Tied into Submission

I –for all that I want it–haven’t been very submissive. We talk like friends, he and I, with laughter and teasing. We’re not in a rut, but both of us realize that the tasking and rules of times gone by don’t seem to be a part of our current dynamic.

It’s fine, really. I’m busy. He’s busy.

But it leaves me feeling nervous for playtime. Can I submit? Do I want to submit? Do I want the pain? Can I take it? This, after 8 1/2 years. *wry grin* Yeah. Still to question if I can.

But he is wise in the ways of nilla, and circumvents all that. He physically overpowers me, first off. He uses that tone of voice, and there is nothing I can do but obey. (And yes, he’s not asking me to kill someone in the next room…I’m talking playime here, not falling into the throws of Stockholm syndrome!) He touches me, sometimes softly, sometimes harshly and I hold my breath waiting for which it will be.

He cuffs my wrists to my thighs, then later rigs this system where I am further secured to crossed lines in the middle of the bed. I literally can. Not. Move. My legs won’t fully close, my hands are useless, and I’m existing only for his pleasure.

When he notes this he is quite pleased with himself, and sets to pinching my ass and swatting it. He uses his hands and that blasted olive wood spoon I gave him. It hurts and I’m whimpering and humping my ass up and down the 2 inches it’ll move…and he laughs.

I can’t get away.

I *must* submit to him, to whatever he’s got planned in his devious mind. I come a million times. He finger fucks me, and torments with my Hitachi. (OMFG, OMFG). I whimper and cry and beg.

He ignores me.

(Maybe he laughs, too. I can’t remember huge chunks of that time, other than the Hitachi and orgasms and trying to breathe.)

And I realize, as I lay there unable to defend myself, unable to stop him, that while he forced my submission, I am now wholeheartedly giving it up to him.

Take me.

Fuck me.

Use me.

Hurt me.

Until I’m floating, I’m happy, I’m hurting.

By taking my body, he has freed my mind.



HNT- A Well Spanked Ass


Our time together was amazing. Not only because we hadn’t been together this way in months…but for the wonderful mix of tenderness and wicked pain. He started right away, as if His fingers had been itching to be turned loose on my body.

It was amazing…because He only used his hands. We were both very tactile with each other, touching and caressing…and His spanking and pinching until I was dancing to get away, and squealing, and finally, whimpering.

And there was this spanking–later there were wicked pinches, and more spanking–and when my ass was finally the “right shade of red”– redder than this…He took an enormous bite from the burning-hot right cheek.

But before all that, there was His body pressed hard against mine, pinning me firmly to the bed while He took a long, sweet time spanking my ass. He just starts hard–no warm ups for Him– and it felt good, and right, and necessary. And then it starts to burn, and hurt, and it makes me try to squirm away, but His arm is hooked over me and there is no way to move as He’s laying partially on me. I can’t move, I can’t speak, my fist in my mouth to hold back the cries. Then a tear swells up, and another, and my head falls to the bed and I cry a little bit and still He  spanks, His pace steady, His hand firm. And I’m empty and drained, contained and hurting, and so full of Him as my ass throbs hard with the heat from His work.

Later we are curled together my head on His shoulder. I stroke his beard, running my fingers up and over and around His face, and we’re tender and calm…for a moment or two..until He decides to let His fingers loose on me again.


Spanked Resoundingly

My header pic was taken shortly after He pinned me to the bed…on my belly, snugged up tight to Him, His hand or elbow or arm on my hair. I could not move, legs sticking off the bed oddly.

He starts spanking me.


No warm up spanks for Him.

He hits the same. fucking. spot.

5 times

10 times

16 times

Then finally strikes the other side before I start screaming…

A few odd shots there, circling around my ass.

And then.

Back to that same. fucking. spot.

I don’t have to count.

He just hits for however long He wants to.

I’m whimpering, trembling, moaning, crying.



Smack, mercifully on the other cheek again. Then my upper thigh.

Then– well, you know.

Once my ass is burning…full on fire burning…He leans over me…

and sinks His teeth into that one aching spot…

Catching my Breath

It’s been  a hectic two weeks since Master and I played. It’s amazing the things that float to the surface even now. Little things, some big things. I remember (now) that He’d forgotten Sir Wolf’s bag of wicked whips (aaawww…*giggle*). It didn’t matter–He was wielding my infamous pink hairbrush as well as one HE has that is for grooming pets…it has wire teeth. He uses it by slapping some portion of my anatomy with some implement, then “scrubbing the welt down”. (insert eyeroll here)

I know. It’s wicked mean, isn’t it?

