Her hands drew tight around the metal bar as she lifted to her toes. Biting back the cry of pain, she bit hard into the rubber ball lodged behind her teeth.

The faint cut of an instrument passing through air was all the warning she got before another blow landed close enough to where the first one did. There was no relief in that near-miss.

Pain exploded over the curve of her hip. Shoulders hunched, it looked like she was trying to cover her ears, to block out sound with her raised arms.  She panted through the raw hurt of it, short staccato explosions of breath through her nose. Tears fell unnoticed, sweat slid through her hair, plastering it to her scalp.

Another lash, harder than the others brought the first squeal. Her toes curled, her knuckles whitened as her body quaked with the fast hard pops. It was white-hot, it was molten.

She shivered as the sweat ran freely, twisted and turned to free herself. The bonds held true. She grunted, gurgled, drooled. He changed the rhythm of the blows now, slowing. Deep hard thuds against her thighs, ass, and back. Eyes closed, she absorbed them all.

Falling under the spell of the pain, the craving for it ignited the rocket that sent her spiraling away, out into the nether regions of her mind. She felt the connection between them-Him, the belt, and her- all joined in a unique meeting of mutual cravings. She let the stars take her sailing, feeling yet not caring, the sudden rush in the tempo of the pain-dance.

Breaking through the throbbing was the cool touch of His hand, soothing over her welted flesh, pulling her back to Him with just that simple stroke. Her burning flesh calmed under His hand, the heartbeat in her assaulted backside the twin to the rushing love she felt for this Man, who could hurt her so deliciously. That He understood her craving for His need to draw the hurt to the surface was nothing short of a miracle. Her fingers tightened and relaxed upon the bar He had tied her to.

The rustling from behind her assured. He was sorting through His Black Magic Bag.

The whistle through the air was her only warning as He struck her upper arm. Her hands drew tight around the metal bar as she lifted to her toes. Biting back the cry of pain, she bit hard into the rubber ball lodged behind her teeth.

Inside, she smiled.

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.


Face Time/ HNT

I was going to post this on Tuesday…because I had NO idea what was going to happen in UnderDom-land….but then…I had a dash of inspiration, despite my lack of awakeness- this change to Daylight Savings Time is kicking my ass, big time.  So, I have written stories, and yet…I still had this happy-bliss-Master & nilla post to share. I mean, why waste over a thousand words of writing, right? And it was a lovely visit with him…not a play visit, but just time to sit and be with him for an extended time.

Sooooo what to do?  I decided to make this ramble part of my HNT. I know, freaking brilliant, and me, so frigging sleep deprived!!)

I’m sharing a little nilla real life…coz I’m feeling all mellow and lovely and happy. 🙂

Master and I had over 2 hours to hang out tonight…no–wait…that happened on Sunday night— and it’s Thursday as you read this! (remember…nilla/sleep deprived!)

I’m all blissed-out, as us hippie-types say. He and I talked and talked and had tea and talked. He gave me a few parting bruises…but we both just enjoyed the hell out of our together time. It’s the longest stretch either of us has had together (outside of ONE playdate in February) since Christmas. I had time while my son was doing his thing, and Master had time…and it just flowed.

We’re still up in the air about this upcoming weekend. I have left it in his hands about whether we have a playdate or if we’re going to do something classy and cultural, like go to the museum.  I want both. I want to go to the museum with him…I love art, and love the idea of spending a day with him in vanilla circumstances.

Truth be told, there’s ALWAYS a dose of D/s whenever we’re together…I can’t ever recall a time when things were all vanilla –coz  He does or says something that makes me blink or sit up straight or …remember/realize/be brought back to the reality that I’m his submissive slut. It’s amazing coz He can do it with a look. It melts my heart and makes my pussy drool, and my heart race…and the feeling of security it engenders is…amazing.

On the other hand, time being fucked, and beaten, and tortured on my piggies (ewww…toothbrush between my toes is CRUEL and UNUSUAL punishment!!) is pretty important too…and that hasn’t happened in so long…and like SFP...I *realllly* need a spanking. Well, I’ve left it in His hands, and will just have to wait and see what He decides is best for us.


Tonight as we sat at the table, He says “Oh.”

That was it. Just “oh”, lips pursed, and giving me that Dom look.

Finally I ask.

“Oh? Oh what, Master?”

He reaches into His briefcase and takes out a small, neatly wrapped circle. It’s wrapped in a white napkin.

