Cumming

He stood looking down at her, an older, silver-haired man. He looked distinguised. His hair was combed tidily, his beard and mustache neatly groomed. His eyes, the color of deep honey, crinkled at the corners from many smiles. He looked classy.  Cultured. And yet she knew better. That face was a mask, for under the mask lay a monster. A tremor shook her violently, her body arching and her mind torn from thoughts of her tormentor.

“You wanted to cum. Remember, slut?”

His voice cut through the lingering shudders. Her wrists and ankles were already pinkened from straining at the bonds that held her spread upon the bed. She refused to answer, or couldn’t, it was hard to say at this point. Dispassionately he looked at her heaving chest, her tits still quivering from the force of the orgasm. Her nipples, once they’d been pinched hard by his fingers, were clamped now, weighted and tugged to the side of her body with her convulsive movements. Likewise, her cuntlips were spread, grabbed by clamps, and taped to her inner thighs to allow the fat-headed super vibe to press up against her innermost flesh, torturing her clit and pussy.

She shook her head at long last.

“Ah, but you did. When I came home last night, after sending you messages to edge yourself, what did I find but my slut, sprawled in the bed asleep, her cunt soaked. Why my dear, the very bed you’re laying upon betrayed you, soaked from your sated pussy.  I was very disappointed that your desires came before mine. Yet, for some reason, I feel the deep need for compassion here, and let you have what you wanted so desperately.”

He paused, leaning forward and flicking the buzzing vibe to high. She jerked in response to the sudden intensity, her head shaking back and forth, her mouth trying to say what sounded like ‘no’.

“The ball gag distorts your words so badly, my sweet horny slut. I’m sure you said ‘more’ right?”

Moving across the room to his toy chest, he removed a fat anal plug. She tried to see what he was doing, but another orgasm snatched thought from her mind as her body shimmied and jerked.

“Here you go, slut.”

He squirted lube over her pussy. It leaked downward, around the pressing head, making her contact with the device even more intense. When she felt the press of the plug against her ass, she knew that all that had transpired previously was just the warm up. She yelped as her butthole was filled, as he clicked the vibe on. The screeeeeetch of the duct tape roll he was fond of made her shake her head harder, but he ignored her again, and taped the ass vibe into her.

Two fingers slipped in and out of her cunt, making her moan. Felt so good to have him inside, but they moved out and away. He rubbed the juice of her fuck hole on her belly, slapping the soft, round skin there.

Again she arched, her body rocked by waves of pleasure, then waves of over-stimulation. So sensitive, she longed to scream out, but the gag held the pleading words inside her head.

“Aah. You must be so happy that you came again. Horny slut. What is that now? 10? 12? I’m afraid I’ve lost count. Oh.”

He tugged his phone from his pocket.

“I’m afraid I have to take this.  I’ll go into the kitchen so I won’t disturb your orgasms. The camera will record them for me so that I can watch them later. While I’m fucking your ass. I’ll be back in a while. No more than an hour, I think. Happy cumming, slut.”

With a wicked smile, he left the room, as she kicked and wriggled through another orgasm. From the hall she heard his ‘business voice’ as he took the call.

“Hello? Sure, hi. Oh, no not to worry. I wasn’t doing anything that I couldn’t interrupt.”

She came again, crying with the pleasure, and sobbing with the pain.

Tuesday, When He Pulls Out The Dom Card

I have a task. It’s fairly new, instituted at the end of January. And I was given a “pass” for  several weeks while I was really sick. But I’m not really sick anymore, in fact, nearly recovered.

I forgot the task. Oh. Fuck.

Monday night I’m supposed to have a half-O, to be edged to the point of twitching and total distraction. The idea, aside from giving Him pleasure at my needy pussy, is to make my Tuesday orgasm even more intense. So it’s a good-bad thing, you know?

But I forgot the task.

And I told Him, last night, on a night I was supposed to be enjoying my pussy to the fullest. I will have a punishment tonight (two half-O’s, the first with the small anal plug, the second with the larger one)…which I of course deserve.

But the thing that made me shake in my boots was this. His voice drops, gets silky.  It makes me hot, and wet, and horny, and scares me too. Imagine that, that just the smallest change in the tone of his voice can do that?

“Did someone forget who’s in charge here?” He says.  I think for a moment that my heart just stopped beating. And then it beats like crazy.

“Uhm…kind of? It’s been a long while and…”

Did someone forget who’s in charge here?”  He repeats.

“No. No Sir.”

My voice is small and whisper quiet. It wasn’t the 7 words. Okay it was, but it was the TONE. The Delivery. The Dom, steel wrapped in velvet, who slid through my phone and into the gut of me, reminding me.

“I won’t forget again Sir.”

“See that you don’t.”