There was the fist-grab of hair when He kissed me, pinching my arm wickedly. His big hands grabbing my tits and holding me on my toes as I whimper. My shirt half off, and His teeth biting along my shoulder before He slaps my ass, encouraging me to get changed into the sexy stuff.

He popped me a good one on my ass as I’m trying to get dressed. (This after He’d messed me up proper before I even got out of my vanilla stuff.) And another while I’m trying to put on my lipstick. That one got a chuckle out of Him…He’s harassing me with slaps and pinches and saying “hurry up, nilla” and “you’ll never get that on before I–”

and I interrupt Him and throw a dirty look over my shoulder.

“Master.” (I was a tad indignant.) “I’m a girl. I can put lipstick on in a car going 65 miles per hour on a four lane highway, driving with one hand.” (please note I’m not *advocating* doing this! It’s not SAFE (but if you’re a person who wears make-up, you grok!)

He pauses a moment and says “Oh. Right. Forgot about that.”

And without missing a beat, He pops me again. (Not a smudge, peeps, not a smear. Perfect red lips. *buffs nails on chest*)

So those are the little vignettes that are floating to the surface now. We’ve had some face time this weekend past–it’s always nice to have that after a playdate, a check in, which we both need. Afterwards, when we talked Monday evening, He said “It was good to see you on Sunday, nilla.”

(He never says anything like that; it was wicked awesome!)

We’re happy, and talking about our next playtime later in the fall. I will juggle my schedule to make that work. We talked too about pushing the envelope on my behavior. I love to do that.

“I think, nilla,” He says as we talked Monday evening, “that I may wait even longer before I blow on you. See what naughty little things you think you can get away with when you think I’m out of the room.”

Well, that set me back a bit.

“You–you–why, that’s horrible, Master!”

He laughs. We talk some more about how He stalks around me (and I’m oblivious). How He waits, and watches for my little smirky smile to appear. That’s when, in prior play times, He has done the poke, or blow in my ear thing that makes me jump a mile because I think He’s left the room. (He even leaves the water running in the bathroom sink so I think He’s still in there.)

His thought is to stand there, waiting and watching for me be naughty. It is sadism at its best, perhaps. (I love the anticipation, the idea of Him catching me being “bad” (not, mind you, disobedient. If He says “stay” in the Dom voice–I know He fully means it. He leaves room for my mischief, which we BOTH enjoy.) Sometimes I rub my pussy with the hand furthest from the bathroom, to get a little relief (I never, ever cum without Him allowing it while I’m on the wall, however!) Or I might step away from the wall that He’s put me on, or drop my hands, or wiggle my butt, or any of those sort of things. I’m sure He’s seen some of them. (Boy did I get a wicked smack the time He caught me rubbing my pussy last year, as well as a “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”)

There’s a curious thrill there. Pushing His buttons is dangerous. I’m never sure where the point is that I’ll cross His line in the sand and get nailed for it. I’m never sure where He even IS in the fucking room. Is He right behind me getting His jollies over making me jolt and jump with shock when He blows on my ear or cheek? Or is He really in the bathroom this time?

It’s all part of the thrill. I was going to say game, but it’s not a game is it? It’s fantasy and reality. It’s pain and passion. It’s a thrill ride and a reality check.  It’s fucking awesome, and awesomely painful.



“Put That Leg Down!!”

I want to tell you every detail. I want to hold it all close to me and keep it private. Such is the quandary of a sex blogger! We have a good fucking time and want to brag about share it, yet it is also SUCH an intense experience that sharing it seems too personal, too private. 

Yet this IS what I do. (You know, since I hadn’t had much inspiration for writing fiction lately!) So here’s another snapshot of our time together. 

