A very full week.

About a million things happened this last week. My sweet, darling and so very old parents flew in on last Monday night and just left this afternoon. It was a good visit. But again, they make me face mortality. Every time I see my Mom, she is just a little more forgetful and a little more absent... it is like she is already taking the first steps down that last highway.

But the visit was wonderful. We ate a ton... ten tons of delicious, fattening, decadent food. We drank a little to much and laughed and talked and just had a blast. Great grand daughter Livie was a star, sweet, funny, charming, cute and oh so good. We shopped and played games. I spent a ton of mommy and daddies money. Got a new vacuum, bought a mountain of new clothes for grand baby #2 who will be arriving early this spring (we're getting another girl... hells yes... girls rule).

We rented the movies, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" and "The Girl That Played with Fire". They were both in Swedish with English subtitles. I very much enjoyed that because I did not have to turn up the volume to ear blasting levels for my mother and father who cannot hear. We could just read. The downside is Master, with his dyslexia cannot quite keep up with the reading and ended up wandering off. He also had not read the books and I think the movie is easier to follow if you had read them first. But I very much like the movies though. They followed the books pretty well, and the actors fit how I pictured them to be as I read. I would recommend them, but you really ought to read the books first.

Thanks giving was a huge success and I always get so many compliments and rave reviews for my cooking that it totally strokes my ego. The last of it is simmering on the stove as I write, rich broth and thick chewy homemade noodles. I can hardly wait for Master to wake up and I can eat.

I am back to work this week and holey moley, the crazy kids are loonier than you can imagine. But for some reason, I am not the slightest bit stressed. It was the weirdest thing, I was cleaning vomit, urine and fecal matter off a kid and the walls of the seclusion room after a particularly nasty psychotic temper tantrum. All my coworkers were totally grossed out and I was all business as usual.

It was nice to come home to an empty house this afternoon. I did a quick sweep, gathering up all the dirty towels and putting right all the things that the old people had put wrong. When Master got home, it was so right to be able to kneel and place my forehead on the floor between his feet. I had missed that a lot. He scolded me sharply for not having my collar and cuffs on... and actually gave me a little kick right in the ass as I scrambled to put them on.

Well he finally woke up. And the soup is amazing.

"Roll over"

He did it again, the second time this week. The being yanked from deep sleep to urgent, demanding hands... awake hands... There is a qualitative difference. Instantly I too am awake and keenly aware. He wants me. He wants me now. Wordlessly I shift and spread, lick my fingers and reach down and moisten my lower lips to ease his entry and guide him into me.

He is hard, so hot and raging hard in my hand. I wonder if he had been lying there unable to sleep, stroking his cock to get it so hard, so ready. Or did he just have a dream and wake up this way, aching and hungry for me. He makes a small grunting moan of satisfaction as he first pushes into me. I am awake but not aroused. The first thrusts are rough and just slightly painful in my dry and sleepy cunt.

I am on my back, on leg pulled up and the other over his hip. He grips those legs and spreads them even wider, making me grunt with effort and discomfort. His thigh slides up onto my belly as we scissor and I become aware of how much I need to pee. I grit my teeth and tighten up on him, both to enhance his pleasure and to keep from leaking on him as he slams into me.

He pulls at my legs impatiently and grinds against me, pushing as deep as possible and the breath catches in his throat as he comes. He keeps his grip on my for a long time, sliding his cock in and out of me, teasing every last shiver of pleasure out of his cock before he releases me. I finally reach for a cloth from the stack by the bed and hand it to him, whispering that I really, really need to pee, pushing his heavy leg up and off my bladder.

I scoot out of the bed and rush to the toilet, holding a second towel against me to catch the spill of come the wants to trickle down my leg and shudder with a tiny spasm of dreadful delight as I can finally let the piss out. It feels so good.

He lifts the blankets up, a gesture of apparent invitation and I slip up next to him preparing to snuggle close and his elbow slams into my face as he turns his back to me. I gasp and chuckle at the accidental blow. His voice is soft, sleepy and just a little amused, "Get back on your side of the bed, Bitch." But then he reached around and pulled me to spoon tight against his back, and spoke one last word. "Sorry."