“In here,” he taps his finger on the package, “is a gourmet, freshly baked, chocolate chip cookie. It’s yours…if you’re willing to give up an O tonight for it.”

Now, nilla is “off” chocolate per His orders, so I understand this is a game and a challenge wrapped in one cookie. Yet I shake my head no.

“Master, last nights orgasm was so fantastic that I’m not willing to give up tonight’s O for a cookie.”

“Oh.” He says again.

“Oh. I forgot to mention.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a second wrapped cookie. Raising the stakes. Making saliva pool in my mouth. Making my pussy clench and throb.

“These,” He gestures to the two cookies, “are a sure bet. You choose them, you get them.”

He pauses, and his honey-gold eyes look into mine. I’m lost. I admit it. I’m sucked into His world of control and dominance like a leaf into a vacuum cleaner. I’m as into Him in this moment as I would be if I was standing on the Wall in black lace seduction outfit and red stiletto’s, as I am in pink sneakers and jeans here at the table in Starbucks. And then I KNOW what He’s going to say…that the Orgasm is NOT a guaranteed given.

These are the kind of things He does that keep me on my metaphoric toes, when He can’t thwap the shit out of me. He gets/holds/keeps my attention, my focus, my wits sharp. This is predicament bondage sans rope. Or perhaps more accurately, His words are the ropes that bind me, hold my attention, twist me up into knots, and make me crazy for Him.

Do I take a chance, spin the dice, play the odds and maybe get a fucking orgasm?(would you?) Saturday nights cum was more than a little delightful. It was intense in the best of ways. As I said to Him, I was very glad it was just ONE orgasm…a second one like that one might have killed me! Yes. It was *that* good. (and I have the stain on my sheets to prove it!)

Or do i take the sure thing? The two gourmet, soft, chocolate-chunk-laden cookies. Feel them melting in my mouth. Feel the chocolate as i bite into it. Feel the sugar rush, the taste of a banned food, allowed for this small window of time.

The orgasm the night before was sooooo good. But Tuesday, Like Day, is a guaranteed orgasm. And only 2 days away. (Two LONG BUSY BUSY BUSY days away)…

The cookies…chocolate…


I took the cookies.

For one of the rare times in my life, I took the sure bet. I had a better than 75% odds against getting the O since the Saturday one had been so immensely intense and good.

He laughed as I scooped up the cookies and stashed them in my purse.

“That’s okay, little girl,” He says in this voice that is brimming with amusement. “You have an entire week of half-o’s to have anyway, leading up to Sunday.”

And then He laughs, that Devils laugh that sends steaming shots of lust straight to my belly (and if you ever wondered why Michael’s laugh affects Shae so much? Now you know!) And I know I made the right choice. But I still moan about the fucking half O’s.

I ate the cookies on the way to pick up my son. They were *totally* worth the cost of an orgasm, btw. OMFG.


So… you guys.

You know who you are.

The ones who always say “MOAR”…when a story ends, or is slow to re-appear. Yeah. You. *laughs* Trust me, I LOVE when you are greedy for my stories. It makes me happy that you get something out of what I create. I love my stories, truly they are like my kids. So if you like them, too…? It makes my day.

But you are right. Sometimes there is more to tell. And you’ve encouraged me to write a book.

So I’m going to.


In my own way.

nilla-style, as it were. 🙂

I’m in the process of writing the backstory for Michael and Shae of UnderDom. I have created a new blog, a daughter blog to this one. So far, I have a few chapters up. I hope you give it a read and let me know what you think of it. I’ll keep working at the story until I think it’s all done. And you’ll have the full “novella”…for free.

Coz the idea of publishing terrifies me. Sorry, that’s just how I am. And I’m a huge fan of free porn, mostly coz I was never in a position until very recently to purchase any. My funds were all joint and I didn’t want my s/o to know what I was buying fer goshsakes. 🙂 That’s how this blog came into being in the first place. I guess it’s kind of like my “mission statement” … “Good Porn, Free” … so there you have it.

Oh, you will see the link in my sidebar.. “nilla novella’s”… I hope you like it! If not? C’est la vie, right?

Well you all, the time change from Standard Time to Daylight Savings Time is totally kicking my ass, so nilla is off to bed. Takes me a few days to get the hang of losing that hour. And it’s been a hella busy weekend. (Hopefully by the time you read this, I’ll be working my way towards adjusting…!)

Happy Half-nekkid Thursday, pervie readers!



 it takes a hit of pain,

(my drug of choice)

to make me cum

to remind me that I am a slut and

a craven woman who likes to be hurt,

the painslut

He knows me  to be…

So sometimes

~the bite of the pins is enough

      to bring me to sweet, blissful release.

