A Question for Question Month!

Jz writes:

They’ve given you a trophy:
“World’s Best __________”
What is written in the blank?

Thanks for a really challenging question, Jz!! I’ve been thinking about this question a lot. She wrote this days ago and still I ponder. What am I really good at? Well, a cop out answer is “being me”…but I doubt that they give anyone a trophy for that.

And then I think “Liar”…because this whole life on the other side of the slash is a complete lie to the vanilla side of my life. With the exception of two friends who share my proclivities, and my M, no one in my vanilla life even has an inkling of who I am on the inside. It’s been 10 years since my “awakening”, an event that was triggered by one of the darkest periods in my marriage. Ten years — a DECADE — since I discovered that there was a name for these longings, for the dirty nasty things I like, that turn me on, that make me wet, that make me cum. Ten years since I discovered my inner slut.

And then I wonder if “Worlds Best Liar” fits, you know? “Worlds Best” is pretty big league- I’m thinking Bernie Madoff kind of big. Of course, he wasn’t the best liar, because he did get caught…

And liar has such a negative connotation. There’s guilt involved. The guilt of deception, because I’m one way in my day to day, and another way in my head. In here. Where I can write out my fantasies, and share them with other like-minded peeps. Like you.

And then I think…well, I’ll bet YOU don’t walk around wearing a vest with all your D/s badges on them, right? You don’t have an “I’M A FUCKING ASSHOLE DOM” button that you wear to the grocery store, right? Nor a “I’M A CUNT” or “I’LL FUCK YOU” or “USE MY HOLES” when you’re going to the mall, right?

Not in real life.

This … thing… we do, who we are when we do it…it’s real. It’s real to us, and our partner(s). It’s real in the moment, in our domination and our submission. That’s not a lie.

We have, each in our own way, learned to balance the dark with the vanilla, our needs versus our daily life, knowing that it’s really pretty much impossible to be out living openly as a Dom, or as a submissive and still be in the world, adulting. It’s not just about the sex…it’s about the core of who we are. Many submissives are strong and, if not exactly dominant in their daily lives, are at least in strong leadership roles. And I’m sure there are dominants out there who are not the boss at their jobs, who have to follow directions from someone above them.

We have to get along in our world, after all.

What we bring to our relationships is that other. The part of us that is tamped down during the many hours, days, weeks that our vanilla lives demand from us. Having time to do, to be, who we really are with our Dom or our sub? That’s freedom from the reality of life. After all, would I really want my entire life to be stuck in some Dom’s cellar, used only for the holes i have?

Oh hell no.  But it’s a fantasy that never fails to make me have the most intense orgasm!

And now, I’ve strayed a bit from that trophy title haven’t I? But I needed to sort through all the thoughts that have been rolling around in my noggin since I read it. I’m not the worlds best writer because I don’t follow all the rules for writing perfection, and my style isn’t for everyone (then again, neither is Tolstoy, and War and Peace is a classic…).  I’m thinking of all the things I’m not…ruling out my award. Maybe it’s time I think about what I am…a good friend, a good mom, a good pet mom, a good gardener, and a decent cook. I’m great at swearing, working hard, not giving up, and being creative. But what would you give me an award for?

Oh. Oh I know. I know what I’m really, really REALLY good at.

Worlds Best HUGGER

A Bit of a Sad

Man, I’m so frustrated I could scream! In many ways, mind you. Sexually frustrated. Needing to be beaten frustrated. Tired of injuries frustrated.

Our playtime has had to be cancelled. I left it in his lap, but I knew he would decide to hold off.  My shoulder injury has worsened, and it looks at this point like there could be surgery involved. Himself has finally healed from his own shoulder issues (6 months!)…so he knows what I’m dealing with here.

And gods above, I’m so …happy? too. He said “While I revel in the pain I cause you, I don’t want you to be hurt…no..” he pauses, starts again…”I don’t want you to be permanently harmed by my accidentally hitting you and furthering the damage to your shoulder. If  you’re hurt by me, that’s one thing. It’s fun and it sexy and it’s what I do. I get pleasure from hurting you, slut. But I’m not going to do anything that would permanently disable you. Because you still need to take care of your family, and run your business, and live your life, and if I harm your injury then I’m affecting your daily life and that’s not what I do.”

It made me feel unbelievably nurtured. Warm and fuzzy and loved. Make no mistake, this caring, thoughtful man is a fucking bastard during playtime. He hurts me terribly wonderfully. But he gets it, that I still need to do stuff. Frankly, I know he enjoys me telling him how hard it was for me to work after he’s beaten me. How it ached when I sat, or how it made me wince to reach for something…he eats that shit up! The pain he’s caused, and its lingering after-effects are a turn-on for him. And, okay, for me as well. I freely admit I’m horny for weeks after a good play session.

