck. He was a stranger, but all normal “fears” had flown out the window. Here she was running on pure adrenaline.

The car slowed, then stopped. She didn’t move, hadn’t been instructed to move.

“You’ll need this.”

Master wrapped something heavy around her throat. The click of a hasp and the weight of leather leash let her know that he’d collared her, something that she’d looked forward to. While wearing his collar, he owned her fully. Lost in the rapture of giving her fate to another, she barely noticed what else was going on. Hands were busy on her body; it took a moment to realize that she was being stripped. Surely they didn’t mean to have her exit the car totally buck naked?

The wash of air as the door opened proved that they did.



Spanked (and HNT)

*hangs head*

I’ve been breaking a rule. Occasionally. And not really with intent, but then again, isn’t neglect a form of intent? I didn’t make it a *priority* and that smacks of intent to me.

He is a huge sports fan. He’ll let me have O’s if His teams do well, or take them away if they suck. I know, not fair at all…but this is at HIS whim, so fair isn’t really part of the equation, now, is it? 🙂  The Red Sox (baseball, Sofia!) are doing pretty well as they head ever closer to the World Series. Since they won yesterday, I asked Master if I could have an extra O.

I get a reply after a while. (and I’m paraphrasing as my phone and I are not together as I type this)

“Well, slut, I did consider that, actually. But the thing is, I seem to be missing an O report….”


Yes, He *is* missing an O report.


(how embarrassing to type this)

last week.

Last week I had been too tired to have an O, and postponed it until Wednesday night.  And then I forgot. I wrote that little bit about it here. But…I NEVER SENT IT TO MASTER. OH dear. OH my.

So today I wrote about it to Him, with an apology.

And He’s been poking at me (every bit as effectively as if He was standing next to me and poking me) via text.

And the kicker is that I didn’t take my O *this* Tuesday either. I had plans to take it tonight.

Those plans have been changed.

I’m being punished.

With the dreaded “half Orgasm”…



And on the eve of ZNN.

You may remember the “half-o”…when I pound the pussy almost to the point of orgasm…and stop.

NO falling over the edge.

NO oops allowed.

Just lay there, wanton, needy, craven, and pissed.

And will spend all day Thursday needing release.

And maybe even Friday before He gives me permission to use the O in the bank and release some of the tension building up in my nether regions.

Or maybe not.

See, Master isn’t the kind of Dom that gets angry.


He gets even.

Sometimes I forget how totally mean He can be. I’m too smart to be that dumb. *shaking my head* He’s a sadist, nilla! And I get caught up in the vanilla aspects of our relationship. The conversations, the family sharing, the day-to-day, and I forget that He’s also my Dom, not just my friend. I forget that He can put His foot (real or metaphorically) on my neck and say “enough, slut”.

And of course, it turns me on, the lowering of the hammer. The jerking of my collar. The reminder that really? I’m His slut. And though He gives me a ton of leeway on my leash? He’ll jerk it short if I fuck up.

And maybe sometimes just for the fun of it.

So even if He can’t stand next to me tonight to punish my thoughtlessness? Even though He can’t mark me, pinch me, spank me?

bruisenipHe can still pull me up short and remind me of which side of the slash He is on. He’s the Master. And He’s the Big D.

And me?

Well, sometimes the small “s” on the other side of the slash stands for “duh, nilla, sometimes you’re kinda stupid, yanno”


Under it all, I know He loves me. Why else would I get a heart-shaped bruise from Him? Hmmm?






“An O on Friday night? Are you fucking nuts?”

“But Master, You used to let me have orgasms on Friday night…remember?”

“Well, yeah, but that was back when you were a new little slut. You’ve moved way beyond that now, nilla. You’re all grown up now slut…and just don’t need that sort of coddling.”


“See? I knew you’d agree.”

Damn Him. I do.


btw…nominations for the top 100 sex bloggers of 2013 has opened. Go visit Rori at Between My Sheets if you feel like nominating some random sex blog…(was that hint broad enough, LOL?!)…~nilla~


Pre-empted for Fucking!

I could sit here and write a long and tedious blogpost about life, and rain, and sunshine, gardens, and anal play and tentacles.

But I won’t.

Not tonight.

Tonight I’m thinking about what He’ll do if I forget to bring my nipple clamps and weights. Tonight I’m wondering which shoes He’ll bring for me to wear, and how hard He’ll hit with that fucking pink hairbrush.

I’m thinking, too, about how long it’s been since a long and extended pain session, and how fucking long since I had an orgasm (Tuesday, people. Fucking Tuesday!)

I’m fretting a bit…can I walk in 6″ stiletto’s with an ankle that isn’t always happy to support me? That sounds like doubt…as if I need to worry about how He’ll care for me, about me, which is stupid, because He takes *excellent* care of His property. He is solicitous, which might sound strange to peeps new to this lifestyle. How can someone be solicitous of one whom He is preparing to beat the begeezuz out of?

Yet, He is.

He cares for me, about me, and will take good care of my stupid ankle.

And I worry…as always…can I take this? Can I take what He’ll dish out? Well, of course. There’s not an option once the door closes. He’ll fuck me, or fuck with me, however He chooses to. Hit me, slap me, pinch me….I’ll fall under His spell and all this nervous stuff will simply fall away. I won’t give two seconds of thought to my nerves once that door closes and locks behind me.