Hasn’t He trained me well?



I should, right now, be attending to my obligation of writing back to everyone who has responded to a variety of prior posts.

But I’m not.

I’m sitting here on Monday morning, a bit dazed and frankly? Lost in euphoria.

That’s not a word I use a lot.

But it is exceedingly apt to describe exactly my headspace just now.


My body is buzzing and painful. It hurts to move arms, legs, even shifting in my chair. My ass hurts and my pussy throbs.

It’s a funny kind of throb.

An overused-oh-please-don’t-touch-me- throb.

And an aroused, oh-PLEASE-touch-me ache.

Yes, both, simultaneously.

He made me wait a long while for that first, oh-so needed orgasm, when that door closed behind us.


I told Him, in the parking lot.

“I’m…nervous, Master.”

“You? Nervous?”

I bit my lip, nodded, and whispered “yes.”

And I was.

It’s been months since major pain. It’d been nearly a week since an orgasm (I know, I see some of you rolling your eyes…’not even a full week, nilla and you’re already whining?’).

I wanted, needed and craved Him.

He didn’t disappoint.

He let me slide into the bathroom and prepare. But I’d left my makeup bag in my purse on the outside.

In the Danger Zone.

Where He was.

I tried to duck out and grab it.

He gave me the once over, and a long, low “n-iiii-ce” and I felt (i know, i know) “safe”. The wall featured a mirrored glass door for the closet, and I felt safe enough to put on my eyeliner there.

No glasses.

Peering at what I was doing.

Not realizing that He had snuck up on me with the fucking pink hairbrush.


Right there, out of the blue, nilla climbs the wall…

He timed it precisely. Timed it so that the eyeliner wasn’t at my eye, but just as I had pulled it away to see if I’d covered the area…

and again, another WHAP! Fast, terribly fast, and hard on the same spot. And then the other cheek. Whap, Whap…

Waves of pain.

Waves of ache.

Waves of it.

I couldn’t even yell. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t….just hung there on my tippytoes, mouth open, in a silent yelp…

and He laughed.

Just the opening salvo in a day of pain and joyful sex.

So much laughing.

So much joy.

Tears, a few, from the fucking silver cake thingy on my tits…and the fucking pink brush.

Bruises, already blooming even before it was time to go our separate ways.

And orgasms.

Many, many squirty, wet, soak-the-bed orgasms that leave one’s pussy throbbing.


In that please don’t…and …please PLEASE do…touch me again way.



Just another subspace Monday…. in Euphoria.




Ho Ho Ho! Random nilla-ness

I’ve been meaning to post this for more than a week…but things kept cropping up (get it, cropping? LOL I crack myself up sometimes!) and I never got around to it. And now here it is, Christmas Day for those of you who celebrate. I do, despite my pagan philosophy…I was raised in Christianity, and still find beauty in the old hymns, tho I may not agree with the content. 🙂 With kiddo’s in the house, it’s pretty hard to not go the traditional route…someday I’ll go back to a more earth-centered yule, but I am also very much enjoying the now.

Merry Christmas. Blessed holiday season. Joyous Noelle. Blessed Yule.  And good day to all the rest who celebrate nothing. Every day  is a celebration, even the hard ones. Someone at work the other day admonished a younger staff member to “not get old, it stinks” and I hollered out “Well, it SURE beats the alternative!” Which made everyone, even the speaker, say…oh. Right. So many of us have lost loved ones much to early, and really? It pisses me off when people say “oh, don’t get older” or “getting old sucks”. It sure isn’t easy, our bodies don’t always do what we think they should…coz in our heads? We’re still 20. But you will NEVER hear me say that getting older sucks…


….I’m just glad that you are here and reading my words, and the Mayan calendar wasn’t wrong, just misinterpreted. (or else by now we’ve all become protoplasm, and no one is reading. 🙂  <I know now that we’re still here…I just like the line about being protoplasm enough to keep it in my post-edit copy!!)

We’ve come into that darkest part of the year here in the northern hemisphere, where many of us rise and go to work in the dark, and come home the same way. When the tree’s are barren and bleak, the winds rustle up under pant legs and my skirt hem, and make us shiver and long for the heat of summer. All part of the wheel…but …it’s still kind of …well, I was going to say depressing, but that’s not the word…sere. Yes. Bland and boring. The colorful birds are rare, the air is quiet, the smell is of that dry and dusty scent that bespeaks “cold”.