But this kind of pain isn’t kink-inspired. It’s just life, and age, and work and who knows what happened that kicked it back up a notch or twelve. I’m really hoping to not have this surgery, but I won’t know any details for a few weeks at least. It’s the waiting and the not knowing that are the hardest part, really.


Sometimes? Life sucks even more that this slut can.



OMG! Why is it that when I have a hot hot story burning in my mind, that my time is suddenly 99.99% usurped by life???

NOT to mention the fact that my M was going to finally let me have an orgasm–if the Boston Bruins (ice hockey) won. They have been on a hot streak this year. So of course, with my relief and release in sight, the fuckers have to lose the game.


Anyway, I just don’t have the time, or active concentration to write tonight, and tomorrow is HNT (thankfully done earlier this past weekend). I’m hoping that I’ll have time to write this weekend, but yanno, there’s a kind of important game ahead…and I am sure I don’t have to tell you I’m giving the Patriots my full attention on Sunday!

Hang in there peeps. I’m writing the next chapter in bits and bobs of stolen minutes…but I AM still writing. (and thanks to M, writhing!)


P.S. You may notice a change in my blog–I’ve updated it a bit–tidied it up, modernized with a new theme. I think it’s crisper and lighter and easier to read. If there are bits missing that you are looking for, do let me know, and I’ll see if I can get them loaded in the new format. Do let me know what you think.

Happy New Year!

Yeah, yeah it’s late blah blah.

I know.

But frankly? Relating back to my prior post, it’s been fucking cold up here. So cold, in fact, that I could NOT sit in my room and type because my fingers were hiding. And shaking. Or bundled up in mittens. In the house, peeps. And I know we are not alone in the c-c-cold…it’s been cold in a lot of places, I know it. Friends with frozen pipes in the mid-west. Friends  in the south dealing with snow and ice and freezing (for them) temps. And I have a beloved friend in Vermont who told me it had been double-digits below zero last weekend.

Think about that for a moment.

Double. Digits. Below. Zero.

That was the actual fucking AIR temperature.

I’m never moving to Vermont. Ever. I’m handling this cold–barely. But that is pure torture of a kind that would have me throwing out my safeword like the President throws out the opening pitch of the World Series. And then today came. It’s amazing! It’s WONDERFUL!  It’s 22* blissful degrees. Now, a few weeks ago, 22* would have evoked a shiver. Perhaps a delicate shudder. “Oh dear, it’s 22*, peeps…”

What a difference a week makes. After never even popping up close to 20 for a full seven days (we tied a record set one hundred years ago), today, many of us are in tee shirts. The woodstoves are quiet, the house heaters are actually able to go off for periods of time, and everyone is smiling.

Because it’s warm, doncha know?!

And you know what it means when it warms up after a cold spell in New England, right? It means snow is coming. Yup. It always, always works that way.  Freeze your asses off, and BOOM a snowstorm gets us back on track as far as temperature goes. (Mom Nature: “okay, I’ll warm you up…but it comes with a price…” )

So it’s not just a bit of snow. Not a “regular” storm. Nope.

It’s a nor’easter! (Bonus points if you read that in voice of the Wizard of Oz, “it’s a twistah!”). Make no mistake, though. We LOVE our nor’easters up here. Oh , we shudder and plan, and check for salt and the shovels. We grumble and gripe and “frigging snow..” and make sure all and sundry have been told

“didja hear it’s gonna snow??!”

and gear up the cars and all that..but deep in our Yankee hearts, we LOVE a big old snowstorm.

I’m no exception to that.

A day at home will mean time to write. Time to nap. Time to chill.

Ah. Yeah, that. “Chill”…

for after the storm? It’s going to get wicked cold. No, really.


Yeah, yeah, I know this is a sex blog. But it’s really hard to get all excited about sexy stuff when you have to wear three layers in your house because it is so damn cold. And tomorrow is HNT day…which means cold nips. Frozen nips. Tits with big ole goose bumps on ’em.  Hmmm…kinda makes me think of a story…and …okay, I can see there’s still some sexy stuff hidden in the deep, warm corners of my dirty little mind.

So now you have something to look forward to…a sexy little tale on the coldest day of the new year (maybe the coldest day all year with none to break it? One can only hope.)

Polish those shovels, pervie peeps, and I’ll be back. I have a sudden urge to write. And then…”nap”…hehehe.