We haven’t seen one another, face to face, in over a month. Haven’t had playtime since last Autumn. But all of that doesn’t matter. For us, it’s more than just playtime, more than just punishments and rewards. It’s about U/us…our dynamic, our connection to one another, and TTWD.

And if ever I forget that hey, we’re not just some vanilla friends sharing lives via the phone…He never fails to jerk me back to the reality of the collar (visible or not) that is around my throat.

And that I’m His.

 

 

 

Well…Hmph.

I tried to post todays post via my phone, but alas. Some entity ate it. Yes. It is gone. Poof. Evaporated into the ether. Ah well. I’ve only lost a post a few times but it SURE is aggravating. Then again, I was uber tired last night so maybe it wouldn’t have made any sense?

That’s my hope, anyway.

The original post would have been called “Naughty slut”. Remember that post the other day about perfectionism? Well, I managed to perfect “naughtiness” this weekend. Who knew, right?

Master was away. Busy, for some of the time. Driving away, driving back. HE wasn’t driving, and I didn’t want Him to be bored or anything like that. So I started “text poking” Him. I even wrote a song to the tune of “Row Row Row Your Boat” (You can youtube the tune if you are unfamiliar with it, it’s not letting me get links today–apparently technology thinks I should be doing something else….!)

I must’ve sent a bajillion texts. Some just a simple “poke”. Some were longer or with more pokes. The jibes flew hard and fast, with NO response from Him, until waaay late in the afternoon.

He got home last night, and I called Him on my way to fetch the teen from the City. We talked “vanilla-ish” for a while….and then.

“You know, slut, there is a price to be paid for today’s ‘envelope pushing’, right?”

I swallowed before I spoke, and despite the sweater I was wearing, I shivered. There He is, there’s that tone that strikes like a quick slap. And what is my response after a brief moment to catch my breath?

Yes. I giggled.

I’m sure it was nerves.

He went on to tell me that the cane will have a starring role in our next playtime, to remind me that there is always a price to be paid for being a naughty slut, and this next time, my tits and thighs will pay.

“Those back of your legs are quite sensitive, aren’t they, nilla?”

He draws out my name “nil-pause-la”. More shivers ensue.

I love drawing out His Beast, but it does make me nervous too. I’ll admit that I was pretty turned on — fear does that to me. And I’m pretty sure my legs are going to regret the price that was overdrawn by my texting fingers.  I am not a huge fan of the cane. That stingy hurt is…hard to manage? There is that initial *slap* (and He’ll do a quick series of snap snap snap so I can’t quite catch my breath or grab a rhythm) and then the pain just spreads out like an echo….it reverberates from skin to muscle and back out. Hard to describe. If you’ve not felt it, then you should try it. You know, for science’s sake. 😀

I teased Him that “You’ll forget, Master.”

Quietly He reminded me that He keeps a mental file of this sort of thing– (He does, too. He never forgets when I owe Him for being a naughty slut. Ever.) –because payback always had to be paid. His way. With pain.

He says that last word almost lovingly, then repeats it.

“My pain, nilla.”

A wealth of meaning in those few words. His pain. His duration, and His intensity. Damn but now I’m turned on, and feeling more than a wee bit of trepidation.  He loves doing that to me, too, turning me on and making me….well “fearful” is too strong a word. “Nervous” is a bit too mild. But somewhere between the two, definitely!

It may be a while before we get to meet–and I’ll have to deal with this longing and trepidation until we do. Which puts me, (I think), exactly where He wants me.

 

 

 

The Predicament

She arched, inner muscles clenching around the dildo vibrating in the deep places of her cunt. The sudden curving of her spine pressed her clit hard against the vibrator that had been barely touching a moment ago, adding a layer of intensity to the paroxysms of her pussy.

“Quite a quandary you have there, little whore.”

His voice was amused and pleased. She could hear him moving around her, though her eyes were closed.  He did admire his own handiwork, she thought with a frown. Her clit screamed, the motions of the big vibe now too intense as orgasm approached.

Her arms were tied tightly over her head, stretching her. Her legs were spread, cuffed to a spreader bar that didn’t allow for any shifting movement. A swatch of thick duct tape passed from thigh to thigh holding a thick dildo inside her dripping pussy. In front of her a breath away from her breasts was a thin  metal bar, held by the stand that also supported the heavy-duty vibrator that barely touched her slit, and her swollen, protuberant clit. From the ends of the bar were cables, attached to a car battery. Her nipples were wet with the gel that would conduct the jolt of electrical current, should she arch sufficiently to make contact.  And behind her, another dildo, speared on a long pole, was buried in her ass. A thick rubber footing was affixed to the end of the pole, pressing it against the floor.

“a non-skid ass plug” He’d said, laughing at his double entendre as he’d speared her butt,  propping the stick behind her. It was a strong incentive to not fall over, not that she would go far, hung by her wrists as she was.  In its own strange way, it stabilized her.