Yet the “wheel” has turned, and even now we are slowly wending our way back towards the light. Back again, adding the (very, very, very) slight amounts of daylight to our days. We can’t see them, yet. The slivers are too thin. But by late January, the slivers will have added up, and if you look, you will notice that it isn’t *quite* as dark as you drive home at dusk.


I was thinking the other day about the Tsunami (Christmas, 2004)that happened…8 years ago in Thailand and other places…

I remember being in my car with my wife and family when I heard of the earthquake…the magnitude was immense and I remember saying “oh gods….there’ll be a tsnumi…why don’t they have tsnuami warnings up yet?” and an hour later hearing of the devastation.

Later, scientists said the earthquake was one of the strongest to rock earth, and had infact, tilted us on our axis, changing it. Just a wee bit.

But no one talks about that anymore. And suddenly our winters are milder (yes, I know, global warming and all is definitely a factor…but what if…?)….so what if? What if that little bit “off” has played a roll in our changing climate? Because it is decidedly true that the northeast has had several warm winters in a row, quite a phenomenon. Anyway, I just wonder.


Master has been a bit…wicked…for lack of a better word, for the last week or so. Sometimes He is quite lenient with me, so when He is in “Master-mode”…it always makes me take a mental step back. Kind of like when you turn wrong and your GPS lady says “recalculating”.

I was reading comments on aisha’s blog regarding her sanding experience which was wicked hot and funny too…and then several commentors said “don’t tell your Sir”, regarding the fact that she didn’t like something….

It’s a hard lesson to learn when you’re talking to your dominant isn’t it? I’ve *finally* almost broken myself away from just blurting out “Oh i *HATE* when blah-blah-blah”…because He will latch onto that like a hungry dog holds a bone!

Although, come to think of it, the other day when we were talking and He said something that I knew I would not like, I was just quiet…and He laughed and spoke of the fact that I was quieter than normal.

And I know he was jotting it down in his meantal “Dom” journal. Yes. That says mean-tal instead of mental. That was not an error. 🙂

More randomness…

……………am I the only one…

sky……………who sees a cloud cock?

I took this picture on the way to work a while ago (at a stoplight, just taking random sky pictures). When I got home later that night I looked at all my pics and saw the penis.

Then again..maybe it’s just me and my admittedly filthy mind..?!


On another random note, Master and nilla have a playdate scheduled (at last…!)!!!!! It’s been a long while since our last one, though not as long as for some of you, i know…and with a bit of luck, we’ll squeeze it in before the end of the year. I’m not saying exactly when, since the snow Goddess loves to fuck with me …and she’s not beyond sending a ginormous snowstorm on THE day…it’s has happened several times in the past.

The only bad part is that I have to work at my other job for part of the day…still, a short playdate is better than NO play date…that’s what I’m telling myself. I’ve actually  picked up a lot of extra hours for this job during the holidays…I’m working every day the four days before Christmas, including some time on Christmas eve day.  I’m glad of the work, to be sure. But it leaves nilla a tired girl. On the plus side? My wife has vacation that week, and it gives me a break from all the craziness that her being home engenders. Does that make me bad? Having my vanilla spouse at home for long periods of time is okay at first…but really? It gets to be really frustrating too.

It definitely curtails my time reading porn.

It definitely curtails my time writing porn.

So…yeah. Frustrating. I might as well be at work, rather than home getting pent up. And there is that Master visit to look forward to. 🙂


I’ve had a few good doses of Master time…some few stolen moments, and this past Saturday, over an hour together. And yes… we were naughty in Starbucks again. 🙂

Outside, He pinched me good. Gosh, I forgot how much pain He gives me, and so fucking easily. He just reaches out and *wham*! I’m “ouch”-ing, and moaning, and wrigging away. He pins me to the car with his body, then slides his fingers up and tickles me at the most unexpected moments, and makes me laugh like a lunatic.

I love that Man.

Earlier in the week, feeling out of sorts with the world,  I had texted Him that I needed medication.

And then quickly followed that up with a text reminding Him that He supplies the drug I need. (and He did deliver me a lovely little dose of it Saturday night)

For me…it’s true, and for you other subs out there, isn’t it?

Aren’t we  addicts, of a sort? We need our pain fix, Dammit! We need to be used, ravaged, fucked, bitten, slapped, caned, hairbrushed, ass-fucked, or what-the-fuck-ever our personal kink is. We NEED it. We CRAVE it. We really must have it to be whole, functioning people.