Catching Up

Oh my!

It’s been a hectic few weeks, hasn’t it? This holiday rush thing is entirely too much to deal with on top of all the other LIFE things that are going on. I think I’ve replied to all my comments…I hate letting them go, but sometimes I only have 25 minutes to sit and bang out a story (see what I did there? LOL) and often I don’t even know what I’m going to write, I just know I need to make writing a few times a week a commitment, and so that’s where I’m at. My fingers start moving, and things pop into (out of?) my rather perverse imagination, and BOOM! I’m pretty blessed that I’m able to write that way. No outlines, no agonizing about what words to go where. I’m an off the cuff kind of person in real life, and that’s exactly how I write!

My babygirl has been sick and since I have taught my children to share, she decided to do exactly that. Oh, I tried to avoid it. I was supposed to luncheon and visit with Jz last weekend, and had to beg off because who wants to infect their friends at this time of the year (or anytime, really!)? And I wasn’t feeling really sick…until I was. Last week was kind of a blur, but thanks to the marvelous intervention of antibiotics, I’m well and truly recovered. Phew! I had no voice for several days, so I couldn’t even talk with M…which I hate. We’re pretty lax about texting one another, though we do it. But gosh I love the timbre of his voice. And the little witticisms that come from talking to him way more than when he texts. And some of the naughtiness that he’ll say but not think to write. So we’re both pretty happy my voice came back.


I’ve kinda lost it again.

OMG the Patriots vs Pittsburg tonight. It was a down-to-the-wire game, and the last 2 minutes were INTENSE. I was (for real) screaming my head off. Jumping up and down. Screaming some more.

Until, you know, I couldn’t even eke out a squeak. It’ll be better by tomorrow (i hope!) but it was worth it! (Go Pats!)

Have you noted the very few football posts this year? And me, a diehard Patriots fan? Tsk! Well, now you have tonights HOO RAH! at any rate.


Have a great last week before Christmas, dear pervie peeps!





It’s been hard, these last few months not seeing Him at all. I am unkinked, adrift, lost. Nature abhors a vacuum, so when there is an empty slot of time in my life, it is filled nearly immediately. My work has grown exponentially to the time we don’t spend together. It leaves me truly vanilla.

I’m not depressed, exactly.

I think I’m too busy to feel.

To feel anythings.

The good stuff. The bad stuff. The feelings of loss and aloneness that not having him more intimately entwined in my life. He’s not gone. We’re still a couple.

And yet, not.

I wrote to him last night. Because I let a little of the hurt (the need for hurt?) seep into my awareness.

The less we communicate, the less we see each other, the less connection i feel…and i fill up those empty places with work. I need you. It’s as simple as that. Or i will just fade away.


I’m beyond vanilla..im almost invisible and there’s no one to hear my screaming.

He wrote back within two minutes.

                         I hear it.

It relieved me. That he got it. That he didn’t laugh it off, or joke it away, that he could *feel* my deep sense of loss. This…this nasty, dirty, terrible thing we do–it’s part of me. It’s a name I can put to those craven desires that I didn’t understand for so terribly long. I know I’m kind of late to the party here, just discovering kink in the last year of my 40’s, but these last 9 years have shown me parts of myself, and taught me to love them as part of my whole being. I am what I am. I can’t be anything else. There’s a name and a need and it can be stuffed away…but it leaves me feeling less than whole, and a whole lot less.

He got it.

And that means more to me than all the “there, there’s” in the world.


I know, you’re used to seeing a pic of my boobies here on Thursdays. But I’m going to be late on that, simply because I’ve been too busy working to even snap a somewhat sexy pic. I don’t take *hours* to set up, gods no! But I’d like to be a little bit in the spirit of the thing, you know. And I have other stuff to talk about. And if I get time, later this week (insert  wild, raucous laugher here) I’ll even post a story that’s been floating around my head this last week.

You know from my last post that M has seriously fucked with my brain. This morning, after having not one, but TWO nights in a row of nightmares about being used by ‘bad’ doms, I had to write to Him.

I had to say something I haven’t said in all the 8.5 years that we’ve been together. Or is it 9? I forget. I guess it is close to 9. Anyway, I’m dithering.

I had to lay out a hard line in the sand. Boundaries. Me, who never, ever, EVER thought she’d say no to something, finally had to. Hey, I’m not young anymore. I’m bumping up against my 6th decade on this planet, and I’d like to make it to the 7th or 8th or beyond, even. (There’s a big eclipse in 2072 that I’d like to see…)

Yes, I sent him a list of hard limits.