I was blindfolded. I have a love hate relationship with it, that blindfold. I want to see what’s coming at me…yet I love the “fear-turn-on” of not knowing. He taps my thighs, my calves with the fucking cane. I sincerely hate that fucking thing. Yet when it hits my tits?  It makes me fly…so deep into subspace that I can’t think. And here I was, worried that I couldn’t handle the pain, that I’d “fail”…right. There is no “I can handle it”–That’s just not how this D/s dynamic works.  Rather, it’s “you must take this, slut”.  Such a silly thing for me to worry about (yet worry and fret about it I did…)  Not only did I “take it”…oh now..I took it, and  it was good. And it was right.Aand it was….orgasmic. (That’s the braggy part. Sorry for boorishly bragging. . . . Okay. Not really.) 😀

I even survived that fucking pink brush. Geezuz but I DOUBLE-HATE that thing. Yes, it is even worse than the cane. The pain is…it’s a thin, hot envelope that circles my entire body, then centers deep right where He has just smacked. It throbs. It burns. Hot licks of “fire” swirl around the blow-landing-site. The pain of it steals my breath. It spun me around in a circle as I took that first blow, made a silent “O” of my lips, made Him laugh as I reacted silently but physically to that first blow.

Fucking sadist!

OH, how it hurt.

“Oh, nilla, I know how to help that,” He says…and before I can say no, no…He starts whacking that same spot with the cane. I feel Him bent over behind me, whaling on that same fucking place.




I’m moaning, whimpering. His hand holds me still, not letting me teeter away (blindfolds and 6.5 inch stiletto’s …oh maaan…do not make for a good “getaway” pairing!) from the blows landing one after the other after the other. Short, hard raps against my already screaming flesh.


His hand moves quicker, I can hear the ‘swoosh’ of the cane behind me and start keening.



Finally He lets me go and I stand, quivering and near-to tears.

“That helped, right?”

I shake my head, my hand caressing my butt.

“Oh, stop your whining,’ He says, smacking it with His palm…

*lost in a space-time continuum*

And somehow I’m laying over His lap, my ass already throbbing. He sits on the edge of the bed, palm stroking the hot flesh there. The first slap is gentle, nearly a caress, as are the next few, before the hand gets harder, heavier, thuddier. He hits the same. fucking. place.

Again. Repeat. Until I’m pulled out of my reverie and start to squirm.

My back arches as I cum, even as I cry out against the steady thwacking on my butt.

“Put that fucking leg down,” He barks at me, and I’m shifting in my head between pleasure and pain, and the sudden shocking sound of His voice, stern. He stops spanking and I feel the hard kiss of the cane on my calf.

My head pops up from the bed as I wail. OH! Such a different pain. HURTS! Sharp stings, like a line of wasps across the muscle on the back of my leg.

“I said,” He says, His voice stern and firm, “Put your fucking leg down.”

My toes come in contact with the floor and the cane stops. Once more there is the steady thud of His palm on my ass…



Much later, days later, He explains. I barely remembered the incident, but he mentions it and it floods back…

“So there I am spanking you, nilla, and I see your heel coming up at me. Not that I mind seeing the heels–not by a long shot–but heading for my head? Not so much.”


*silent giggles* 



“Are you sure you’re up for this, Sir?”

She kept her eyes downcast, mostly, as she stood naked before him. She saw the cane move with him as he came closer, one fragile step at a time. Why she’d answered the ad for “D/s companionship” was beyond her. He was old, his face worn by time. Yet his eyes had burned into hers as they met at the coffee shop last week. Agreeing to a trial run of play, she had assumed she’d be naked and trying to raise his aged cock to some semblance of erection.

Or maybe he’d just take that little blue pill.

The hand not holding the walking cane flashed out, unexpectedly quick, striking her on the cheek.

“Don’t be rude, girl” he admonished, as that same hand whipped into her ponytail, wrapping the long strands round his palm and fingers. With a quick hard jerk her head was bowed back.

“OW!” she yelped. She liked pain, she did, but…she admitted that she had let herself believe that this old guy wasn’t really a “true” Dom.

She heard the thunk of the cane as it fell to the floor beside her and felt his hand grasp her nipple. Twisting it hard to the right, she rose to her toes at the sudden sharp hurt.

“Still think I’m too old, little girl?” His voice was a soft croon in her ear.


The words burst from her lips in an excess of enthusiasm. He tugged her hair again, then let the long tail of hair fall freely. Now both her nipples were caught, twisted this way and that as she gasped and moaned. He pinched like a sonofabitch. Her eyes fluttered up to look at him, seeing the satisfaction on his face. His eyes glittered in pleasure, the cruel devil shining back at her.