Having had a taste of it, there is no going back, at least for me. I cannot imagine how difficult it would be to totally snuff “nilla” and become…regular.

Boring? To be sure, oh yes.

Empty? Yes. Double yes, even.

Maybe saying that, “snuffing nilla” was a deliberate word choice by my quiet mind. Reminding me that I wasn’t fully alive back when all was just vanilla, when I was a good girl, who did all the things she had to, and never acted on any of those wildly inappropriate fantasies.

I’ve changed a lot in the past three and a half, four years. The reading, the eye-opening awareness of kaya’s blog…the fact that after I read about a particularly brutal beating and fucking that there was an actual puddle in the seat I’d been sitting on…shocked me.

Shocked me into an awareness that …in some way…I was like her.  That the idea of being beaten, and used for a fuckhole? Did something warm and wet and wonderful to me. So no, there is no turning my back on who I really am. I’m a slut. I like sex. I like being hit. I like taking pain, and I get off on it.

Until we’re together, behind closed doors again, He’ll feed me warm tidbits of what I need, a clamp here, a clothespin on my belly there.  Just a wee dose of what I need. But it will hold me…until He holds me, and gives me the full infusion of what I need most….Him, and the art of His pain.

The Chicklet Outfit

That’s what Master calls the set-up He concocted to make my nipples all sore. Or, maybe from His perspective, to show me who is da Boss. 🙂

And I’d mentioned that I’d shown you all a pic of a “chicklet nipple” the other day… here.

We were talking, as we are wont to do, on His late drive home from work. It’s a lovely time for us to connect, and for Him to tease me, and for me to giggle, and to beg for an O.

But tonight He jumped over any attempts at conversation, and went into Master-mode from the get go (as opposed to any hint of vanilla conversation).

He thinks tonight (Monday night) would be an excellent time for me to get all juicy and ramped up for tomorrow’s orgasm. It’s Tuesday, which means a “free” o for me…but He wanted me to really, really want/need/crave it.

“Chicklet outfit” He orders. “And I think this is bloggable, nilla.”

“I already did, Master. Showed them the pic of my poor, dented nipple.”

“Your what?”

“My chicklet, Master. (sigh)”

He laughs. He is very much enjoying this “tenderizing” of my nipples, and I can only…actually…I can’t  imagine how sensitive they will be by the end of the month when we meet. That’s more than a week a way people! And some of you have said, wow, nilla, amazing that you can write and be creative, and I have to admit that the pain really makes the creative sparks fly…but don’t tell HIM that, okay?! And I type REALLY fast as I work my way through a story or a blogpost like now.

Yes, now.

I’m wearing the damn outfit. And He thinks you should see it. The “ingredients” to His painful chicklet recipe, as it were.

Really? That’s something bloggable?


This is not an art shot. This is not careful lighting and pretty backgrounds and “learning the angles”. This is not next top model. It’s slightly muffin-topped nilla, and her abused (I just typo’d that as “abusted” LOL) nipples. Who knows …maybe they’ll be “abusted” by the time we meet!

Okay, okay. Here it is….the “Chicklet Outfit”:

Snapshot_20121217How much do those 6 weights on the bottom of the clamps weigh? I have no idea. I don’t *want* to know, either. So I’ll just say “enough” or “plenty” or “a ton”…and of course, it depends on when you ask me.

At the start? The first shock of the drag is like being slapped. It’s abrupt, and painful. Then the shock ebbs and you kind of adjust to it. And my mind goes into this other mode, and I’m not fully feeling it.

And then the flames begin to lick around my nipple. I become aware of my breathing becoming deeper, my arousal increasing, usually my clit starts to throb softly. My nipples and clit are quite sympatico.  And the very moment I begin to notice the lick of fire around my tit, the pain doubles. The fire surges, the nipples begin to moan, and any breath is like taking a drag from a cigarette burnt too close to the filter. It’s raw and smokey and visceral, with a sharp hard bite that makes the eyes sting and water.

And my pussy begins to swell, and become wetter.

It’s the strangest thing, really.

So I’m ready for this. Ready for the set up. Ready to take the pain.

But …

He isn’t done yet.

“And you know what’s missing nilla?”

I’m gonna say this, and really you won’t believe me but whatever (waves hand in air at you)….

We have this connection. It goes beyond love and into something…else. I’m not going to go all pagan or otherworldly on you, but…

I knew.

We’ve not had a half-o torture, a stand-alone one, in a long, long while. It’s like He’s put it up on the shelf and it got pushed to the back by other things and got all dust-covered.