No asshole licking (does that make me wimp?) despite the fact that I’ve done it before. Back then, I found it extremely unpleasant, even though it also turned me on. Because I’ perverse like that. Now I’m older, wiser (at least a little) and can appreciate the danger factor in picking up a disease from licking some strangers shitter.

No breath play. There was an asphyxiation sex play death in my area recently. Kind of shook me. I love watching a guys hand around a gals throat when I watch porn, but I don’t really want to be choked out when a strangers dick is down it.

No knife/gun play. I guess that should have been a hard limit a long time ago but it never was an issue between us. But he said Doms plural, so who knows what they could bring to the table…er…bed?

I’m not sure even 20 minute passed before I got a text from him.

“What the fuck nilla,” it began, and I knew then that I’d shown him I doubted him. I didn’t. I doubted them, but it looks like I doubted his judgement and I could see it…after the fact, of course.

“Call me later this morning.”

He never asks me to call him in the morning. It’s a challenge with both of our schedules. But I made it happen. The phone call started the way the text ended. Except for the tone.

“What in the everloving holy fuck would ever make you think that I’d put you in that position to be harmed like that?”  he says, his tone mingled perplexity and …love?

I stuttered. Stammered.  First, that he showed me that kind of caring. We have a strange relationship, one that looks weird from the outside of “us”. I know he cares for me and can’t usually say the words. He shows it, but it just isn’t Him to be all lovey-dovey about it. I know he wouldn’t kill me…or let anyone else harm me. I know it deep in that safe spot inside of me that allows him to hurt me so good.

But I had been really scared.

I was scared for a week, and I finally couldn’t not ask.

We talked it out.

I didn’t remember tell him about the nightmares, but I will. And we’re good, though I could tell there was still some feeling of WTF, slut in there. He knows I’m a flighty and ofttimes off the wall slut. I’m not sure he fully realized how much he’d freaked me out!

On the bad side, and totally unrelated to this little D/s hiccup, he  might need to cancel our playtime due to a situation totally out of his control, something he may have to attend.  And he gave me days of notice, so I won’t be moping Saturday afternoon.

It will suck for us both. He told me that he’s hoping to wiggle out of it if at all possible. That’s major, as he usually doesn’t say stuff like that. Like…ever. It helps a lot, knowing this, that he wants to hurt me, fuck me, be with me.

So we’re good, crisis averted for the nonce. I’ll keep you posted on tittypix, and playtime. 😀

If you don’t get titty pix, you’ll KNOW we had playtime and I was just too busy being fucked and spanked to post.

(wouldn’t that be great?!)

















Just Random Stuff

I had a whopper of a sex dream the other night. Woke up and thought “I’ll remember this” and fell back asleep. When I woke up for reals?

Couldn’t remember one fucking thing.


M and I had a playday planned soon, but we’ve had to bump it. Grrr. MY life is so CRAZY!! Hopefully we can make our combined weird schedules coincide not too far from our original day but man, this stuff used to be easy! Now that my kids are older, and he’s working some weekends, it’s truly a juggling act.

However, we both understand the importance of seeing one another more often, so we keep pushing until we do get it to work. It WILL work!


I’m busy in a good way, too. When I’m not working, I’m out in the yard (a lot more this year than it prior years.) It’s AMAZING therapy! Even if I am fighting the curse of creeper vine. That stuff has been loving our strange NE weather. First a heat wave last week, and barely–I mean barely–broke 60 today. Brrr! But the plants are loving it, even if the humans had to dig deeply into closets to avoid freezing.

The cool nights are GREAT for sleeping, however, which is also good therapy. Anyone else struggling to make 5 or more contiguous hours of sleep lately? It’s great for the mood, increasing the libido…

…And maybe another good sex dream?

(there’s a notepad beside my bed now…)


I had the dirtiest masturbation fantasy the other day. Like seriously bad, awful, hot, nasty, omg I can’t believe I fantasized that.

Man oh man did I squirt.

I’m just so bad like that!


Okay, time for bed…wait…what?

What’s that you’re saying?

OMG, you want me to tell you about it? *blushes* Geeze, I’m not sure I want you to get the wrong idea about me. (Or would that be the right idea? Tired and confuddled.)

Okay, let me think about it, because this tired old slut is going to bed. With a few blankets tonight. And hopes of time to think about writing that dark tale down.



It Works for Us

It had been a long, long, long time since he and I had any extended play time. And when we have extended time apart, he doesn’t task me with things to do — which is good because I just simply don’t have the time available to do much with being his “good little slut”.