Consider all the sexy words have been put up on a shelf for the nonce…they’ll be back next week, but for now? They’re preempted.

Coz nilla is off to be royally fucked.



Now That’s Just Sick…

I’ve been bitch-slapped by some nasty weird virus (at work of course, with nearly an hours drive home feeling faint and nausea and ‘out’ of it.) Thank the Goddess for my Master–He talked to me on my drive until I was almost home. It was like a verbal tether holding me.

I got in the door, went upstairs and barely got undressed before falling into my bed. I slept for 16 hours. I *never* do that. Chills and feverpain and just not feeling good at all. Even my hair hurt. Fever broke this morning, and my family went to visit the MIL without me, so I was home alone all day. I slept. And slept. And talked to Master, and texted a wee bit. Read a bit, facebooked for a few, then slept again.

I finally ate a light dinner and am now back in bed. Hoping that tomorrow will throw the last of this sucker off. I need a shower! But it’s fucking freezing up here in the northeast. It SNOWED. Not where I am but about an hour north. Over half a foot in Vermont and New Hampshire. Wicked weird. It’s almost JUNE…that should be a record or something, right?

So now you know why it’s been so quiet over here in the nilla-verse. No good kinky fun. Just blucky stuff. And yet….. 🙂 I’m already so much better. I even thought about my dildo a while ago. Not that I’m ready to USE it yet (Master says no orgasms until I’m 65 if I don’t get well SOON! That’s some powerful inspiration! *smiling*) But at least the thought of something sexual crossed my mind.

Be well yourselves and hope you enjoy the rest of the holiday weekend where you are.


HNT…Chained to Him

Remember I was grumpy and whiny? Done and over once the tummy bug hit. Remember the update saying why I was grumpy and that things were better?


That means you’re all up to date. 🙂 I’m good. I’m almost 100 per cent good. Like..98%.

It’s that little 2% that is in my thoughts, the 2% that Master is holding in his hands.

My Orgasm.

See, I’m supposed to write an “Orgasm Report” after every O. And I’ve been amazingly diligent, sending them faithfully.

And He never…okay, perhaps not never, but rarely, responds. So…eventually I figure, hell, He’s not reading these fucking things. But I kept writing them because as a Dom AND as my Master?

He’s pretty fucking sneaky.

I may forget a lot of things, but I’ve never consciously underestimated Him. He is WAY smarter than I am, WAY better at this whole D/s dynamic, WAY better at “getting” me than I get me.

So I plug along, writing the reports. Some are dry, a recitation of the mechanics. What toys, the feelings, etc. Some – well – even for *me* it’s embarrassing to let my deepest fantasies out to Him.  But once in a while I’ll post that to Him.

But this morning (Wednesday) I forgot. I was feeling pretty blucky when I first crawled out of bed. This stupid virus thing isn’t about heaving, but just a queasy belly, and headache and dizzy, and just feeling blerg.

So I forgot to sit down and write my o report, which is a shame because it was a pretty fucking awesome orgasm. No squirty (this seems to be the new female orgasm achievement, Jz mentions it here in her hysterical post, and you really should go read it…) but it was one of those whole-body pulsing rip-roaring orgasms that sent me right to sleep afterwards, with a big-assed smile on my face.

Until, you know, the whole wake-up-in-the-wee-hours-of-the-morning thing.

So dammit, I forgot.

It’s a valid excuse.

Note the word choice there. Excuse. It’s not really a reason. There is no reason why I couldn’t write the email. I commented on blogs, I wrote on facebook, I even wrote my mini update.

But I didn’t write that fucking email.

And tonight I spoke to Him. I asked Him if I could have an O, since tomorrow is the ever-dreaded ZNN.

“I don’t believe there was an O-Report in my “in” box today.” He says.

“I had no idea You read those, Master.”

“I couldn’t read it. It wasn’t here.”


“I wasn’t feeling very good this morning, Master.”

“And I’m sorry you were unwell. But there is no O report in my in box. So no, you may not have an orgasm tonight. I sit here, and know eventually you will fuck up, nilla. You’ll get lazy or bored or something…and you’ll find out that I’m still sitting here and watching you.”

Now, doesn’t that make my little submissive heart go pitter-patter? I mean, my gawd…He’s watching. He’s paying attention. Even when I think maaaybe He’s forgotten He owns a needy slut. I got goosebumps when He said it.

And dammit, I really wanted that O.

But I really want Him and His approval, and to please Him, more than my own selfish pussy.

Here are the two pix I sent Him last night before and after the wonderous O…they are NOT an O report, but a …um…well…you know.

A tease.


First, the offering:


and then the afterwards…chain

They won’t “buy back” my missing O…but I’m sure He’s got it filed away somewhere under “nilla fuck-up number XYZ”.

That’s okay.

He’s watching. He’s spinning His web. He’s holding me, binding me, in these invisible chains.  I’m good with this. Because it means that I’m His, that even when I don’t see or feel the clamps or the weight of the chains…they’re still there.  And every once in a while He’ll pull them tight, and remind me of their presence.