But somehow, I knew *instantly* that He was going to do it. I wanted to deny that I knew…but the moment I said “what’s missing, Master?” I already knew the answer.

And He knew that I knew.

And it was funny in a twisted and perverse way (and isn’t that what we do best? ohhhh yeah…). But He kept needling me with it. Setting my mind rolling and making my body respond. His voice does lovely things to my pussy, making me all wet, every time we talk. But the content sent it to a whole new level.


By the time we get to my Tuesday Orgasm?

He’s right.

I’ll be more’n ready.

He added one more twist to the “take-it-to-the-edge-but-don’t-you-fucking-dare-go-over-it” scenario of the dreaded “half-o”….

He’s BEEN torturing my clit as well, having me put my vibe on HIGH for the last week.

This does two things.

It torments my clit something fierce.

And it makes the orgasm fast, rocket fast. No squirty O’s with this sort of cumming…just ramp up fastfastfast and BOOM you’re done fucker.

I hate that!

I want my lovely orgasms to kinda roll on out there. But it’s a very subtle and perfect kind of torture for a slut, isn’t it? Sure, give the cunt an orgasm…but it will be so quick…you’ll hardly know you had one.


So tonight, He paused in His thoughts.

“Now, you know nilla, we don’t want an “oops” tonight.”

“Of course not Master. No “oops”.” I agree. Falling over the edge and into a full-on orgasm is NOT the point of a half-orgasm.

“And with that vibe on high, well, you’ll go up and over so fast.”

This confirms what I said before about the fast, turbo fast, orgasms that He has been giving me the last few weeks. Double Bastard! Sneaky. So fucking sneaky. I didn’t figure it out right away, that it was a fucking double torture. Torture the clit AND just a hint of a hit of release. No wonder I’ve been waking up soaked.

“So tonight, nilla, on your way to the half-o place? Half-power on the vibe.”

“But Master…it takes so long to climb the mountain that way…” It was a half-hearted semi-protest…

He laughs, that rich, wonderful laugh of His.  His tone is mock-rueful, but I sensed how pleased he was with Himself, beneath the faux-“oh, I’m so sorry” tone as He replied….

“I know, nilla. I know.”




Sex and the Embrace of Pain

There’s been a discussion over at aisha’s blog regarding whether we (we being those on the “/s”  side of the slash 🙂 )  feel we “get enough” …enough sex, enough Dominance…or whether we are satisfied. As I recall, I answered then that really, I have a good balance of what I want, what I need, what He needs. I have a limited capacity for D/s in my life, being as I’m a slut on the side, which has to often take 2nd place to being a wife and mommy.

I loved reading about that. Aisha has a way of breaking down a topic  that explores it candidly, with a lightness of touch that I envy. She guides me to think, explore, and examine my role as a submissive.

The funny thing is, despite saying I’m content with how D/s plays out in my life, I always feel like an insatiable bitch. One of the things I’ve noted is that I may not feel “as sexual” if there’s been a few days without orgasms…but that Master stirs the pot, adds a bit of this, a dash of that…and it seems to ramp up the sex need for me, despite the lack of saity. It’s rare for me to feel “nothing” sexually, though you know it’s happened from time to time. Of course, if He’s upset with me, that is a true lust killer…but that so rarely happens.

Last week I had occasion to have two orgasms back to back (rare)…and the first one came so quickly…and the second one too, I remember laying there saying “what? REALLY?”….was my body so in need of release that it just blew up like that? Apparently!

Some of what Master feeds me is pain. I’m a masochist, remember, and pain makes me so fucking slutty…

And we’ve had these conversations before about toe-stubbing and whether that can make us horny…it has, several times for me, actually.

The other night at work, a door shut on me, the pull lever slamming into the back of my shoulder so hard I saw stars. It hit me *exactly* where Master had popped me 6 weeks ago…and along with the rush of pain was a rush of turn on. It was true, when I got home from work, that there was a sticky puddle in my panties.  The orgasm I got to have that night was fierce…He fed me TONS of pain…pleasure-pain from the vibe being on High…and pain from the nipple clamps with weights…and pain from many clothespins on my belly.

I craved the pain, needing some sort of focus to work through my emotional mire. Prior to talking to him, I CRAVED something. I didn’t let myself eat, and I don’t have alcohol in the house…though I briefly considered going to get some wine, I opted not to since I had to work a LONG shift on Saturday. Not a good day to have a hangover…and drinking was hiding from the emotions we’ve all been reeling from.