“Ohhhnooooo!” she yelped, her back straightening. This motion pressed the wide rumbly part of the dildo just below her g-spot as the bulbous head ground against her cervix. It hurt and felt o-so-pleasurable at the same damn time. The thickness in her ass sent quivers to all those nerve endings, adding to the pleasure mix.

The orgasm tore through her, controlling her body, raising her breasts as her entire body arced. Tight as a drawn bow, the convulsions of her climax tugged the last reins of control from her.

Sweat beaded her brow, her chest. Her nipples rose as her body shuddered through the sensation tsunami and pressed against the electrified metal plate which had been placed just so precisely. The quick hit of pain on her nipples intensified the orgasm, pressed her pussy hard upon the outer vibe. She screamed as sensation overwhelmed.

His hand pressed against her forehead, pushing hair from her cheeks.

“such a mess you are,” his voice crooned. “don’t block daddy’s view. He wants to see it all, all the suffering. Pain wrapped with passion, my whore. And we both know how much you enjoy your passions, don’t we, you greedy little bitch?”

Panting, she fell back as the tension released. The big vibe inside buzzed on, her nipples crinkled in response. She could feel the intensity building again, faster this time. Moans, which were really whimpers, escaped her lips, though she’d vowed to not make a sound as she served his punishment. He’d merely smiled at her show of bravado. He’d known she couldn’t stop the sounds of sex as the pleasure and the torment wracked her body.

Damn him for being right again.

And damn her for thinking she could trick him. She would never steal an orgasm from Him again.

The Pains of Taking Master for Granted

Yanno, I’m the kind of girl who usually appreciates the things around her. I love the slant of sunlight through the golden leaves outside my window. I notice the sound of the birds passing overhead, a flock of geese winging their way south. I appreciate the bright blue of the sky as the gray clouds melt away.

But sometimes–I presume. And primarily?  It happens in my relationship with Master. (Ironically, I tend to NOT do so in my vanilla relationships…perhaps because I have little expectation that my needs will be met there, anyway? But back to Master….)

I try to not “read into” the fact that He doesn’t respond right away to emails or texts. I try not to presume that I’m being ‘ignored’. It’s easy for me to fall into the habit, you see. That, if I don’t get feedback, I slack off on doing a required task. As many of you have said…if they (the Big D’s) don’t give reward or punishment, what is the purpose of something? Where is the payoff? What is it to us?

*sigh*

Rereading that last paragraph–it  sounds like there is an “expectation”…

And I know–down deep inside,  that He will “feed” me, that He knows exactly what I need, and how to dole it out to fulfill me.

And I know that He is just as capable of putting me in a little compartment and forgetting me while He is off doing His other stuff.

And I–well–here’s the thing.

I’m an attention whore.

I think that in all honesty, we all kind of are. We want our Dominants to notice us. Are we being good and need a treat? Are we in trouble and need a hand to set us to rights? Are we being snarky and in need of correction?

I like to think I’m pretty low maintenance. I do like a text a few times a day to know that He is okay. And to check in. Not so much for attention as for connection. We can’t touch IRL most days…and the touch of a text has become a substitute for His hand brushing down my hair, or poking at me.

I take for granted that He will respond to me.

I take for granted that He will always be there…and sometimes get pissy if there is a long lag. Sometimes it is a pissyness born of an innate fear of losing Him. We are, after all, far apart, and I wouldn’t know right away if He was in an accident or injured…

That’s the love/caring part, for me at any rate. I do it with my vanilla family, too. Checking on them, checking in, reaching out. It’s what I do.

I connect.

And then there are those rules.

I have very few.

Ask permission before taking an Orgasm.

Send a morning and evening text.

Write a report of the Orgasm the next day, due sometime before bedtime (He’s lenient of this because my schedule is often crazy, but only to the extent of the hour it must be done–it is always due before the end of the next day…)

That’s pretty much it.

But then — I dunno. It’s not very flattering to say this, but I guess I figured…what the hell.

He doesn’t always reply to them (the O reports).

Maybe He’s not even *reading* them.

Why bother.

*cringe*

yeah.

I said it out loud.

“Why bother…”

In fairness, sometimes I am forgetful. I live off my auxiliary brain, often (my large white board)…if it’s not on there, I may well forget. It’s the price I pay for juggling multiple jobs, multiple kids, multiple events.

But an O report has been part of our dynamic for forever.

“why bother”…

oh my.

Why, indeed.

This isn’t a vanilla relationship, where I get to pick and choose what I do and don’t do. I have to accept…to…submit…to doing as He says. While I’m not a slave, I’m definitely subservient to Him…and it’s always been that way.

So why balk now?

Tired.

Depressed.

Lonely.

