Pondering…HNT with lots of words!

Back in the early days of M and nilla, we met almost every month for the first year. It was a time of hot needs, of getting to know one another, of rushed visits between needing to be other places, of kneeling in restaurants and not caring, of the joy of wearing his collar, and the excitement of picking out outfits…

It was all so new for me. Being a submissive…discovering the words for the feelings and erotic fantasies I’d been having for so much of my life. It was as much about discovering who I was, as it was about discovering how to please Him.

Of course, eventually the new wore off, as it does.  We started to  have playtime less frequently… every other month, every 9 or 10 weeks…and now, two old farts that we are, we’re lucky to meet up 3 times a year. This fall will mark our ten years together. Almost a decade, FFS!!

And it sucks that we don’t have the same “gotta get together” vibe that we once did.  I’m pretty sure my need for him has not burned lower than it was at the start. Would  I still meet him monthly if the opportunity arose?


Real life, however, has other plans. Back then my kids were tiny toddlers. Now they’re well on their way to  young adulthood, and their needs have grown as well. Not the constant care of them, not like before, but in the needing to be places and often in divergent area’s…which means less free time for all of us. Free time is a bygone entity, at least for now. Added to that, that I now run my own little business, AND still work for someone else (which means I’m pretty much working somewhere every day of the week)…it definitely shorts the available time *I* have. (And of course, it’s all about me, right? LOL!)

Add to the mix that Himself is pretty busy as well.

And fuck, we’re old  not younglings ourselves. That heated fire will still consume us whenever we meet, then leaves us laying in a contented smoldering glow. We cuddle. We laugh. We touch one another. It’s sometimes nice to just be. Together.

And there’s another factor as well.

You’ve perhaps heard the adage “If you want to keep moving, keep moving” ? I think it’s the same for my libido. Sure I masturbate quite a bit. But…these days it’s almost more about helping me sleep than it is about actually getting off. Okay not all the time, but many times.

So I fall into these…phases, I guess, where I have random and fleeting thoughts of D/s, of being beaten and used, but it’s up there in the same realm as my other fantasies. If it’s not really happening, my body tends to stuff it into a sleep sack and slot it away someplace.

I stop feeling the need.

And I wonder, is it a thing of growing older? is it a thing of being so busy that I crowd it out by necessity? is it a thing that because I can’t do it as often as I want, I *make* myself too busy to miss it?

Maybe…all of the above?

All I know for sure is that I am not getting “it” as much as I’d like to. And I think I don’t need “It” after I’ve gone time with out it. I convince myself that IT doesn’t really matter at all anymore.

Until I’m scrolling through my own photos and see the things he’s done to me over the years. Until I see the bruises, remember how they got there, and realize how damp my panties are. When I see this


taken a mere hour after I got home, and can still almost feel the insistent tap-tap-tapping of the wooden spoon on my tits, remember his fingers in my cunt, how he fingered me to several explosive orgasms as he sucked my nipples purple with bruises; oh yes, I remember.

Oh, those craven feelings, the want and the need and the oooohs and the Owwwwws and the flying and the bliss and the joy…that’s when I remember…


I still need IT.


We Have a Plan!

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



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

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

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

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

okay you don’t like me anymore okayfine

sure sure don’t reply, i don’t matter

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

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

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

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

‘nilla, nothing has changed…’

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

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

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

And he replied right away to that.

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

and I had to add my two cents

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

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

Keep that thought when I’m beating you.

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


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

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

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


Waves of Submission

During play time, things come in waves…times of interaction, greeting, choosing outfits, laying out our stuff. Times of touching and hurting and coming. Times of talking. Times of silence. Times of soft, quiet torture, followed by soothing strokes.