I can see over his shoulder the red letters of the alarm clock. 3:00 am. I press close to his back and close my eyes, savoring the warmth and the slight sting and tingle between my legs. As I fall asleep I think about how much I like this sex, this sex that does not expect anything from me but my devotion to his pleasure. There is no thought of my needs. I am just a receptacle, a warm and willing hole to use... an object to masturbate into.

Fiction... A Thanksgiving Fantasy

“I bought you a present, Pretty Girl.” His voice was warm, calm, even happy. It was a Christmas morning kind of voice.

It penetrated her sense of mounting anxiety. Her voice was tense and squeaked a little, “Present?”

Her eyes widened as he held up a new thing, a black and strappy thing. It took a minute for her eyes to sort out the shape of it, to assign meaning to the tangle. It was a gag, a penis gag like she had pointed out to him so long ago on the kinky toy website.

He nodded as he saw the recognition and understanding grow in her eyes. “Open up, Pretty Girl.”

She nervously licked her lips and hesitantly spread her lips. The plastic cock filled her mouth, not too long but wide, it forced her jaws wider as he pushed it in and buckled the straps around her head. She blinked and moved her tongue around it. The plastic flavor was unpleasant and the scent of it and the new leather straps filled her nostrils. It did not penetrate too deep, she did not feel sickened or like she would choke, but it filled her mouth and the leather it was attached to covered her lips snugly. She bit down experimentally. It was just barely resilient.

His voice dropped to a demanding growl, “Scream for me.”

She flinched and surged against the ropes binding her as the pain lanced through her. She let out a muffled scream.

“Yes, good, exactly what we needed.”

She nodded her understanding. It was Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving. The house already smelled of sage and cinnamon. Tomorrow the house would be full of the sounds and movement of loved ones. Some had already arrived and were hopefully sound asleep in the upstairs guest room. The gag meant he had every intent of hurting her but did not want to disturb the guests.

“Stay there, Pretty Girl, I will be right back. There are just a few more things I need to get before I can get cooking.”

She could not laugh at this joke, but she raised her eyebrows at him. She was already trussed up like a turkey. Those were his exact words; “trussed like a turkey”. Her arms were pinned behind her back exactly like she would soon twist the Thanksgiving turkey’s wings in the morning, bound behind her back and as she lay on them they forced her back to arch and lift up her full breasts to his sadistic whim. Her legs were sharply bent at the knee and bound up to her chest, spread wide. The arch in her back prevented her from lifting her head too high, but she knew that between those spread knees lay her empty holes. She lay there, thinking of what might come next, thinking about her holes, wet and hungry gaping holes, raw and meaty holes, waiting holes, holes waiting to be stuffed. The image of her hands filled with bread and onion stuffing, moving into the gaping hole of the turkey, pushing the sage scented filling into that dark opening until it was filled. These images mixed with her own predicament, her holes and his hands, the scent of lust confused with the scent of roasting meat. Her mouth flooded with saliva and as she swallowed convulsively she felt a matching trickle of moisture spill out between her legs and run down the curve of her ass.

His hands were full as he came back into the room, full of things from her kitchen, turkey basters, onions, spatulas, cucumbers, barding needles and cotton twine. He paused and let her stare at his hands, a slow sadistic smile slowly spreading across his face. His voice was softly taunting, “I was inspired by all your meal preparations today.”

He casually dropped the items on the bed and reached for the blindfold. “Time to get cooking, Pretty Girl.”

The next morning as she moved about the kitchen, as she met and wrapped her arms around all the people of her life, her smile was soft, her eyes thoughtful, soft little giggles seemed to rise up from nowhere as she prepared the bird for their meal.

Happy Holidays...

It was a regular outfit… form fitting jeans, long red polka dot shirt, black cardigan. The polka dot shirt did hang out below the sweater making a sort of a frilly, flouncy skirt thingy. But something about it caught Master’s eye. He was happy with it, making rare positive statements about what I am wearing. Usually, the only outfit that draws his attention is the lack of outfit. Naked will always catch his attention. But his compliment was a bit strange, he said I looked like Wilma. Wilma??? This was no off the shoulder, mammoth fur mini dress. There was not necklace of big white rocks around my neck. My legs were not bare… Wilma?

