Sacrifice (3)

Hands stroking her body.

Hands massaging her head, rubbing up and over and around her breasts, her belly, her arms and wrists. They moved slickly, sliding like silk. There was a soft scent filling her nostrils, something earthy and rich.

Hands rubbing her pussy, massaging the tender folds, then the gentle press against, around, and briefly, into her anus. She fluttered then, rousing a bit, but a soothing “shhhhhh” accompanied by the gentle massaging of her temples calmed her.

The calm after the storm, as it were.  The feeling of being used lingered, despite the massaging hands. She stirred, restless. Hands held her down, rubbing down her arms, catching her wrists, rubbing each digit on her hands.

She should rise.

She should awaken and go.

There wasn’t a need to rise. There didn’t seem to be a reason to go.

She slept.


The sound of the door closing roused her. The room was dark, though spears of sunlight pierce the edges of the curtains, seeking entry.

A hand trailed from her toes, up her leg, and rested at the pouting vee.

“Pretty cunt.”

She knew the voice. She knew that hand. She would have sat up, but she was too lethargic to move. The bed groaned under the sudden weight of him. Like the mattress, she groaned as he moved onto her, pinning her to the soft sheets.

“I can’t,” she murmured against his lips.

“You will. You are mine now.”

Her eyes fluttered open. It was true then.  Trying to understand, to comprehend the sudden change in her status.


“Mine. No longer a just a slave, but my slave.”

In the darkness she smiled. She’d feared becoming the sacrifice. Instead it seemed she’d been reborn.

His hand gathered her close as he rolled to his side, tucking her against him. His fingers found her breast, even as his cock rose, large and hard against her ass. His breathing deepened, fluttering her hair.

Time slowed, their breaths slowed in sync. Entwined, they slept.






The Best Part…

The best part Sunday was when we were playing my new game, nilla.

I groan a bit, then giggle.

You weren’t giggling so much when I nailed your ass with the “fucking pink brush”, little girl.

“No Master, that’s the truth! I HATE that fucking thing!”

know! It’s the gift that keeps on giving, nilla. And YOU gave it to me!

I roll my eyes, still disbelieving how very much He loves that fucking thing, after nearly 2 years. You know how people like something for a while, then get tired of it? Like, I had a thing last fall for Greek yogurt. I ate it every day for lunch for a month, then a bit more sporadically as a snack before leaving for work in the afternoon. Now, I’m rarely eating it. I got tired of it.

Not Master.

He finds something he likes and he sticks to it. He loves everything about the damned fucking thing. The gel handle for His comfort while he beats me. The wide paddle of it as it nails my ass to the fucking wall. The *sound* of the impact is like that of rolling thunder. Not a mere “thwack” or “thud” or even “splat”, but a rumbly *BWOP*.

I, on the other hand, can barely make a sound. Only the sudden rushing of indrawn breath lets him know I’m sit alive, as my body arches, my mouth opens, and my fingers claw at the wall.

Speechless with the sudden, shocking, incredible pain.

Ah, nilla, the sound of your silence is so beautiful.

The Bastard laughs.

But this is only the opening salvo in a game that he has come too enjoy immensely. The game is called “Name That Impliment of Ass Destruction” and it’s exactly what it sounds like.

He wacks my ass and I must guess the tool. Once I have my breath back, of course.

Two correct guesses in a row suspends the game…for a while. But before we got there? I’d had orgasms. And foot torture. And pinching of my spare tire which is verrah painful. Egads. Shit. Hellfire. The Man is brutal.

I can always, always guess the pink brush. But he has a few toys that I can’t judge on pain alone. I try to vector the amount of flesh that feels the impact, the depth of the pain, the tingle or burn afterwards, all of which help me judge what the fuck he has just hit me with.

It sounds so logical and analytically clinical, doesn’t it? Except. Yeah. Orgasms. Tickle torture. Pain. All swirled into a cocktail that leaves me totally dazed. I’m already flying, buzzing from the endorphins.

But wait! There’s more!