He focused me.

He fed me pain.  LOTS of pain, He emphasized to me. He knew what, exactly, to do to me to push me through the emotional mire I was stuck in. The orgasm itself is barely remembered. It was fast and hard…and it gave me the release I needed.

I fell fast asleep after my toys were away, and slept through the night. Remember I said earlier that He did little things to keep me focused, to keep me on edge when I’m in orgasm lock-down?

Tonight He was kind enough to give me another Orgasm…with lots of pain like last night. But He slipped me a small gift as we parted ways in front of our Starbucks. I recognized the little portable data device…I’d just bought one myself the other day for photo storage.

I knew what was on it.

My video’s.

The ones He took when Sir P and I were fucking. When I was sucking that too-big dick of his. When I was serving Master by servicing another Dom. *blushes*

I called Him later Saturday night, and He put some parameters around my watching these videos…no more than three a night, He said, or else I’d become *too* horny, and He didn’t think that was safe for the world.

You know, like Noah’s ark, ‘cept with pussy honey.


Where am I going with this? Who knows…I’m intrigued, I guess. That pain, something I used to fear, can apparently be transmuted into a source of pleasure. It hurts, don’t get me wrong. There’s a big-assed lump on my shoulder, and tonight I walked backwards into a door banging the other shoulder. I know, it takes talent to do these sorts of things. Trust me, I’m overloaded in the klutz talent department. But once more, my pussy is throbbing softly and ready for some action. Which reminds me, I need to go grab my clamps, my weights, and get some torture started here! It’s expected, it’s what my body is craving.

And of course, it’s been “special ordered” by the Man….no UPS driver  required. Batteries, however, are included.



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…  🙂

And Then There’s the One With the Lady in the Parking Lot

I got so busy writing stories this past week that I forgot to tell you all this story from last weekend with Master…my bad! I’m trying to write as much as possible and set to auto-post since no one is certain whether or not we’ll lose power here in New England or not. (It seems likely, as I edit this Sunday night, that we will be powerless by Monday evening…then again I’m all about being powerless, right?! :))

This will be the week leading up to Master and I having a playtime meeting, and there are many, many, many tales to tell of that…(as well as much anticipation and nerves!)…and what is a Master-nilla meet without some kind of natural disaster sticking its fingers into the mix. That’s happened more times than I care to remember, actually! So, without further ado, this is the tale from our time together, a week ago!

Master and I had a brief bit of face time last Saturday after I got out of work. I bring Him a treat, and He pokes, and pinches and generally tortures me.

We meet in a parking lot in a public place. It gets a fair amount of traffic, but it’s not like a grocery story or a mall. On a dead-end street, the only traffic going there is meant to be going to the gym. We’ve been meeting there for weeks, and park at the farthest spot away from the building, in the back corner. Some days I go sit in His vehicle, if the weather is inclement. Most days we stand outside and play. He tickles me ferociously, and I laugh hysterically. I have a loud laugh (ask aisha)…and He reaalllly is wicked to me. Tickling is torture, guys. Seriously.

But last Saturday, He wouldn’t let me out of my car. He reaches in and pinches my belly, my tits…and then He tickles me. I’m gasping and laughing and yelping…and then He grabs my ponytail (despite the haircut He still has a long handle to grab) and thrusts my head down beside my door, so I’m bent in half, my head almost on my knees.

And He pinches me so fucking hard I’m crying and gasping, only to be laughing hysterically moments later as He reaches up and attacks my armpit.

Finally He lets me up, and I slap at Him, and He pokes me, stepping back as I reach out to pinch at Him.

And a young woman in a car we didn’t notice pulls up behind us (but not too close) and yells..”OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?”

And I’m laughing hysterically and jump out of the car and tell her I am *fine*, that we were playing, and He was tickling me, the Brute. And then I go to Him and hug Him and kiss Him soundly.

“Oh god! I was soooo scared. I almost called the police. I…I’m shaking,” she admitted, still kind of nervous. Master handles things with aplomb, and soon she is on her way again, relieved that these two old farts were actually not involved in a domestic event.

And yanno? It was funny…and also a warning. Be careful what is happening around you. She could have decided to not ask. If I hadn’t looked up just then, pretending to swipe at Him, if she hadn’t seen my face, laughing, she might just have called the cops on us.

That would have been sticky, eh?