He released her nipples, but rather than giving her a moment for breath, grabbed large handfuls of tit, squeezing and then mashing them together. Her head fell back at the pleasure of the pain, as her clit began a steady pulsing.

“Do I smell wet cunt?”

“yes Sir, most likely.” Her gasp interrupted her words. “I…ooooh….i….”

“yes girl?”

His fingers worked cruel magic on her breasts. Small whimpers slipped from her as her pussy continued heating.

i like that…oh..hurts…”

“You did mention that you are a painslut. It seems that you know yourself very well.”

His hands fell away.

Her eyes opened after a moment. He stood there, arms crossed, staring at her. She could feel the heat of bruises starting to form on her tits, and the need between her thighs was most…disconcerting. Not nearly as much as his eyes, boring into hers. A quick hard swallow, and lowering her eyes helped her find her equilibrium.

“Display yourself properly on the bed.”

He’d sent her an email earlier showing several positions that he favored. She turned and stepped to the bed, throwing an uncertain look over her shoulder. He watched her, not moving a muscle. The quick thought that maybe he was frozen in some sort of catatonic state briefly flitted through her head. Before the nervous titter could escape, she crawled up onto the mattress and knelt the way he liked.

“Ass higher.”

She drew her knees further under her belly, until they were right up under her breasts.

“Spread your feet.”

Ankles were flared, her back arched as she bared her most intimate places to his view for the first time. She waited for his hand to stroke over her, but there was nothing. Forehead pressed to the bed, she could see nothing, only wait.


The sharp crack of his hand on her thigh made her squeak with shock. Again he hit her thigh, closer to her pussy and again she made a wee noise.

“You do carry on so.”

She swore she heard the smile in his voice. Waiting for the next slap, she tensed. It didn’t fall. Something poked at her anus.

“OH!” she gasped.

“Relax your butthole, girl.”

She tried. She gave it her all, but every press made her whimper and tense up. Whatever it was, it was smooth with a rounded tip. And hard, more like wood than rubber. It pressed through her tense muscle, and slipped inside. Her pussy threatened to spurt.

“NO! No cumming yet, girl.”

The whimper this time was for the denial of pleasure. Having her ass penetrated always turned her on like a motherfucker. It was the darkest of her desires, the one she feared most, but reacted to intensely.

“please?” she begged, “Please Sir…i…I so do so need to cum…”

He didn’t reply and she was close, so close.

“My walking stick looks amusing sticking out of your ass like that.”

The quick hard bite of leather on her ass and hip made her shift position. He kept smacking her, all unaware.

“FUCK!” she yelped.

A hand pressed on the back of her head, pushing her face into the mattress.

“Stay, whore.”

“yes Sir.” The muffled words came from the sheets.

He took up whacking her ass, moving from one side to the other, until tears wet the bedding under her face and her ass throbbed with heat. Occasionally he would adjust the tool in her ass, pumping it in, pulling it out. She would wiggle and moan, which would earn yet another admonishment.

He tugged it free at last, her asshole throbbing like a second clit.

“Yes, well, we will have to clean that up later, won’t we?”

He spoke matter-of-factly as he placed the stick in the bathroom. She was mortified. It wasn’t like it was unexpected for there to be shit there. It was, after all, an ass’s primary function.

She said nothing, but felt her face glowing with the embarrassment.

“Down on your belly, legs to the floor.”

Slithering, she moved until her toes were touching. He moved between her thighs, until she felt the heat of her ass come into contact with his belly. His cock slipped between her pussy lips, cleaving them like the prow of a warship.

“Your cunt is soaked.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Your ass burns. Does it hurt?”

“Yes Sir,” she spoke again.

“Good,” he said, as he pulled back and away. He entered her slowly. His cock may not have been ginormous (for which she was grateful) but it certainly felt divine as he pushed deeper into her. She needed this!

His fingers pinched loose skin at the top of her hips, and she whimpered as he pressed himself all the way home. He fucked her, each stroke measured, each stroke buried deeply into her, while his fingers tormented  her ass, her back, her hips, leaving bruises in his wake.

The pain was like adding fuel the to fire.