He adds a new dimension this time. One that fuddles up my data transmissions even more than the miasma already swirling in my brain.

He has this fuckingly brutal (yeah, I’m overusing the word…trust me, it is the only one that fits!) plastic salad fork. It’s not used for beating, but for scratching. He scratches over the welts and bruises and hit-marks with the damned fucking thing, first in one direction, then in another. Until my ass is painfully throbbing, hot, aching, raw-feeling.

And *then* he fucking hits me.

Pain, layered over and under pain. His voice whispers in my ear, his breath moving my hair, the heat and smell of him so fucking appealing. I was shivering, not from cold, but from the beating, and his heat behind me, was so enticing.

what was that, little gir? Hmmmm?

The pain causes fog to rise in my brain, the jungle beat of the pain in my ass so intense that I feel like he can hear it. The heat right *there* where the impact was, so fiery. What the fuck was it? Fucking silver cake thingy? The fucking olive wood spoon I gave him two years ago (that he recently rediscovered in his toy bag)? I have NO idea, so I guess.

His chuckle is rich and greedy-sounding, a person getting exactly what he wants for his present.

hmm hmm hmm…NO! Wrong…

Scratch, scratch, scratch… WHACK!

More chuckles, moans, groans…the game goes on for a long, long, long time.

Left buttock - beaten, scratched, and whacked with the wooden spoon (the round O's that kinda look like hearts, which is total irony!)

Left buttock -beaten, scratched, and whacked with the wooden spoon (the round O’s that kinda look like hearts, which is total irony!)

When it’s done, he pushes me hard, backwards, and I fall, gasping, to the bed. He lands upon me and begins to assault my pussy and tits, hitting my cunt so hard that he told me it looked like cooked spam.

Which he decided needed tasting.

Lips, teeth, tongue and beard all working over my burning throbbing aching pussy…his laugh as I came, hard, over and over again, vibrating against my clit with more force than my dildo ever could.

Later, I’ll try to get my subspaced head clear enough to tell you of my “best part”…but it is so hard, you know? Because really? The best part is any time that I get to spend with my Master.


Deep (in her) Throat

The sharp tang of metal in her mouth made her wince. It tasted horrid. Swallowing was an effort. The gag in her mouth held her jaws wide, preventing her from avoiding what was coming next. She would have shaken her head, if her ponytail wasn’t tied to the hook buried in her asshole.

Any movement tugged the hook, with the fat metal ball on the end. It was painful to her anus, and exciting to her pussy. Knees spread wide, she dripped onto a plastic bowl placed there.

Humiliation was the key to this game. He said he would prove to her that this sort of thing would excite her. She’d denied it, but He would offer the bowl of her juice as evidence to the contrary.

“Be a good girl now,” He chastened, following it with a laugh. Bound and gagged as she was, there was no other option available to her. She could not say no, could not deny service, could not do aught else but submit.

He slid the blindfold over her eyes, and she heard him walk across the room, opening the door. He trotted downstairs, and the sound of the front door opening, of voices raised in greeting came to her.

The sound of footsteps coming up….many footsteps…and raucous male laughter, which stopped immediately. They must be here. 

The sound of a zipper lowering was unmistakable. The steps moved closer, and hands grasped her head over her ears, muffling sounds. Her mouth was filled with cock, slipping between her opened lips, across her tongue. The groans of pleasure mingled with her gags as he slipped down the back of her throat.

Her nipples hardened. Her body trembled, her ass ached as her face was used as a pleasure-hole.

He came, in her mouth, and on her face,  splatters of his seed hot on her flesh.  She listened as his feet moved away,  feeling the shameful dripping from between her thighs as footfalls moved to stand before her. Again her head was held, a cock pushed and rocked in and out of her open and waiting mouth, again the tangible pulsing as he spurted into her throat. She coughed, not an easy thing to do with mouth held gaping, and felt yet another shaft fill her, take her, use her.

She took them all, not that there was a choice, deep into her throat, even as her pussy throbbed and leaked, dripping into the bowl between her knees.