They all play a role. They all are a part of my internal dynamic. Despite being surrounded by people, I’m often very lonely. It’s been weeks since I managed get away time with Him, and I’m borrowing sadness from the future, when my son goes to college and I don’t have the excuse of being his taxi to arrange hook ups with Master.

Those face time events are really important to me. Necessary. And yes, I’m letting my tomorrow worries take away from my today happiness. *sigh*

If I’m submitting, then I’m giving Him all of me.

Then I’m going to do what He asks of me.

This — this need to give over to another, to hand Him my life and say “do with me what You will”–this was not a light, frivolous decision. I’d been dreaming of this for a year, before ever dabbling my toe in the water of submission.

He is perfect for me, even if He isn’t always perfect (He’ll smack me for that one!)…just as I believe that I’m perfect for Him, despite my lack of  being a perfect submissive.

You all know my stance on “perfection” anyway, right? There is no such critter. Perfection is a pipe dream, a seeking that it totally unattainable, and therefore, stupid. 🙂 Yes. Stupid to seek perfection. There is only the “perfection of now”–since we are all in a constant state of evolution and change. We experience, and we grow and adapt through those experiences.

Submission is not about perfection. It is about intent. It is about supplanting my wants for His. It is about…giving Him the all of me…even the not-so-pretty parts. The annoyance, the frustration, the fears I have. They’re just as much a part of me as the listening, creative, giggly slut.

I’ve learned a very valuable lesson at His direction last night. Following the rules is much better than the punishments He can create.

The text that He sent me was simple, direct and to the point.

Anal plug (the larger of the two that I have). Clothespins on my belly. Clamps on my nipples. Get as close to an orgasm without actually having one (and I’ve damn near perfected the timing on them, so it causes total wracking agony to stop…yet stop I do. I’m proud to say I’ve never had an “oops” and spilled over that fragile edge.)

I didn’t want to do it.

dreaded  doing it. The second night of a “half-orgasm” is so much worse than the first night. Add in an anal plug, which turns me on despite the discomfort, and all the other pain-points? And I’m torn between pain…and the pleasure of enduring it for Him. Ohmahgawd, the pain of taking Master for granted, in full, living Technicolor, writhing in my bed.

Add in a vibe on the clit?

Torture.

It hurts.

It hurts so damn good. Pain, wrapped in pleasure. Desire, warring with the need to not get carried away. The need to “pay attention, slut”…”

And isn’t that the full lesson here?

I need to pay attention.

Because for real?

He does.

Spanking

“What on Earth were you thinking?”

He frowned down at her, as she stared up at him, a pleading look in her eyes. OH, she was well and truly fucked now, and he was glad that she knew it. Saucy slut. Presumptuous slut.

“Well, Sir, i waited so long for you to come home, and I was thinking about how I would feel when you came in the door and I’d get to suck your cock coz I’ve been thinking of it all day, and then I started touching myself and closed my eyes and could almost taste it, you know?”

He interjected her quick-spoken defense.

“It?”

She blinked.

“It, Sir?”

“You said you could almost taste ‘it’…to what are you referring, slut?”

She flushed. That would be two strikes against her now. He hated when she called his penis an “it”.

“I-I-” she paused, swallowing the nervous spit gathered in her mouth.  “Sorry Sir. Your penis, cock, dick, rod, staff, dong, cum gun, fuck-rod, joystick, pecker. Not an “it”.”

He almost had to bite his lip to prevent the smile that threatened to emerge. She was required to speak ten alternate names for his cock if she slipped and called his manhood an “it”. The inclusion of joystick always cracked him up. Which of course she knew, the smartass.

“Very good. Carry on with your explanation for that.”

He pointed to the puddle on the floor near the front door. She threw a quick glance at it, then hastily back at him. She wanted to look away from him, he knew, but he compelled her to meet his eyes as she spoke of her misdeed.

“I-I was thinking about sucking your cock, Sir. The way your skin feels against my lips, the weight of your shaft against my tongue. The slick way your swollen head slips deeply into my mouth, my throat. The feeling of the gag until I get it under control, the taste of your cum as you spurt. By then I was rubbing my clit harder, and before I realized, I was cumming, Sir, and your car–I could hear you turn into the driveway and…”

“And it was too late to hide your dirty deed?”

“Oh Sir! I wouldn’t have hidden it. I would have told you.”

“The smell of you when I walked in the door told me, slut. And my cock remains unsucked.”

She looked hopeful for a moment. The dragon inside of him was happy to dash that hope, watch the nerves dance across her face.

“Unfortunately, that can not happen until you receive your punishment. You do need to be punished, don’t you, greedy little slut?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Yes Sir.”

“Good. Rise, and assume the position.” He pointed to the arm of the couch.