She exploded, her pussy clamping down on his shaft like a hot velvet vice. His voice came to her from someplace in the ether as she felt herself come apart, then back together as he stroked, stroked, stroked, never changing tempo despite her paroxysms.


Fireworks. Lightning bugs. Sparks from a campfire. She was all of these and more. Shooting skyward as her cunt clamped and convulsed around the steadily fucking cock. She’d never been fucked so deeply, so thoroughly.


She flew through the stars. Blackness erupted into pinpricks of light, rivers of sensation. He may have cum, she wasn’t sure. She only knew that her body was flying outward, her consciousness flung far out to the universe.

She woke, coming back to a body that throbbed. She moved, every muscle loose and hot. She was liquid, poured back into her skin, trembling with the aftershocks.

He slapped her ass firmly.


His voice was amused.

“Still think I’m too old, girl?”

Turning, she smiled sleepily at him, shaking her head in dissent.

“I think you are perfect.”

“And so you should. Next week then, slut.”

Reaching down, he lifted her head and kissed her for the first time. It was as firm and strong as everything else he had done. Dropping her head back to the bed, he turned and hobbled out of the room with the cane that He must have washed  while she was out.

Catching her look, and the blush, he smiled a wicked smile.

“Next week, you will wash it.”

The door closed softly behind him.


Thank You Master

No, that’s not what you think, actually, that “thank you, Master” up there in the title.

I know many of you that serve a Sir or Ma’am or Master must say “thank you *fill in the blank with your Dominant’s title*” and perhaps even “may I have another?”.

This is not that post.

Master doesn’t make me say thank you– He actually prefers to hear me curse Him, and say nasty words as He works me over. I never see when the blows are coming. He either blindfolds me or I stand with my nose on the wall and can’t see.

And okay, I close my eyes tight since I’m kind of a coward. Yes, even if I’m not wearing the blindfold.

Stop laughing. You’d do it too, I bet.

No, this is a very, very VERY big thank you to my Master, who is not making me write about an epic and totally embarrassing incident during our playtime. Thank You, Master, for not subjecting me to abject humiliation. (and yes, I’m still blushing)

I do also need to thank You, Master, for a truly awesome, and incredibly painful OTK spanking. You haven’t done that in a long while, and it is always a humbling and erotic event. And yes, I’m shifting in my seat from butt-cheek to butt-cheek as I write. The results of that spanking are still being felt today.

Is is wrong of me to say that I definitely didn’t ‘enjoy’ that game of ‘name the color of the implement’ even though I was amazingly good at it? I’m really glad I posted that header picture this week and have looked at it bunch of times, Master. And someday I’m going to write and tell Sir Wolf exactly what I think about that gift. Then again, maybe he won’t appreciate me calling him a “fucking bastard” the way You do.



Your aching and bruised and still very tired slut nilla

Neighbor (3)

He drank his coffee leaning against the counter in the kitchen, and looking at the house next door. There had yet to be any signs of life over there, not surprising since it was still early. He’d fallen right to sleep when he’d gotten back last night, despite the hard-on. Despite knowing that Tits New York was right next door and kissed like a — like he didn’t know what. Woke up as he usually did, 630 a.m. He spent some time figuring out how he’d handle seeing her. Tried to put away thoughts of merely handling her.

He met with moderate success on that score.

He’d been alone long enough to miss the joy of being married to a sex fiend. He and Diane had made their sexual preferences work in the city, and it worked even better in here at their country home. His wife, his sex slave, his toy, his passion, he had it all with her. They’d laughed, they’d teased, they’d played hard and rough and wild. She was half-nympho, he’d often said. He’d lost his love, his wife, when she died, but he’d also lost his playmate, the one who could anticipate his raw needs in a way that had taken years for them to get to.

He played, sure, but always in the city. Never with anyone local. All the local girls would expect a ring or a collar or both. He was just a player now, not in it for the long haul. He could go to the city and become Sir Bastard, maintain his image as a hard-ass Dominant, while keeping his vanilla life protected. He wouldn’t care all that much if people at home knew–he was who he was, after all. One didn’t become a dominant without wrestling with a few personal demons and dragons.

That tussle last night on Tits New York’s deck had created a flare of heat in him that reminded him that he’d sorely neglected that side of his life. He could suppress the immediate need for sex with a jerk-off in the shower. But the desire to dominate, to seduce and capture a submissive, to break her down to tears, and rebuild her through orgasms and pleasure while playing out a scene? There was no replacement for that to be found in his bathroom.