When there were no more cocks, when the footsteps receded, and her head spun somewhere out in subspace with the stars, He returned to her, and removed her blindfold.

“What a good girl. One more now.”

Her throat ached, rubbed raw, and raspy from gagging.  Her Master took out his own cock, and fed it between her open lips. She wished the terrible gag was gone, wanting to feel his cock, wishing to wrap her sore lips around him and pleasure him.

“I know. This, too, is part of your punishment. I will use you as I choose, my slut. You are excited by that, even though these same lips protest, your cunt betrays you. You are mine.”

He pulled out of her mouth, and unfastened the ponytail from the anal hook. Pushing her to her hands and knees, He took her from behind, the ball buried in her ass rubbing his cock, making them both moan. As he stiffened, and began to spurt, he pulled out of her moist throbbing pussy, and jerked his cum into the bowl, mingling his jizz with hers.

“A nice bowl of cream for my little pussy,” he grunted, laughing as he pushed it towards her. “Every drop, now, right down your throat.”

Shit Day

Some days are like this, I know. The kind of day that makes you want to draw on the walls with jello, and gurgle happily. La La La….

It was a wicked fuck of a day and …wait a moment here….. yanno… I’ve used that phrase before and suddenly…it seems wrong, doesn’t it? I mean, in *our* world, a wicked fuck is a good thing. Well, that leaves me with no good expression to describe my fu-…my rotten day. That sucks.

O wait.

I do that too.

Well, fu… *sigh*… when did my D/s start to ruin my wicked bad expressions, anyway? Need I use vanilla terms to describe my bad days???

“oh yes, nilla had such a miserable day.”

Oh, right. Like that says enough.


Shit Day is the best I can come up with.

And that made me think about anal sex.


Doesn’t everyone think about anal sex? You don’t? Really?

I’ll bet deep down you do. 🙂

Anyway. I was trying to decide if I like it or don’t. There are parts I don’t, to be sure. And HE knows them and uses them on me just to get a rise out of me. But I have wicked intense orgasms from anal sex so there you go. It’s a trade-off.

Now that I’ve diverted down this hopelessly convoluted path to here, I can tell you that I hadn’t meant to go there. Like…just not. Sometime I’ll sit down and we can have a lovely natter about butt fucking. But today is not that day, and tomorrow isn’t looking hopeful either.

What I really wanted to talk about was this task I have looming ahead of me, which is why I’m blogging and not doing it. I’ve not had an O since…….shit. Like Day. Tuesday, last. I lost an O for my snit, and another just because. And another because I was tired. And another because He wanted to get me all sexed up and have nowhere to go. And then there was today (Monday)…

And I got His text to start clit flicking at 11 (that’s 11 flicks at 11).  And later a text saying pussy grabs at 3 (those pussy grabs turn me on like wildfire.)

But I’ve had this shit day, you see. Where things came up and things happened and I had two jobs today and not one, and my kids were aliens and and and…it’s going on 10 pm.

There hasn’t been one fucking flick.

No pussy grabs.


I told Him. Sent Him a late-day text letting Him know there’d been a substantial delay. On my way home from work, while running errands (the fun in this day never ends)…I called Him. Told Him again that nothing had been done.

“Good thing you won’t get an O then…you’ll be far too busy catching up on those flicks” He says nonchalantly.


It’s another orgasm-free day. Sad but true. And all part of the Shit Day. All sexed up and no place to put it.

Except, of course, in His hands, where He can enjoy every moment of my turned on squirming.


“This is proof. I have zero doubt. You are a full-on Sadist.”

I write this to Him via text. I wonder what He will say. Will He smack me down for my temerity? He doesn’t unduly torment me in my day-to-day life, after all. He understands the mommy demands, the wifey demands, the living demands on my time and energy and ability to serve. He doesn’t want a wench to grovel and moan piteously unless He is there to hear it, He’s told me that in the past. So I wait, almost a bit nervously. After all, I’ve not been in top-10 communicating form with Him these last two weeks…and there was that wee snark on Saturday….and I check..and YES!