Does that shock you to your core, that last statement there?

Yeah, me too. Once, long ago when this was new and hot and ohmahgawd I wanna do it all and do it now and do it with anyone… I would have thought that a “slut” like that was a bad one. A non-submissive, just a whore.

But now? I’ve been doing this dark and naughty thing we do for a long time…and I am older and wiser. We all serve our tops in a variety of ways…and in the ways that work best for each of our relationships. For all of those relationships that start out gangbusters and going hardcore 24/7 Dom/slave? Very few make it. Sure there is Omega and mouse…and Scott and kaya…and there’s Fiona and her Sir…and if I’ve forgotten to add YOU, apologies. Those are the lone few that leapt to my mind this late evening as I write.

The point here is that you have to make this D/s thing work for YOU. Well you and your Top…but you know that I meant that, right? Anyway…you can’t do this for anyone else. Not for blogland, not for the accolades of others in the lifestyle. If it works for you and makes you happy, then go for it. Don’t feel the need to copy anyone else’s thing and feel that you’re doin’ it wrong if you don’t.

So you all know that M and I don’t live together. We’re semi LDR…(well, long distance as in around 40 miles or so, as opposed to cross-country!)…but between his responsibilities and mine…it’s been very hard on us these last two years. He doesn’t like to Dom (read: give tasks, sex act etc) unless he’s there to reap the benefits of the torment. He’s VERY hands on.

When we played a few weeks ago, it was hard and rough and fast. And cuddling and tickling and pain. And kisses that lasted forever, and brutal fucking and being fingered until I thought my cunt would be swollen and tender forever, followed by that wonderful languid feeling of being well used.

There is also the “one last orgasm” thing he does, when it just hurts so. fucking. much. His fingers jab into my swollen and tender pussy, and I moan and thrash, and he holds me down with brutality, and savages me…and then I’m hot and it’s good and it hurts and oooomygawd…I’m fucking back and then I come and it’s like I’m dying with it…a sudden surging rush of liquid, a bed-soaking orgasm that drains me totally until I fall into the depths of subspace.

All that good stuff aside? He won’t tell me what to wear, won’t tell me what to eat, won’t tell me when to go to bed. He’s my Dom, not my keeper. I’m not his pet, nor his child…so those are my decisions to make. He really doesn’t have a way to enforce it, so if I fuck up? What can be done from afar? Not much. It has worked out to an occasional “you will have two half-o’s tonight, 3 minutes apart, no cumming” and that’s it.

A few years ago I would have been unhappy with that. But these days, when my vanilla life is jam packed–between college teen and schooling two younger kids, and my various jobs and running my own business? I’m stretched pretty thin. There have been times I’ve thought seriously of stopping this blog because how boring am I?

But then I have these dreams, or even these naughty “thinks” that come up in the course of my doing some mundane task or other…and I know I need this outlet to be here for me. Because I am a submissive and I am a slut and I am a horny wench, and I do have a warped sense of what is sexy…sometimes it’s sweet with a touch of pain or teasing, and sometimes it is dark, and vile and nasty and so …untoward…coming out of my head.

Here is a place that I don’t feel at all judged by that.

So you’re stuck with me. And I’m stuck with him, and he with me. We’ll go on making this wacky wild nasty thing we do work…because it does work.

Holding Space

We’re meeting soon, very soon.

And I admit it–I’m really out of slut mode. Slut practice. Slut anything. The libido is low–because when you fill ALL your time with “OMG I GOTTA GET THIS DONE” you just don’t have time for anything else.

Not the fun/hot/wonderful/scary porn I like to watch and read.

Not the porn I like to write.


And yet.

There is this tiny kernel deep inside that…simmers.

Like that last tiny ember in a campfire that once blazed hot as a blast furnace.

Yeaup…like that. Because you know…and I know…that if attention is given to that ember, and it’s blown on, and nurtured even a little bit, and given some sustenance (the touch of His hand on my bottom, or gripping my arm or tit or hair and roughing me up) that it will come back to life, burning merrily as if it had never been banked to the verge of going out.

He’ll help me with that, He will.

I said to Him the other day…’i’m nervous…about the pain…about being able to take it…about all of it’

and HE said

“nilla–it’s all about the pain. And you’ll take it.”

And then He just dropped the subject, went on with whatever else we were talking about, like it was already handled. I suppose just now that I’m a work in progress. Not feeling my super-slut powers–they must be dormant– right? Yes, I do believe that they ARE there someplace…I just need to rout through my “mental closet” and find them again.