So too does my memory come back to me in waves. During our together time, I’m always in the moment with Him. Always aware, thinking I’ll remember EVERYTHING that happened. And then the day progresses, and pain layers upon pain, and lust upon lust. I am both filled, and drained…and can’t think a cogent thought. It takes time for things to trickle down to my conscious memory.  Now, days later,  things come to mind in quick flashes, images of things I saw, impressions of things I felt, hot flashes of hurt, hotter flashes of sex and pain rolled tightly together. I remember toys, and the brush of his beard against my throat. I recall the weight of his body pinning mine, his hands diving under my shirt to attack my tits. His fingers wrapped in my hair as I suck his cock, or pulling me backwards on the bed to be right where he wants me. The sound of his hand hitting my rump, the sharp and staccato beat of it, followed by the searing heat on my skin. So many images, sometimes moving in a flash as I do some mundane task. I pause and see the movie unfolding.

Near the end of our playtime, the heat and the pain and lust all roll together until I’m begging him to hurt me harder, make me cum harder, make me weep with the pain and joy of it. He laughs with a soft, triumphant sound into my ear. “yes, yes, beg me for it. you want the pain. you want it.” His fingers ram into my cunt, jabbing and thrusting and twisting until I feel like he’s going to pull me inside out. I whine “It hurts, Master, hurts so much…” and his voice hums into my ear, “I know, I know it hurts, doesn’t it? That’s when it’s the best, little girl…”

And i explode.

I cum so hard it hurts, his hand leaving my cunt, only to start slapping my clit and pussy so hard the bed is shaking.

He laughs when my next orgasm squirts from me. This is a huge turn on, just writing this, remembering this. But I’m not writing about orgasms tonight, no matter how good they are, how wet and lovely they are.

No, I’m thinking of that first wave of togetherness. When we’re …reacquainting ourselves with one another. When  all is fresh and new, when I’m just getting into the headspace, when I’m letting regular life go and submersing myself into submissive nilla place…that’s a crystal clear memory. My hair is just right, my lipstick bright. My things are laid out, and I’m ready for fun. I forget how much fun hurts at this time. I just remember the floaty part, not the journey there.

I’m dressed in the outfit he chose. I’m in the shoes, on the bed, having been torn between laughter from his fiendish tickling, and pain as he mauls my tits. I’m laying there in the middle of the bed, awash with sensations, already drained, tousled, mussed, tossed around, bruising.

He rises from the bed, moves to the bathroom. I can’t even open my eyes.

“Stay there” he says in the Dom voice.

You know the one, right? There’s the talking voice, there’s the playful voice, and then there’s the Dom Voice.

Stay there.

It’s firm, no nonsense, don’t fuck around tone sends shivers through my bones, raises goose-flesh on my skin, and thrills me. I’m not capable of defying that voice, of playing around and getting up and hiding toys. He’s serious, he means it.

Stay there.

I can’t even think about dozing off, as the words bounce in my head,  echo around my mind. That tone. Gods, how it affects me! I can feel the submission leaking from that hidden corner inside me, the one I didn’t think existed anymore. I’m no longer merely talking about  submission (in a somewhat hopeful way…) I AM a submissive. I shiver, and am put in my place, though I haven’t moved an inch. I am fully, totally his. A slut. No. His slut. A toy. A possession. His toy, his possession. I lay in the bed as he rises. He pauses at the foot of the bed, speaks.

Stay there.

And walks away.  I don’t think. I don’t whine. I obey.

I half-whisper my reply.

yes Sir.




He needed to give it–I needed to get it.

And there wasn’t any time to collect myself before it all began.

There is a brief funny story about how we wound up in the room that we did, and it’s all about the stamp collectors…but I’ll share that later. For now, just trying to catch and hold on to those first moments…

He slid into the bathroom behind me, despite my hollering “goals” to Him. I think he laughed at that, actually…there just isn’t a “safe zone” with him in the room. Slammed up against the bathroom wall, face-first, His hands…my fucking gawd…he pinches so fiercely. In fact, in the entire playtime? He never used any tool but His hands to hurt me. He used some anal plugs, and a vibe, and of course, Mr. Hitachi came out to play (he’s a cruel thing, on HIGH when my pussy is already on overload…just sayin’…).

He pins me against that wall and starts pinching my poor arms…the backs of them, and all the way down my sides. Reaching around in front he gets my belly, then goes to town pinching my ass.

Through my jeans.

And it fucking hurts!