A text from Master. Nervously I open it. And giggle. Remember I told you He is a man of few words? Yeah. This sums Him up nicely. He wrote:

“Thank you.”

Fucking Hairbrush!

The worst “toy” in His arsenal by far is the pink hairbrush.

I was lucky enough to get some insight into exactly how much He loves this weapon of ass destruction while Sir P was visiting with us. I’d been sucking cock, and been fucked, round one, when Sir put me on the Wall where I’d been (blindfolded) when he had come into the room with Master.

I was startled, and happy, when Master came up behind me and ran His hand from my shoulder to my flank, a kind of petting that I found reassuring. I hadn’t been all that certain that He was still in the room with us! I remember pushing my ass back into His caress..and His responding slap.

Reassuring, certainly.

I can’t speak to His purpose in the smack. To me it was a way for Him to let me know that He was, indeed, still present. But in truth? He was teaching Sir P.

He hit me again, harder, then moved away. I hear Him rummaging through His toybag, then *smack*…FSCT appears.  It stings, but my ass has been “conditioned” a bit by His earlier smacking, and it’s a pleasurable pain. A quick sting, then the burn of “mmmmmmm”….and then that stops. He turns and speaks to Sir P, telling him that I enjoy being smacked, and that I bruise extremely easily. He calls him over and shows him the bruises from last Saturday’s play, now 8 days old and still deeply purple, on my upper left side by my breast.

There is more talk, soft, and I can’t hear…in truth? I don’t care. It isn’t my business…in this I am His tool. Tools don’t speak unless asked to.

And then He disappears. His voice comes, doppler-like, from the bathroom and I know what it is He has come out with …the fucking pink hairbrush.

“This is my alltime favorite toy,” I hear Him say to Sir P. “It was so sweet. So innocent. She hates it, and that gives Me great joy.”

Ah….it adds to His joy that I hate this particular implement. And then He explains that I’d brought it to a meet more than a year ago, showing Him in my naivety that I’d found a solution to the tangled mat that my hair had become…but what glowed in bright and brilliant light as a perfect Dom toy…and knowing that I’d brought it in such innocence, knowing that I hated it, all added to the thrill He got from it.

It was enlightening.

And then He hit me with it. And I muttered a fast “thank you Master” through gritted teeth.

And He laughs. Just roars.

“Aaah,” He says, to Sir P…”that was for your benefit, P. nilla, tell him what you really say when I use this on you…”

And He smacks me again. I try to climb the fucking wall to get away from it…which makes Him chuckle.


“That’s the spirit!” He says. “And what else?”


And of course He hits me again, laughing. (Why does He enjoy that? Being called a fucking bastard? I dunno.)

Later, after Sir P has cum on my face, showered, and departed, I’m back on the Wall. In my mind, what happens next is …an affirmation. That I am still His property.

He bites.

He takes big mouthfulls of my skin…shoulders, ass, arms, and bites me savagely. It hurts, hurts enough to draw gasps and tears. The last bite on my right shoulder was more wicked than all the others. And I sob a little, drawing a “What?” from Him, with a wicked edge of the Sadist in His voice.

“It *sob/gasp* hu-*sniff* hurts, Master.”

“Ohh, okay then.”

And He takes up the fucking hairbrush and *beats* the spot where His mouth has ravaged me.

I hate that fucking thing! But I do very much love the after-effects…  🙂

A Guest Redux?

Remember back in the “some time in the past” when Master had a guest Dom visit with us?  There’s a post somewhen about it, with pics of me giving him a blowjob, and later, being fucked silly by him. Sir P, I think I referenced him as.

Saturday night Master mentioned him. Sir P, I mean. We were talking a bit about the submissive that is coming to our playtime. I asked a few questions, He dodged them. Well, he did tell me that I can’t talk to her. 🙂 He did mention that He’s known her for a long time, anyway. . . and then there was that little comment.

“Oh nilla, by the way….”

Master let drop that Sir P has been invited to our playday.