Tossing the last of his coffee into the sink, he rinsed it down, rinsed the mug, and made the decision. He’d let Tits settle in, and he’d spend the weekend in the city. Perhaps that space would even things out for the both of them.


“So what,” she said out loud. So what if there was no sign of the man who had left her a panting, wanton, needy woman? What was it to her where he was, anyway? She hadn’t come here for a man for goodness sake!

Taking yet another load of items from the back of the van, she paused, staring across the yard to where his windows glinted in the sun. His truck wasn’t visible from this side of the house. And she had no plans to go knocking on his door and kiss him brainless.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she carried the next load inside.


She slumped on the couch, head back, eyes closed. No sooner had she gotten the van emptied than the moving truck had arrived. Eight hours later, things were in her house, in their proper rooms if not the exact place she wanted. And she was wiped out.


That would be her first order of business. With a sigh, she found her purse and pulled out a granola bar. Looking at it distastefully, she opened it and gnawed away. A proper meal would have to wait until tomorrow, when she returned the van to the nearest metropolis, which of course wasn’t much of a metropolis at all. After that she’d pick up the car she’d ordered. Then she could begin the real task of settling into her new home, including a stop at the grocery store. Granola consumed, she trudged upstairs to take a shower. Out, dried, moisturized, she was ready to fall into another deep slumber.

She wouldn’t spend two seconds thinking about her neighbor and his incredible strong arms holding her down, the playing out of a long-time fantasy of being controlled, kissed deaf, dumb and blind.

Not for a minute would she remember the press of his body against hers, his bare chest pressing against her breasts, and the thick turgidity that nestled perfectly against her, like two mated puzzle pieces.

She fell asleep, hand to her belly, tingling.


He parked in the spare lot at the club. Hopefully Jim wouldn’t mind him spending the night flopped on one of the spare couches upstairs. Good friends didn’t need an invitation after all. The sky to the west looked foreboding, wind kicking up the flag streamers at Mason’s Acura dealership next door. The flags made a sound similar to a nine-tail as it whooshed towards its target, as well as the crisp, sharp snap it made upon impact. He grinned. OH yes, he definitely needed to be here. His fingers tingled at the thought of beating a lovely round bottom. Any round bottom.

Inside, the memory of hot green eyes floated.

He pushed that memory aside as he crossed the lot and headed inside.




Pink Brush

The wall was cool against my aching tits. My forehead was pressed tight, the way He likes, my feet aching a bit now, in my high, high heels.

I felt incredibly sexy.

My tits loose from my clothing, my nipples caught in the grip of the clamps, the heavy chain swinging, pendulous, from them. If I moved, they scraped the wall, or clattered against it. A sexy sound.

Don’t let anyone tell YOU that you aren’t sexy because you’re a certain size. Even carrying more weight than I’m really happy with, He made me feel wanted, wanton.

He was moving around the room in that way He has, making noise only when He wanted me to know where He was. I forget what I was doing there, waving my hand out in space, thinking He was in the bathroom, swinging my hips, waving my fat butt around…being silly nilla.

He blew in my ear and scared the *fuck* right outta me!

I shrieked, and jumped a mile.

“Head on the fucking wall, nilla,” He growls, His voice so sexy when He talks that way to me. Not just the swearing, but the intimidation factor. Hot. Hawt. Hawt! His hand presses my head onto the wall in a quick swat, but I’m already there, thank heaven. (I did get a little forehead bruise from that.) Quickly I slap my palms to the wall, before He does something dastardly to them.


I listen for Him.

Soooo hard.

I hear nothing but the pre-football-game commentary on the t.v. The hum of a motor from the bathroom fan in the wall. Nothing of Him, the sneaky bastard. He’s slick, and mean, and can come up behind me and wale one on my butt without warning. That was around the time that He pulled out one of Wolf’s toys and belted me across the back with it.

Holy fuck on a stick, that hurt!

Tears in my eyes, breath caught in my gut somewhere, tangled with the scream that was trying to get out as the breath was trying to get in.

He loves those moments.

He calls them “You don’t know whether to shit or go blind” moments.