Slowly she rose, the hem of her skirt fluttering around her thighs. Shirtless, as he preferred, and pantiless as well, he enjoyed the teasing view of her bottom as she moved towards the couch. He knew the fabric would scratch at her nipples, she complained of that often enough.

“Wait.”

She stopped, throwing a questioning look over her shoulder.

“Wait right there, I’ll be right back.”

She watched him walk into their bedroom. Now what? She felt a tremor of nerves. In moments he was back.

Moving to the front of her, he pinched one nipple, making it draw tight. Grasping it between thumb and forefinger, he wound an elastic band around and around it, holding the engorged nubbin in its full, hard state. He treated the other bud the same way.

For a moment she didn’t feel much. Pressure, to be sure. A tingle between her thighs, but his touch always did that.

“Now, over, in position.”

She bent over, her increasingly sensitive nipples rubbing against the chenille fabric. Oh. It felt even rougher as blood pooled behind the constricting elastics.

He moved around the room, gods only knew what the fuck he was doing. He came close, folding her skirt up and baring her bottom.

“At last,” she thought, but to her disappointment, he moved away. She heard the squeak of the chair as he sat in it, and the corresponding flush of embarrassment as she felt his eyes moving over her bottom.

“Those pussy lips of yours are glistening with sex juice.”

The comment was almost offhand, a description rather than a tease. The flush grew deeper, and her “glistening pussy” pulsed with the sudden upsurge of desire. It embarrassed her no end that he was sitting there just looking at her, yet the humiliation, while excruciating,  was also exciting. Sometimes she was such a sick, perverted fuck.

The familiar strains of Beethoven’s Für Elise came from behind her, his cell phone. He spoke to Emily, his secretary at work.

And spoke to her. He rose from the chair and paced the room.

And spoke to her.

And added several paragraphs of text to a document she was obviously updating as he spoke. He spelled names, waited for read-backs, and generally ignored his slut, skirt folded up over the small of her back, ass raised, nipples hurting.

She fumed. She huffed. She waggled her butt.

Nothing.

The call ended and the first swat on her ass came almost simultaneously. He struck all around her ass, never in the same place twice, until she felt like she could glow in the dark. Her body pushed and wiggled as she tried to maintain position, her nipple scrubbed against the roughness of the couch cushion below her. Her breasts hurt, aching and throbbing from the tightness of the elastics around her nipples.

The pain in her tits was nothing compared to what was happening on her ass. And when she thought she would scream for mercy, his phone rang. His hand rubbed her abused bottom as he talked once more to his secretary, stroking teasingly over her swollen pussy, then back to rub her ass.

She knew better than to make noise when he was on the phone, but she felt the moan growing with every sweeping touch. And then his fingers were reaching, seeking her swollen clit, tugging and rubbing it. She was close, so close.

He stopped touching, wiping his hand across her bum, and paced around the room still working on that fucking document! She needed to cum, dammit! The squeak on the floor presaged his coming near her again, yet he didn’t touch her. Around and around the room he moved, making her crazy with the need to shout at him. The cad! The brute! The bloody bastard!

His fingers slid into her slick, hot hole, and she almost yelped as he stroked deep into her, and out, swishing across her clit. Without a word, he pulled out, walked away, resuming the circuit around the room.

He was driving her fucking nuts!

Again the call ended, and she waited, her nipples sending hot licks of fiery pain up her tits. Every movement now was extremely painful, and she did whimper.

The thwack of the cane against her tender bottom was shocking. She yelped again as he caned her between her thighs, short hard raps against her tender, greedy pussy flesh, down the length of her leg, then back up over her ass. She didn’t know where the next blow would land, and she wanted nothing more than to roll away and attempt to crawl under the couch to hide.

And then he was done.

The cane hit the table in front of the couch with a clatter. The quick zzzzp of his fly was the only warning she had before his cock slid into her pussy.

He fucked hard and deep into her, his fist tangled in her hair, arching her back. He spoke not a word, and ignored the phone when it rang again. He pumped at the rhythm of the classical love song, and when she was that close to cumming, her nipples feeling like they would explode, he pulled out of her greedy pussy, leaving her gasping and yearning.

“Now, slut. Now you may suck my cock.”

Flake

“I didn’t mean to forget…you know I’m a flake..” her voice trailed off at his stern look.

“I’ve gone over this a dozen times. Perhaps more. You’re not a child, Emmy. You’re a woman, a grown-up, a slut, my wife.”

She bit her lip. She truly hated disappointing him, breaking his rules. It wasn’t intentionally done. It was forgetfulness.

“I could brand them on your inner thigh, or tattoo them on your tits.”

She shook her head wildly. She was terrified by the very idea of branding, and while tattooing held a certain nervous titillation, she didn’t want her rules tattooed on her breasts!

“I could make you write lines, but we’ve done that a time or two or twenty and that hasn’t changed anything either. Has it?”