I’ll let that thought hang with you a moment…I wonder if your mouth is hanging open like mine was on Saturday night when Master informed me that Sir P might put in an appearance. It’s contingent upon his schedule, but as I understand it, he is eager to see me again.

That’s  a thrill that also creates more of those silly nerves that dance up and down my submissive spine. It was so intense. And good. Now, I don’t spend tons of time going back over it in my head…some of it was lost to subspace, but really I don’t dwell on these other encounters.   I spend time thinking of my Master,  hoping that I have served Him, and His purpose in loaning me out, to the best of my ability as His submissive slut.

I guess I kind of think of it like …a job.

That’s unsexy sounding…but it is a job, isn’t it? He asks me to perform a service, and I provide that service. My “payment” is my Master’s pleasure in having me complete the task well.

Heh. Job well done, as it were.

And hell, it’s exciting as hell to be a sex object. To be objectified, and used. To be fucked and to suck another, to be a good little cock whore? It’s all wicked. And exciting. And a turn-on. He is there, Master, watching all. A voyeuristic pleasure for Him, and the pleasure of His control of the dynamics that are unfolding.

But I don’t think about it all the time. Don’t think about it in any way shape or form the way I do about Master. I hope I did good. It was a wild experience. I know it could (and likely will) occur again some day, but I don’t focus on that. Maybe because I was objectified. I was blindfolded, and focused on the actions of service. There is no “connection” between the Guest Dom and I other than the fact that I was there to be used.

Am I weird for not thinking about it a lot? I haven’t fretted about it, haven’t lusted for it, haven’t not wanted it again. It just is something that happened. *shrugs* I’m very blaise about the memories of it. Like I say…it was a fantasy to live out, but it doesn’t change, diminish, or increase my affections for my Master.

Then again, perhaps I’m just wired verrrry differently.

I know there are some of you who say ‘I could never do that, be whored out for another”…and if that works for you, that’s fine. This is a judgement free zone here in nilla land…it is a kink of mine to be treated like a sex toy…and Master brought that to fruition for me…and for His pleasure too.

The only repercussion from that event was *my* worry that Master would feel upset about another using me after He thought about it. I guess that He wouldn’t want me, or would have bad, jealous feelings about it. That was my fret, and as it turned out, a pointless one. He got what He wanted from the event, and is willing to make it happen again.

It is, so it’s said, what it is.

I’m here to serve. And, apparently, to suck cock.

And let’s not forget about that mystery pussy…but then, that’s a tale for another day.


Admit it….

admit it- ZNN makes you feel alive! A slut resurgence.

This is the text I found waiting for me when I finally made it upstairs to bed on Thursday night. I’ve regaled you with many tales of ZNN~ His required day of abstinence for me, the day where there is Zero touching, Nothing, Nada. There is no whisper of fingers on flesh, except at His discretion.

And on ZNN day, when the “whisper of fingers on flesh” happens…its only purpose is to fan the flames of lust, and discomfort and sometimes, disgruntlement from His now hornier-than-ever slut.

Of late, He’s enjoyed playing the game of Hours. The game starts at 11:00 a.m. and continues hourly throughout the day, where a corresponding amount of some type of touching (though usually clit flicking) happens for the matching count. Ergo, at 11 there are 11 clit flicks.

And I’ll admit that I was less than enthused. I was, after all, denied an orgasm on Wednesday night. Why? Because. Because He’s in charge. Because He knows that nothing catches my attention, and refocuses me more than Him issuing orders, denying orgasms, and torturing me on ZNN. And while we didn’t have that Fight that I wrote about a few days ago, there was a feeling of being adrift that I complained about.

Yeah. I gotta watch my mouth around Him. Because He sure knows how to screw me down so I don’t feel like I’m freefalling. And I do feel alive.

Alive, and extremely horny, thank you Master. (yes, that was said with a pout) It is Thursday night. And every so often, He will deny me an orgasm on Friday night as well as ZNN day. That would be 3 days without orgasms, but with sensual turning on. Sensual, sexual torture.

“Yes, Master, I admit that there is truth there. But it’s not ZNN…or only ZNN…it’s You, Master, who rekindles that spark.”