Then He is beside me again. I feel Him there, and then He has moved away. He is very like a cat, I just can’t hear a sound. And from a distance…

“Oh nilla?”

My heart jumps into my throat.

Something in His tone has set my “I’m Prey” alarm onto hyperdrive and I’m fighting the urge to look. To see what is coming next.

“Where’s my little pink friend?”

And I know what He wants.

The night before, as I was packing my things carefully for our adventure, I debated. He had told me what to bring…but He didn’t mention that. Yet,  it is a long, no-longer-spoken-but-understood rule that I must ALWAYS have the Fucking Pink Brush with me for playtime.


Yet, I stood there in front of my mirror, holding it in my hand, squishing the squishable handle in my fingers…and actually debated about putting the fucking thing into my handbag.

It’s terrific at taking out the tangles in my hair post-Master…but it is also such a weapon of ass destruction.

After a long pause I answer Him. He doesn’t interrupt my musing, or tell me to hurry it up, slut, He waits. He does that, that




waiting, until I answer Him.

“It’s in my bag on the bathroom counter,” I say at last my voice a mere whisper.

I hear nothing, not even the sound of a man going through a woman’s handbag. You know how they can be, rooting around like a dog in a garbage can, right? *giggling*

I hear nothing, sense nothing.

Which is why I tried to pass through the wall when He smacked my left ass cheek with the fucking thing.

Because I knew it would take mere seconds for Him to reposition and attack the right side.

I was right.

Two weeks later and I’m still wearing the marks from those two single *BAM*’s on my ass, about the only thing left of our play time, other than wicked memories.

You know I’ll be tracing them with my fingers tonight as I head to bed.

Oh, the way He does me.

Does me so bad…which of course, is soo000 good.


I really *do* hate that fucking pink brush.

I just like the *afterwards* part.

Wonder if there’s a way to skip the OUCH and go straight to the bruise?

Nah, didn’t think so.





Color me Painful

It’s been…what? 72 hours or so I guess, since I was with the Man. Some bruises are blooming in shades of indigo and puce. (Silly aside here, did you know puce is a brilliant pink? I always thought it was green but it isn’t.) So some parts are pink-red, some are blue, some are blackish and some are green. I’m a rainbow! And depending on how I move, I feel some of the things He did to me. The bites on my right shoulder are especially tender today.

It’s funny how the pain comes in waves like that, isn’t it? It can take days before the full brunt of our playtime registers on the pain scale (she says as she shifts her sitting position to alleviate the ache on her right butt cheek.)It helps me remember, and keeps me in that spaced out zone too. There was a moment, there, when I was chanting “the road to bliss is filled with pain..” and He heard me.


I repeated it.

I couldn’t see Him, face buried on the wall, but I could *feel* Him grinning, like a little kid who sees the bike under the tree on Christmas morning.

He nailed my back with the rubber threaded whip from Wolf and made me cry…and I totally forgot the chant then.

I did, however, find my bliss. Took some time to get there since up until that point He’d been slow and steady and methodical in giving pain…enough to keep my attention, to keep me turned on, but to not push me over the edge, you know? It’s a delightful balancing act…too much and the slut goes into blissland too fast and HE doesn’t get to enjoy the delivery. I’m not sure how He judges it, really.

He and I wanted pictures of my new “fuck me brainless” shoes, and we took a series. It was hard getting good light as the sky was pewter gray outside the window, and the soft yellow glow of the room lights didn’t make for optimal photo’s. We took this one:

red shoe twoand it came out okay. We won’t win awards for it, to be sure, but you can certainly see the shoes!

Later we took a few pictures of the shoes with me on my belly, feet kicked up in the air behind me. I heard the little snap that the camera makes, another.

There was a long pause.

The Man moves with an amazing amount of stealth, have I mentioned that? He can move *silently*.

Which He did.

Fetching a little surprise for me. A series of whacks with some fucking thing or other on my ass.

“Thought you were issuing an invitation there,” He says, His tone innocent.

Rubbing my now red and aching butt with one gloved hand, I gave Him a glare.

“I thought we were taking pictures.”

I flop back over onto my belly, muttering.

“I wasn’t ready for that.”

“Oh well,” He says cheerfully.

“Your ass is *almost* the same color as the shoes,” He says, His voice, amused, comes from right beside me.

He whacks me again as I yelp.