Solemnly she shook her head from side to side. He turned away, frowning. She was too damned cute. Yet, working towards a domestic obedience was important to them both. It bound them closer together, weaved them deeply into each others minds. And it pleased him to be in charge, just as it pleased her to follow directions. At least…when she remembered them. He almost sighed.

What to do to help remind her, that was the question. He looked out the window. The winds had dropped off at last. It was not so cold now, though the skies were gloomy with incipient snow. She sat just at the periphery of his vision, naked, palms on her thighs. He wanted nothing so much as to ram his cock into her penitent mouth, bend her backwards until her head was on the floor and he over her, driving his shaft deep down her willing throat.

That wouldn’t serve as discipline though. She would enjoy being used that way. As he gazed outside, pondering his options, the first fat snowflakes dropped from the sky. He watched as a large one fell, landing with a soggy splat on the back patio.

“Slut. Go fetch  your leash.” The sudden idea filled him with mirth. She feared the idea of branding, yet wasn’t overfond of cold. This would be the perfect solution.

In moments, she was back, her ass swaying side to side, leash in her mouth. She was obviously trying to seduce her way out of trouble, the little slut.

“Heel,” he said as he snapped the lead onto her collar, giving it a shake. He opened the kitchen door, led her down the steps.

“Master!” her voice rose in pitch as she encountered the wet flakes on her knees and palms. “It’s snowing out here!”

“I know.”

Leading her to the slumbering rose-bush at the side of the yard, he tied her leash to it, careful to not snag his skin on thorns. This time of year, they were hard as rock and seemed twice as sharp as a diamond blade.

“Stay. You’ll want to be verrrrry careful about moving around, slut. These thorns are prickly as hell.” He smiled down at her. She frowned, eyes furrowed. Good! He’d totally confused her.

“But…”

“Stay. Perhaps this will help you be less of a ‘flake’ as you called yourself a bit ago,” he remonstrated her. Running his finger down her nose, giving her cheek a small slap, he turned and went back into the house. Standing just out of sight, he watched out the window as the snowflakes fell gently upon her.

Master & nilla & the giggles

Dateline: Monday night

Master and I often talk on Monday evenings as He drives home from a late meeting. And tonight, can you guess what He wanted to talk about?

Well?

Can you?

If you said “the nipple incident” that I wrote about yesterday, you would be correctamundo (to use His vernacular!)

Yes, He opened the conversation with “You…grabbed my nipple. I still cannot believe the audacity…”

And there ensued a long, long period of time of me, giggling my ass off. I heard Him laugh once, quickly muffled, as He extolled the “violation of His Personage”…

And He asked how my bruises were. Yes, I said, they hurt. And they are very black and blue. And I thanked Him, because we both know I love the pain…

And then He started talking about our upcoming meet. But in a second, He interrupted Himself…

hang on now, *mumble mumble*, turning left here, okay..Okay nilla…

And I break into His muttering with an incredulous “Where *are* You, Master?”

On my way home from work, of course.

“Don’t you drive home every day from there?”

There was a pause. Just a moment, but He’s quick, my Master. Verrah quick.

Wait. Wait a second…are you…being a wiseass?

I’m giggling wildly now.

Aren’t you in enough trouble already? What are you thinking slut? Are you drinking?

I’m laughing so hard now I can barely breath. OMG, I’m holding my belly and laughing at the tone in His voice. He knows I rarely drink, so that made the giggles worse.

I just don’t understand why you do this to yourself. You know there will be payment, don’t you? *He pauses as I gasp out a giggle-filled ‘yes Sir’…* Hmmmmm,

He mutters. Then starts to talk about my most *hated* toy (and His eternal favorite)…the dreaded pink hairbrush. OMG how I hate and revile this “toy”. He loves it for two reasons:  one, the totally (stupid) innocent way that I showed it to Him a year ago, being so happy to have found a tool that will detangle my hair efficiently after a play date…and His instant “stealing” of it as “His”.  I must keep it  in my care. I must use it daily. I can’t help but think of Him nailing me with the fucking thing.

That thing packs one *hell* of a whap. And that’s the second thing He likes about it. He can both hear and feel the sound of it breaking flesh. Yes, that’s what it feels like. Breaking flesh. Oh. Gross. And it takes my breath away when He uses it. One hard swat will make all the air go out of my lungs and not seem all that important to go back in…and He LOVES the sound of the thud as it hits my ass.

He spent several lovely minutes explaining that the brush will be a key player on our play-day.

Oh joy.

Suddenly…I’m not quite so giggly anymore.

I’m pondering as to whether the fucking brush is “flushable”…you know…like a tampon?

Then again if He gets here and there is no hairbrush? That would be even worse. And that’s pretty hard to imagine.

And I can imagine pretty danged good.

Okay.