Yeah, I know it’s supposed to. I get that. I’m gasping for breath and hurting and frigging flying all at the same time. When He steps away so that I can get dressed, it’s just for a moment, and then He’s back at those same spots again. The bruises I *started* our playtime with…phew. I look like I was attacked by something with pincers on it.

If I get a chance I’ll try to get pics but that’s hard with kids around and the area’s he got…well, they’re mostly behind me, right? So it’s crazy hard to do. He took lots of pics…of other things…and I’ll be sharing some of those, HNT’s and other times.

We weren’t together long…I had to work in the morning, and He in the evening, but the time we had was good. Tender at times, and wicked at others. Hard bites and wicked pussy slapping one moment, deep tender hungry kisses the next. He hurt me and he made me cum like a fire hose.

I’m still flying.


Broken and Hurting

Hi ~ my name is nilla and I appear to have broken myself.


Somehow I’ve not done all the “right” things and hurt my back badly. So badly that it affects my walking, my ability to move about freely. It’s all muscle–or rather, one big painful pinched nerve. So I’m on pain meds to deal with it.

But it means that we can’t have our playdate.

You know, the one that I’ve been quietly anticipating for the last two months? I’m in too much pain to move, to twitch about the way He enjoys. I’m in too much pain for Him to have fun hurting me. And since I have a vanilla life where I must have mobility…we’ve had to cancel our time together. I told Him that I could show up in my oh-so-sexy heat wrap thing. Yeah. No. The mental image of that did make me giggle though.

So instead of a lovely fucking time (pun intended),  we’ll have coffee and tea and share a decadent dessert together tomorrow, in lieu of my getting my ass fucked, and beaten.

“You’re being sensible, nilla,” He says, when I express my deep disappointment to Him today. “I can’t do anything to you, so it makes sense to wait until you’re better before I beat the shit out of you.”

Only in D/s land would that make so much sense, yanno?


But it does, right?

This isn’t erotic pain. This isn’t something that makes my pussy hot and wet and excited. This is “how the fuck will I get upstairs to my bedroom” and “OMG I sat down for too long and can’t get out of my chair”. This is having to allow extra time to do anything…Including peeing~no last minute run to the bathroom because I had one more thing to do first, oh hell no!

It sucks. But I’m being a big girl about it all.

I just wish there was medicine to take for disappointment.

Catch Up Time…

Master and I had a tiny bit of face time this past weekend. It’s good because I’ve been feeling very vanilla of late. I know that life is cyclic like this but it is sometimes just disheartening to think that I’ve not written much kink at all. I’ve had some good ideas, but no time to flesh them out.

Being with Him helps to correct all that.

He was going to pinch me, then stopped Himself.

“Right. Summer. Can’t.” He frowned at me. “You bruise too damn easily.”

I still wish He had, though it would have been difficult to hide the marks. It’s been wicked hot here in the Northeast these last few days, and I’m wearing tank tops to try to keep cool. So–there would be no overshirts without it being obvious that I was hiding something. He’s clever though, that Master.

“I can’t put my hands on my shoulders,” He says a bit later on.

I do it.

“You mean like this?” I say?

“No I can do that. But my shoulders are so tight, my neck has been bothering me,” He explains. And I know it has.

I move my hands so they are way behind my shoulders, almost to the back of my neck.

“Like this?” I say?

He reaches across the table and pinches my left tit, hard, His fingers slipping down my shirt, my bra, and getting a hellagood tweek on my nipple.

I jump and squeak a bit. He’s sitting so that He can see the two kids covering the counter at the coffee shop where we’re meeting. it’s early on Sunday, and there is no one there but us. This particular place does wedding cakes–most people hang out for coffee etc at their downtown location. Out here on the secondary route? Not so much. When the kids had gone back into the kitchen, that’s when He made his move.

Got me good, He did.

He doesn’t let an opportunity slide, that Man. And okay, He can’t pinch and bruise my arms…but He knows how fucking gullible I am…and I fall for those little set ups all the time.

All the fucking time.

He got a good chuckle (and a great grab) out of that one.


We talked for a bit longer, I finished my tea (an excellent English Breakfast), and we planned our playtime…just 10 days away, peeps!