He’s not the kind of Master, of Dom, who enjoys begging. So begging or whining for an Orgasm just won’t work. Likely, it will only annoy Him and make Him say no because I pestered Him. It’s funny, isn’t it? The Doms I write about and several that I know all seem to like begging. But not Master.  He likes to MAKE me whimper. And moan. And yelp.

But thats for when we are together, not apart. Apart, well, it’s just different. He still holds all the cards, but he plays them differently. And the biggest card in His deck is the giving or taking of orgasms.

I wanted to cheat. Wednesday night I was so horny. So very disgruntled that I was denied. So needy. But …I went to bed. Was sent to bed. Ordered to “go to bed, nilla.”

“Master,” I said, shocked. “That…that sounded like …an order.”

There was a moment of silence, and then “Well, perhaps it sounded like an order because it was an order.”

oh. heh. duh.

And despite the “horny” rolling through my nether regions like thunder on the horizon, I fell fast and deeply asleep.  He knows what I need, even when I sometimes don’t seem to.


It’s Friday night, and He has moved on to bigger, better mind fucks. But when He growls “what do  you want, nilla”…I am quick to answer, “an Orgasm, Master!”

“Okay,” He agrees. “You can have one, free-form O.” Then He pauses.

“Except, you must wear the big anal plug.”

“And,” I swear I can hear Him saying “hmmm” although He didn’t. “And clamps on the nipples. And…”

“Geeze Master!” I interject, kind of yelping a bit.

“Shut up, nilla.” (makes me giggle)

“…and clothes pins on the kitties!”

“Oh MASTERRrrrrrrrr.”

“Shut up nilla.”

“And nilla?”

“Yes Master?”  My voice is soft and “in that headspace” once more.

“If you decide to use the vibe? It must be on high.”

At this I really do whimper. When I use the vibe, it’s always on low, working to medium. If I go up to “high”…it’s for a few seconds, for impact. Not for the whole fucking time I’m using it, pun intended.

“Masterrrrr…” I whimper.

He laughs. One short little smug laugh. He knows He’s got me right where He wants me….right between a rock and hard place.

Heading to bed now. I have a lot of prep to do. You know, for a “free-form orgasm”. (she snorts)

free form my ass.

heh. Sometimes I crack myself up. 🙂

Happy Saturday, and hey….. if you’re in the path of Sandy…do be safe. And I’ll promise to do the same.

Texts of a Sexual Nature

The true beginning to our play date started on Friday. I texted Him, in some frustration, that my family would (hopefully, dear goddess they’re taking for-fucking-ever) be leaving around noon. There was much preparation, much foot-dragging slowness. They did a few errands while I loaded the car. At long last we waved farewell, and I went back inside and stood for a moment, listening to the silence.

It was beautiful.

Don’t get me wrong…I love my family. But they are noisy, and I needed the reprieve. I had my own goals to accomplish while they were gone.  I began working on a few things, when I remembered that I hadn’t checked to see if Master had responded. I grabbed my phone, depressed the button…and there it was.

Within the hour that your family leaves, put your clamps on your nipples for 11 minutes.

That was it. Implied at the end was “and go along with your day” don’t you think? I wasn’t allowed an orgasm, there was no Friday Night Fuck date to look forward to. This was a claim of ownership. My family was gone and I could be His for the weekend…and boy didn’t those clamps remind me? Affixing those clamps to my tender flesh, I felt His hand on me. As I moved around my house in a half-daze, I kept smiling as the clamps bit into my nipples. Each movement brought the sway of the chain against my belly, and an answering tug on my tits.

And an answering flood between my thighs.

He not only reminded me, quite skillfully and simply of who and what I am, but He also cranked the old sex dial up.

We texted a bit throughout the afternoon, but not much, as we were both fairly busy.  I went to work and did my thing, and stopped at the store to find something for dinner. Taking care of the mundane things that needed my attention, I got ready to eat, and my phone buzzed.

At 8:00 p.m. clothespins on your nipples for 11 minutes.