We met again this past Sunday evening, both of our schedules clearing to allow us a small window of time to be with one another, having tea and sharing some cheesecake. I’ve been ordered to write a blogpost about my “despicable behavior while out in public with Master” (this is tongue in cheek!) so I won’t go into much detail. But I will say that we were a bit more circumspect while in the funky little coffee spot we’re meeting at now.

Or at least…I tried.

More on that part of the tale, later!


“Oops” is not in His vocabulary…


I had an “oops”…first time, ever.

Now, in my defense…it had been a verrrah long time between O’s. Eight days.

Yeah, I know for some of you that is nothing. Some of you go months….but not nilla.

Mind you, i am not judging you, really, but I totally don’t understand it, either…

I LOVE my orgasms, and the thought of living without them for extended periods makes me feel…sub-human. Not as in submissive, but as in less-than… and perhaps it is because of all the years leading up to my sudden acknowledgment that I *could* have an orgasm. I’d only had one or two in my life up until I was 49.  Learning how to touch myself, to fuck myself to a height of pleasure? That was an epiphany for me.

Then, as a collared submissive, understanding that my orgasms come at His whim…added heat to the experience. And He is admittedly generous with me.

But when He says “you may have 1.5 O’s, slut, and because I am in a generous mood, you may take the half at the front end”…it is not up for debate. It is not up to me to decide to change it around.

It is not up to me to have the full orgasm, first.

The idea is to remember that there must be obedience, first. He followed the first text with another that added a “generous dose of pain”…oh.. yummmy…

And as i affixed clamps to my nipples, and shivered as the heavy chain hit my belly with an ice-cold slap, i felt His hand there. I’ve not worn the clamps in a while..and my nipples protested.


And then to add more pain, i added clothes pins to my belly, around the muffin top. It’s harder to do that these days, and the pinch is worse now that my belly is tighter. (Talk about inspiration to NOT lose weight!! LOL!) (Don’t worry…I’m NOT a skinny minny, and never shall be..I’m just less jiggly these days 🙂 )

And with my favorite vibe, and trusted dildo, I set to work. OH, it felt so good to feel pleasure. The pain in my mouth slowly faded away as the pleasure of the pain and throb in my sex sent me spiralling into a place of intense sex-need.

I was wet.

I was turned on.

I was spinning a nasty little tale in my head, playing it out on my body. Tugging the chain and pulling my nipples, making pain the focus of my attention, even as my clit answered the pulsing beat.

I felt the wetness slipping from me, as I slid the dildo home, as I fucked hard, then slow, feeding slivers of pain through the pulses of pleasure.

It was erotic, it was hawt, it was wholly consuming. My entire body was caught up in the fantasy, caught up in the simmering sensations coursing through me. In the back of my head was that order from Master as I felt the groundswell of orgasm.

But hell, I’ve done it dozens of times now.

Stopped, right there at the almost-edge of cumming.

Stopped, right before falling over the edge.


I guess I was smug about it.

Ha ha ha.

I can do that, la la la la la.



Except this time I’d not cum in eight days.

Except this time, I’d been having vicodin dreams for a week, and a steady supply of pain, which while not erotic, must’ve keep my masochistic needs on “simmer” rather than “off”.

As that precipice edged closer, closer, I almost laughed. O, I felt so good, sogood. I was flying…high on the endorphin mix fed to my cunt, my nipples, my body.

I stopped fucking in the nick of time, laying the vibe at the top of my pussy, not on my clit, but at the very top of my slit.

It wasn’t far enough away.

The vibrations trickled through my flesh, tickling and setting off the fuse on the time-bomb in my cunt.

I lay there, gasping and craving the fulfillment…when it hit like a tidal wave. Engulfing my body, my legs curled up, my back bowed, and everything clenched, tight, tight, tight…and i exploded.

Something had gone horribly right...wrong.

This was an Oops of epic proportions.

He had directed the HALF-O…that fucking to almost-completion, and the throbbing after-effects of loss and incredible need…He had directed that to happen first.


My bad?

It didn’t, there in the pulsing after-wards…seem to be all that critical. Yeah. I know.

It was.

To compensate, as soon as i could breathe? I fucked right to that edge again, and stopped.

Half-orgasm, check.

Throbbing need, unfulfilled desire?


The text went out to Him, explaining that there had been an “oops”…and despite the 400 miles between us right then? I got an immediate “WTF? You’re in big trouble, slut”

So. Yeah.

No Orgasms for nilla for a while.

Okay, His exact words were “Your nurse will be giving you your next orgasm, slut. Providing, of course, that she can find your dried up, wrinkled pussy.”