I told Him the other day that I was nervous and worried. He’s had some health issues, which He told me are better and stop fucking worrying about it.

(I can’t…I’m a “frett-er”)

And nervous because it’s been a long, long while since our last time together with a lot of pain. And…I don’t want Him to go easy on me because of that, but I’m still worried (a bit) that I’ll be disappointing to Him. I suppose that as long as I’m whining and whimpering He’ll be happy.

And really, it is all out of my hands anyway, right?

I’m working much harder these days at living in the moment. I won’t say I’m a totally Zen person, but I’m getting there. And being a submissive is almost an ultimate Zen experience. There’s this neat poster I’ve seen that says “Don’t worry–nothings in your control” ~ isn’t that the truth? When we get behind closed doors, there is not a safety zone, no “gaols” to hide in or get to. It’s all right there, in the moment.

Nothing is in my control.

And I’m really, really happy about that.



Our meeting for this upcoming weekend had to be postponed….it is another chaotic week in Casa nilla. Family life and a bunch of sundry things are keeping me moving 14 hours a day.  At this point, going to work in the evening is a small oasis in my day. I’m sad about missing our playtime…I really could use a good beating.

I have a whole post written in my head but no time to write it. I have stories that are begging to be told, but again, time is slipping away too quickly filled with other responsibilities. After next week the immediate hectic is over, and I’ll have time once more to sit and spin my tales.

Master and I will get playtime in late June or early July–and it will be what it will be. I can’t change the fact that we’re both busy, acceptance is the only way. Regret, oh yes. We both need some release. We’ll get some face time this weekend, which helps allay the sadness, which, if I had time to spare thinking about it– I’d be wallowing in. I guess it’s a good thing I’m busy then, right? But if I wasn’t so busy I’d have time to BE with Master and then I wouldn’t be sad in the first place…

Whatever. It is what it is. Suck it up buttercup.

See? I can be my own bolster-er, too.


So, toodles for now, peeps. Hoping that this weekend will give me a much needed recharge with the Master, that we’ll drink tea together and He’ll make me giggle, and we’ll kiss and I’ll be back in the submissive zone.

But for now, tis time for me to charge forth into the morning!

This, That, and the Other Thing

First–don’t panic. It *is* snowing on many of the WordPress blogs…it starts December 1 and ends sometime in January–you’re not losing your mind…(well, that’s a judgement call I can’t really make, right? Maybe you *are* but it’s not over my “snowing” blog! It would more likely be caused by one of my tentacle stories, I’d think….)

This is really just a micro-update, as time is short for me today. I need to write. NEEEEEEEED to write. I’ve had a few nasty things in my head…I think I’ll include one of the snippets at the end of this post, just to keep you comin’…..back for more.

Thanks for all the luscious comments. I will reply to them all, hopefully by midweek, okay? Just know that I’m reading them all, and being touched and tickled by each and every one!

Master and I did NOT meet this past weekend. SO SAD! And yanno….it was all my fault. I just had too much on my plate and there was NO way to squeeze in a visit, even a short one, into the weekend. Sometimes life is like that, but I don’t *like* it, not one little bit. (Sounds like the beginnings of a D/s-style Suess thing doesn’t it? And yes, I spelled that name wrong on purpose so that some kid doing a google search doesn’t wind up here. I have no idea if the interwebz does that or not, but we’ll hope for “not”…)

Playtime is coming and I’m *praying* that we don’t get a snowstorm. Like really, Mother Nature, please don’t fuck up my fuck date, right? I’ll cast a circle and offer my prayers and hopefully She will let Master and I have our time.

I told you about the tit caning, I think, in my last post. He’s been teasing me about it a wee bit. I think He’s kind of excited that I asked. Geeze, you give a sadist a stick and they’re all kinds of happy, right? Do NOT tell Him I said that, okay? *laughing*

Okay, I  am out of time for blathering on about not much of anything. So here is the snippet that popped into my head the other day.


“So that’s two small fries, two cheeseburgers, a vanilla shake, and a diet cola?”


“That’ll be $8.59 at the first window, sir.”