Fucking hairbrush can stay. But I’m gonna be watching it out of the corner of my eye all week, and if it decides to run away from home?

I’m not gonna stop it.

Just sayin’….

😉

 

yes, i know what today is. it seemed better to me to spend this day making you all smile a wee bit. it is a day of remembering, and a day of deeply mixed blessings for me. it is a day of sadness, mourning, and remembering that we must move forward and live our lives…in doing so we give validity to those who died, and those who continue to die in this war with no apparent end. Love, nilla

Bad Slut…

At my new job, last week, I made a mistake. Okay, it wasn’t a ginormous one, and it was made “okay”…and I learned a valuable lesson about checking the materials I’m supposed to be checking. If my supervisor had been irate, that may have colored the situation, but she wasn’t. She feels as I do, that we learn from our mistakes. Maybe that’s more of an age thing? I remember getting all bent out of shape when I was younger…but I digress.

Actually, I am not digressing.

I’m stalling.

If you read Saturday’s post, at the very end I mentioned that Master and I did have a phone phuck date after all, cleverly disguised by Him until the very last second.

And I had two lovely, yummy, intense O’s…the second one was even a squirty one! Whoa, those are the best! So wicked and dirty and …a whole body kind of orgasm.

Usually He’ll tell me “NO MORE, nilla. You are DONE!” And direct me to put my toys away. Saturday night, He did not. We talked, and talked and talked, until very late. And when we hung up, there were these toys I was sitting with.  And…no prohibition.

I did think about it. It was late, and I was tired. But my pussy was buzzy and happy and wet and …I was still so turned on.

Talking to Him does that to me, you see. The sound of His voice instantly dampens my folds, makes me yearn.

Is your hand over your mouth now, in shock and disbelief…? Are you saying “no nilla…oh no…don’t!”  ?

It’s too late.

I did.

I was the worst kind of slut.

An orgasm stealer. To be sure, He had not disallowed it. That is a line I would never cross. But I knew what the right choice was, and I chose to take advantage of the loophole.

That’s not very submissive.

That’s not being a good girl at all. To be sure, before I was wearing His collar, I’d sneak O’s like that all the time, and He’d tweak me about it, but I wasn’t prohibited from it.

So on the technicality side? It wasn’t really fully stolen. But it was very bad form.

Sunday we had a loooooong face time at Starbucks.  I am inherently honest (all evidence to the contrary, I really am!).

So…. I told Him, early on.

He handles annoyance so well. Puts on this stoic face. Looks at me. Nods to Himself. Then, in that moment, He is processing. Pondering. We talk about other things, after he admonishes me for my choice. Later there is some horsing around, poking (and bruises), grabbing, subtle public torture. We laugh, He pulled my hair, He hurt me, and teased me. We had a good, good time.

A bit of time passes, I go to the girls room. When I come back, He is tapping His lip, looking at His computer.

“You know how I’m going to punish you for your transgression?”

I stare at Him. Instantly I know it will happen next weekend, when we are together.

“Fucking silver cake thingy?” I ask, a bit fearfully. But then I know. I know exactly how He will punish me.

“Mr. Belt…” I rush to say, even as He is shaking His head ‘no’ to FSCT. He nods.

“Exactly. And it will be a lesson that you will never forget, little girl.”

*gulp*

It is late as I write this (Sunday night) and when I came up to bed, there was a message on my phone.

“Don’t even ask.”

Yeah. He’s pissed.

(can’t blame Him.)

I wrote this not at His behest, but as a cautionary tale. Nilla can and does fuck up, sometimes in epic form.

Don’t try this at home.

Really.

Just…don’t.

Mechanic, working it out

Warning!   This is not for the faint of heart…the links will take you back to the story chapter by chapter to refresh you…Here be Dragons of epic proportions!  ~nilla~

 

He strolled around the house. Last night had ended well…for him at least. The two sluts that he’d taken possession of the day before had slept on the floor at the foot of his bed. Once during the night he’d awoken, gotten up to piss. Returning, he pulled one of them up by the hair and told it to lick his cock dry. The struggle was brief; his hold on the hair, likely the boyfuck’s hair, had been impervious to wriggling. His cock had been licked dry, and then he relaxed his grip and gotten back to bed.

When he rose, they were gone, and he wondered if they’d fled.

But when he’d come into the kitchen there they were, making breakfast and coffee. The kitchen floor had been scrubbed, and gleamed in the morning light. The scent of coffee began percolating through the room, and he noticed the counters were tidy and clean, the appliances sparkled, and the loose knob on the back door had been tightened.

He nodded, taking the mug of coffee offered to him.

“You need names. I can’t call you slut and slut. Too fucking confusing. So you,” he pointed with the mug towards Jim, “you’re a pussy.” He sneered the word out, admiring the cringe on the soft man’s face.