Yes. Definitely His. Definitely owned. Definitely turned on.


sex dump

another view of submission…not my usual sweetness and sunshine…i’m feeling a bit dark and moody. Man, do I need to be fucked and beaten! ~n~

He held her down by her neck, face canted roughly to the side where she had fallen.

He wanted to fuck. She heard his zipper come down, the sibilant hiss the only warning that he was ready to use her holes.

She’d been cooking dinner. She’d looked up at him, exasperated, when he’d come in, saying he was hungry.

“I’m making your dinner now. You’re early you know.”

That was as far as she’d gotten before he’d pulled her up by her throat, slammed her against the counter, and slapped her face. It wasn’t a violent blow, but a quick, sharp reminder of her place. She slid down his body to her knees, landing between his spread thighs, between his dirty work boots. Freshly shelled peas had flown all over the kitchen floor. She felt the pop as she knelt on one.

His hunger lay in another direction.

His jeans smelled of man-piss and dirt. He ground his denim-covered groin against her face. The fabric was old and worn, but still rough enough to scratch her nose. The back of her head banged against the lower cabinet door as he pressed against her. Whimpering, she grabbed around his calves and fought for breath.

Fingers coiled in her tresses, pulling her along with sharp tugs, across the floor on her knees. The kitchen linoleum yielded to the hall rug, and still he tugged her. Up the stairs on her knees, trying to keep pace with him and keep  hair in her scalp, she cried, yelping a bit if he moved faster than she. The pain in her head was enormous.

He’d thrown her on the bed, peeling her yoga pants down her legs, and opening her access just enough to press his thick dick into the cleft of her ass.

For a moment she thought he’d use her asshole, lubeless, and she cringed in the expectation of more pain. Instead, he pressed lower, against her pussylips, which opened easily for him. With a hard shove, he was in her,  fucking her wildly. He slapped her ass, her back, her legs as he plunged into her, rough and deep. She felt every inch of him filling her, heard the smack of his balls against her pussy.

She was wet. The trickle of her response had started in the kitchen, as He’d reminded her wordlessly of her purpose to Him.

His sex dump.

“Fuuuuuccccckkkkk,” he growled, and pressed hard into her, his fingers grabbing at her hips and pulling her down as he shoved deep, rolling his hips to wedge his thickness far into her hot, tight tunnel.

She didn’t feel the gouts of hot semen surging into her, but the reflexive grasping of his fingers timed the spurts.  He pulled out, wiping his cock on her ass, the back of her thigh.

“Feed me,” he said, as sated, he turned and thumped downstairs.

Seconds later, she heard the tv click on.

It’s ZNN, Baby!

This is a post about not having a post.

I have a long list of reasons. No, actually, it’s not all that long. Just many time-consuming home renovations. Wife left with kids for camping with friends, and I get a wee bit of alone time. Eldest son is still here, or else I’d be having some super quality time with Master…but that’s not possible.

In between these two most major jobs here, I’ve taken time to write.  I’ve started a very long tentacle story, up to about 2500 words. I ‘m going to do something a bit different with that, and rather than chapter-izing it, I’m going to work on it until it is complete, and then publish it.  Yay nilla!

I’ve been working on chapters to Signed as well as The Mechanic…but nothing finished on either. So now you’re just stuck with real life nilla.

And gods I am so horny. So verrah, verrah horny. No touching.

Zero. Nada. Nyet.


Just writing that makes me horny. Sometimes I don’t understand why that makes me so hot, denial, I mean.   Maybe coz it’s His denial?  Maybe for the same reasons that aisha wakes up all sweaty and uncomfortable in her wrist cuffs sometimes…it’s the fact that we’re making this choice to be obedient to the wishes of our Masters and Sirs and Ma’ams, I guess.

Why doesn’t doing this for my wife feel as fun?

Coz with Master? Eventually there will be a sexual release for me. Even the half O that He made me take Tuesday night…that built me up for a mega release. He let me take the half O first, before the regular O….and I got right to the fucking edge of the cliff with the ground beginning to crumble away under my toes before I pulled away.