He drives forward, through the small queue of cars. It doesn’t seem to matter what time of day He comes to the burger joint, there’s always a line. His fingers tap restlessly on the wheel until His truck is at the first window. He hands the girl at the window a ten, waves his change away. Inching forward, He is finally at the food pick-up window. The rich smell of hot fries fills the cab of the truck. Slotting the drinks into the cup holder, He has the first burger unwrapped and consumed before the truck is even parked. Driving down the lot, He finds an opening, turns into the parking space, turns off the engine as He unwraps the second burger. Taking a bite, the first rush of hunger assuaged, He speaks, mouth full, before taking a slug of the diet cola.

“Okay, you may eat now.”

The woman beside him has unfastened her seatbelt. The smell of the burger intensifies as He takes another large bite.  Her mouth waters at the delicious smell of hot food as her tummy gurgles in empty protest. Knowing her task,  she  moves across the truck cab towards him, slipping off the wide bench seat and wedges herself between his thighs. His fly is down, His semi-rigid cock bumping her nose as she opens her lips and begins to caress him with her tongue.  His hand slips over the top of her head in a brief caress, then reaches for the small bag of fries, as she takes his cock into her mouth and begins her feast.


(I do declare….the things I think of during thanksgiving feasting…soooo naughty !!)


We had face-time last night.

So yummy.

So appreciative when He makes time for me. I know He pushed and pulled His schedule to accommodate me, so nice since I may not have time in the upcoming weekend.

I came in with my knitting bag. I know.  So fucking vanilla. But deadlines loom and I have several “must finish” projects on my docket. So, I knit. I am not *certain* but I think He likes it.

And the conversation was so very unvanilla.

So very Domly.

So very, very naughty. All about Big Red. All about Mr. Belt. About the two of them having a very important meeting …at my ass.  About the Wall, and our playtime and the words that sent a shiver of nerves through me.

“This is going to be a very painful playtime for you, nilla.”

Nerves, yes. And a fast, super-intense lust as well. I was wet, I could feel my pussy leaking as He looked at me. He looked apologetic for a moment. And then spoiled it by grinning. He has almost as much fun in the “set up” to a playdate, as He does during the actual play part. He is the Master of the mindfuck!

To change the topic from my ass, and it’s fate,  I had to ask the question.

I’d sent Him a text, you see. A question for when we meet behind closed doors.

“Master…what is are the odds of getting my tits caned on our playdate?”

He never replied.

Several texts went back and forth after that, all unrelated, but he never answered that one. So as we drink our tea, as He tells me some of the plans for my ass, as I knit, I bring it up.


He sits up a bit, shoots me this look. I swear I have no idea how He does it. One minute semi-vanilla talk, the next His face is pure Dom. It’s…compelling. His gaze sharpens (no, that’s not just a plot device in a story. It really happens.) as He gives me the look, as He answers slowly.

“yes, nilla?”

I clear my throat, shift a bit in my seat.

“Uhm…I sent You a text earlier today and You didn’t answer it. I was …ummm…wondering…if…..” and my voice trails off.

“If? And which text would that be?”

And I *know* He knows. Just like that.

I feel the blush. I hide behind my hair and my knitting.

“You know…the one…”

Again I can’t make myself say it.

“I can text it again.”

“Oh no. I want you to say it.”

My eyes close, open. Maybe I said a prayer in my head in that short moment.

“Master….” Not a whine. Just nervous voice. He really wants me to say it? Like, out loud?

His eyes are all over my face. I feel like how I feel when He has put me on the Wall during playtime. Exposed. Excited. Overcome. Defenseless. Turned on. Embarrassed.

“Say. It.” His voice isn’t loud. It’s whip-snap sharp though. Clearly an order, and no longer a tease.

I try hard to not mutter. I know He has a bad ear. Fail.


“What? What did you say, slut?”

Yes. Right there in Starbucks, He plays with me. Turns up the heat, makes me feel the burn. I clear my throat, take a sip of tea, drop my now-still hands into my lap, clutching my needles. I stutter. (how embarrassing.)

“The text. Caning. My….tits…The odds.”