“Yeah. Pussy. And you…” he took a sip, looking over the rim of the mug at Angela, who had dared to raid the laundry hamper and was wearing one of his own shirts. Sexy. Impudent. Punishable. But….after she finished cooking breakfast, which looked to be the lightest pancakes he’d ever seen.

“You’re a tiger…got some sass in you, some fight…That’s okay, I don’t mind pushing you back down into your place. Makes it all the more fun for me, really.  Pussy, Tiger. ” He laughed, a hard, almost mean laugh, and took another sip of the coffee.

“Pussy, come sit under the table and suck my dick. Not hard, just keep it warm and harden it up for me. After breakfast I’m gonna put Tiger on the table and fuck her hard up her asshole.”

He loved the sudden clenching of her shoulders, the ultra rigid stance.

“no.” It was quiet and defiant.

In a heartbeat, he was up and behind her, his fist in her hair, bending her back. “You don’t get a fuckin’ vote here, cunt. You work for my work in return. And you better not burn those pancakes because they look fuckin’ delicious. And if you fuck them up, I’ll whallop the shit out of you before I fuck your ass.  Got it?”

He punctuated the last few words with a hard shake of her head with his fistful of hair. He watched the tear flow from the eye closest to him. It made his dick throb.

“Yes Sir,” she whispered.

 

**********************************************

She lay on the table, her head in the plate with the detritus of His breakfast. She could smell the syrup, and imagined the bits of leftover pancake and bacon stuck in her hair.  She, who was so fastidious, was a fucking mess. He was smacking her pussy, her legs splayed open. She dared not move them, though the pain was stinging and made her want to run screaming from this fucking house of horror.

Yet for some reason, she had stayed. She could have left last night, or this morning. Yet, she came down, cleaned, scrubbed, and prepared breakfast for Him. Soon her boyfriend had joined her, helping with the cleaning, and in some light fixing. He was a dork, but he could use a screwdriver.

“You might think you hate this, Tiger, but you’re so wet my hand is splashing. This could cause a fucking tidal wave!” He laughed. She hated when he made fun of her. She was so fucking embarrassed by being so turned on by what he kept doing to her, to Jim…Pussy. She better not fuck up and call him by his regular name or she’d be caned for it. This pussy smacking was His punishment for taking his shirt, AND for daring to wear it when he’d told them yesterday they had to be naked. She hated him. Hated him. Her cunt gushed with  His final smack.

“Pussy, get the fuck over here and lick her asshole. That’s right, yes, nice and wet and deep…stick that tongue in there. Right…lap it…lap it…come on you fucktard…wet. Your spit is the only lube this cunt is gonna get…if her ass hurts, you’re gonna hear about it, so fucking prepare her ass for my cock!”

She writhed and moaned. She hated it…she loved it. So fucking humiliating…she could feel the wetness coming from her pussy….and Ji…Pussy lapping at her…ohhhh…his tongue thrust in an out of her asshole, a soft, wet, hot precursor to something much more intense.

“Move outta my way, I got an ass to fuck.” He shoved Pussy out of the way, and pulled her down off the table.

“Turn over.  Put your hands behind and open your butt cheeks for me, that’s it, at least one of you can follow directions…yeah…oh…yeah…tight…nice…oh…shut the fuck up cunt…oooohhh, nice and hot and tight. Wait. Let’s do that again.”

He pulled his cockhead out of her ass, then pressed it against the entrance again. She whimpered, wanting to fight.

“It hurts…” she moaned as he pulled out and popped in again.

“Oh, Tiger, it is so much more fun for me when it does…” Without warning he shoved his hips forward, nearly burying his length inside her rectum. She reared up a bit, squealing and moaning.

“Pussy, reach under her there and grab her nipples. Good. pull them back down to the table, will you? Good. Don’t let them go. You hold them nice and tight.”

He pulled out, slapping her hip, then thrust deeply. She felt the scrunchy curls at the base of his shaft pressing against the skin of  her soft round ass. Her nipples ached, as for once her pussy of a boyfriend did exactly as he was told. The pain in her ass was mirrored in her tits, the ache an echo of her heartbeat. She was beyond tears, beyond screaming, just a slow and steady wail as he fucked her butt relentlessly.

His cock pulsed and jetted streams of cum up her asspipe. He paused, breathing hard, legs trembling. All this fucking took a toll after a while. Pushing off the limp slut on the table, he pointed his finger at the Pussy.

“You go over there and clean up that hole. It’s full of cum…and I want it sparkling, clean and dry when I get back from my shower. Then I’ll have chores for the two of you to get to…got my boys comin’ over for poker tonight…and we’re gonna have one hell of a partay!”

Rubbing his balls, he headed for the bathroom, as the Pussy buried his face in the wet crack of his girlfriend.

It was turning out to be a fucking fine morning!