And lay there gasping and crying and trembling.

There’s that mandatory 2-minute cool-down…so that my body doesn’t geyser right into the Orgasm…and then when I started again, I had to kind of work to get back into the groove of it.

When I came, it was hard and intense and I squirted like a New York Harbor fire boat.  🙂

I told Him that in my O report the next day, and He says, “That’s part of why I give you half-O’s, little girl. To make the build up to the release more intense.”

I guess that’s true even if the release is days away. Actually, I know that’s true.

Tomorrow I will have FNF with Master and be as loud as I wanna! Woot! No kids or wife to overhear…my eldest’s room is far away from mine, no way the sound can carry.

The Master-necessitated diet is working well. The hardest part? Getting all the food into me. I eat very little, for a fat girl. A piece of toast for breakfast. Lots of tea. Almost zero water. Suddenly I’m eating veggies, and fruit (in moderation) and protein…my body is like…whoa! YAY! And I’m able to concentrate, and work harder, longer without getting those slumps when I need to nap. Although…tomorrow it’s supposed to be in the 90’s and that makes me feel kinda blech. No central air up here in Mass…we so rarely need it.

You know, I’m boring myself here. Let’s leave this post where we’re at and talk about something…I dunno…sexy? This was a sex blog when I opened it a while ago. Suddenly it’s a cure for insomnia!!

Master and nilla are hoping to get together in two short weeks…oh, gods so hoping there’s not a tropical event or something of that ilk to keep us from being two wild and crazy people.  And yanno….?

I did this thing.

Yeah, a thing.

It’s okay. You can roll your eyes. It’s the stupidest. Sincerely.

I know I’m a masochist, but this goes so far beyond…well, I did buy Him that fucking wooden spoon two years ago…

When preparing the house for all this renov work, I found this tiny little Venetian blind twirly thing. You know what I mean, right? It’s a lexan rod with flat sides like a pencil? But flexible. This one is around 10 inches or so long, and I thought.



It’s a bit of a longing from before I knew I was a masochistic slut.When reading other people’s adventures was a mega-turn on for me. Some of you may remember Doubleknot? She was a great inspiration to me, and very kind to a questioning nobody who was completely clueless as to the complexities of being a D/s couple. About masochism. About being someone’s property.

She described a scene she and her Owner had in a hotel. At that time they were both married to others and were heading off to hotels (sound familiar?)…and one day He pulled out a lexan rod from the blinds, and waled on her tits with it. She had pics…and despite my newbie shock, a dash of horror, even…when I got up from my chair, my seat was wet.

I was so new then. 🙂

But that image has stayed with me…forever, I guess. It’s been years since she wrote of that. When I found that mini wand, I thought, why not? And I offered it to Master last Sunday at Starbucks. Well, the idea of it, since I managed to forget the fucking thing at home.

He shook His head at me. Clearly amazed at my stupidity. And dismissed the idea. He explained why the little cane wouldn’t work for Him.  Not enough swing to a little thing like that. The thing that made it sting was the ability of the rod to flex.  Oh, sure, He could hit me hard enough to make it hurt, but the longer the cane, the better the pain.

Later, much later, He thanked me. Just out of the blue. “Thank you, nilla,”

I, of course, had dismissed the cane from my thoughts by then.

I looked at Him, blank. His finger was tapping His lip (a dangerous sign!) and He points it at me, and nods as if to Himself.

“Thank you for reminding me.” He says.

I look at Him with a question on my face.

“I’ll need to go down cellar.” He says, His eyes looking far away, but missing none of my puzzled reactions.

He knows He has my avid attention now. He only goes down cellar to check his water pump. What the fuck?

“I have one of those canes down cellar with some old blinds we stored down there. I’ll make sure I go down this week and bring one up, and put it with my toybag.”

And then He smiles that smile at me.

The “you’re so fucked, nilla” smile.

My pussy throbs, my heart races, and I kinda smile back with a weak grin. This is definitely a “to be continued” story…