“Oh, yes, I recall seeing something about that. You wondered what the odds were of it happening? Tell me, nilla, why the sudden interest? A porno you saw? A story you read? What was the catalyst for this sudden …interest?”

He needs to know it all.  Inside I sigh. How to explain to Him that my mind works in perverted ways and that I came up with it all on my own. I might have seen it on a porno, had I watched one. I may have read it in a story…had I read one. But no. This all popped into my head one masturbation night.

I did send that report to Him promptly, so He had some awareness. He files things away, then wants to know more.

“I don’t know, Master. I really don’t. I may have seen it or read it. But…the truth is –it’s a big masturbation fantasy for me.”

“Aaah. A fantasy. Well, you know I’m committed to making your fantasies reality for you, slut.” He says the word as if He’s tasting something delectable and savory.

He pauses, and His eyes go all golden. He’s my very own Lion, though there is NO leash that could control Him.

“I’d say, slut, that there is a 100% probability of that happening, then. The thing is…hmmm…caning is terribly painful. You remember that I do it on your thighs and calves.”

“Yes Master. I remember. It hurts like fuck-all.”

“Yes. Even more so on the tits. I wonder if there should be a balance for the pain.”

You never know what you set in motion when you proposition a Dom. Never. I swallow hard before I ask the inevitable question.

“Uhmmm…what …kind…of counterbalance, Master?”

I’m worried that He won’t answer.

I’m equally worried that He will.

“Oh, you know. Big Red up your ass. Maybe.”

He pauses again.

“Then again, I kind of want Big Red to be the star of the show. Nope.”

He purses His lips, His eyes boring into mine. I swear I see the flames burning behind there. I am almost scorched from the heat, the weight of the intensity. I’m falling into Him and I never, ever want to get up.

“I’m thinking…the new anal beads I got you. Quite a step up from the other ones I used to use. Quite a step. Prep for Big Red.”

As He speaks, my mind races…anal beads? New ones? Why, He never said word one about that! He draws my attention back to what He is saying.

“Yes, those would definitely take your mind and split the tension between your aching asshole, and your aching tits. Good idea, nilla.”

Yes. Good idea, indeed.

Apparently I’m full of them.

(and soon to be ‘full’ of other things, too.)



Anticipating Ice Cream

Sorry there was no new post yesterday…it was a crayzee day for your intrepid business  slut  woman. I run a very physical business (despite being round!) and had *three* clients. I’m always psyched when I get these jobs, even the one-off ones. But boys howdee am I one tired slut.

Friday night Master took note of how tired I was and declined to let me have an O despite it being nearly a week since my last one. Despite my pleading that I really, terribly needed one. After all, I  had skipped my Tuesday O  (I was tired then too).   As part of His morning greeting to me, He declared Saturday night to be “O-less” as well. And it occurs to me (now) that He knew He was going to say “no” even before I got all tired and stuff.

*rolls eyes*

How annoying that He’s almost always right.

Then I remember. Today is Sunday. He hasn’t said NO yet. Of course, He hasn’t said “YES” yet, either…but…

…ah, but.

But but but.

There is *ice cream* in my future. This very evening, I’ll drive down to where-He-lives and we’ll meet at this sweet little farmstand and we’ll choose our flavors, and while we lick and slurp our nummy yummy treats, we’ll go and stare at the cows in the field–aaaaand –when we start to shiver, we’ll go into one of our cars…

(best run on sentence, ever, and not done yet!)

and who *knows* what naughty things may transpire under cover of darkness. There aren’t a lot of people who hang out at the ice cream stand in October when it gets dark at 620 p.m. Only a couple of old farts who sit in an old minivan and giggle. Okay, only the redhead giggles. The upstanding older gentleman who purchased the ice cream likely sits there, tolerant of his younger companions antics.

If only they knew what really happens inside that vehicle.  Pinches and tickles and bruises. Hair pulling and nipple tweeking. Kissing. Slapping. Orgasms.

You know.

Good stuff.

And, people.

Ice Cream.

Yuppers, (nods) that’s what I’m heading down there for.  Ice Cream.

That’s my story.  I’m stickin’ to it.