I screw up my face in my classic ‘Master, I just don’t get it’ expression. “Is Wilma sexy?”

“Oh yes, very much.”

Sexier than Betty?”

“Without question.” He seemed very serious about this. I have some vision of him as a pimply faced teenager masturbating to old Flintstone comics.

“And I am like Wilma?”

“You ARE Wilma.” Okay this is a bit much. He is NOT Fred. I can’t really come up with a comic book character that would fit what he looks like… maybe you could visualize a bald fifty-ish Shaggy from Scooby Doo. But you would have to put in the personality and smarts of The Brain from Pinky and the brain. But I can definitely picture him yelling, “Wilma!” There are echoes of that in the sing song, warning of “Pretty girrell….”

My black eye has gotten even prettier… spread to the other side and while they don’t match… I definitely have two black eyes now. And the yellow of the healing bruises has suffused to surround my nose and both eyes. I told Master that the yellow, brown, red and purple colors are just my fall colors. He asked if that meant my nose was going to fall off soon.

I tried to plead that marathon fellatio does not go with bruised and swollen noses. But from his unsympathetic expression, he apparently did not care. And it wasn’t so bad… actually it was very good, judging from the sounds he made as he came. For me that is better than any orgasm, that wave of joy that I feel when he comes so hard that he gets loud.

Today it is cold and nasty and wet… as usual… but the house is warm. My parents are flying in for the holiday and are arriving this evening. I am staying home all week, so I have a whole day to finish up and to just rest and relax. I got ninety percent of everything done this weekend, so there is not all that much to do. As Master was about to leave this morning and I went to kiss him good bye and wish him to drive safe and come home soon to me… and as he pushed me against the wall he said his usual… “I should tell you…”

And you know what? I interrupted him and said, “I wish you would stop talking about what you should do and just tell me.”

So I got a list of things to do. He told me to go down and hide that big pile of implements of ass destruction, to sweep and vacuum in his room. That is huge… not the hiding of whips and paddles, the dusting and sweeping stuff. He usually, hell he NEVER lets me clean his room. I washed the sheets too… something he never objects to, as long as it is all put back together before he gets home. (ppsssttt… the weapons are now under the bed in a duffle bag…)

In many ways I am fortunate that Master does not care about dust or cobwebs. He does not care about that kind of house cleaning all that much. And I am equally lucky that my parents come to visit twice a year, so that I have some external motivation to beat back the creepy cobwebs. Part of me wishes he was stricter, part of me knows I am a lucky lazy bitch.

Anyway, it is all done. I knocked down six months accumulation of dusty spider webs, swept herds of dust bunnies (muskoxen would be more accurate) into the dust bin. I had time to go get my nails done… the ultimate spoiled girl indulgence… red sparkly in honor of the holidays. And I still have about four more hours to hang out and write.

So holidays... here I come. Ohhhh, speaking of holidays... time to get that turkey bird out of the freezer. I don't know if I will have much tome to poke my head in and say hi, what with family and cooking and all those kinda fun thingies... you guys have a good one.

Toy box... um bag?

As you can see the "box" is more of a bag. You would be surprised how much you can stuff into a bag...

...see all the nice neat plastic bags? Master makes me be so neat and organized. He stands over me and micromanages the meticulous scrubbing of the insertables. (so humiliating... washing ones pussy juice off (or something far, far worse) off something and then having your Master look it over, even sniff it to make sure it is not "dirty" any more.)

See all the pretty toys? It seems from looking that my kink seriously lies in bondage and te' buttsecks. How embarrassing.

Remember how I said Master likes to make sure I am all organized and "clean"???? Just look at the mess that is his collection of implements of ass destruction...

There is no way I could fit all that into a bag... no matter how many Ziplock baggies you apply to the equation.

Speaking of cheese...

Here is a pic of that spreader bar I made. It was pretty simple. Buy bar. Sand bar. Spray bar with satin clear finish. Drill hole and twist in eye screws on either end. Add a couple of snappy things so Master does not have to bother with the tying of the pesky knots.

Damaged goods...

That little bruise on my nose??? Has turned into a lovely black eye. Master says I am like an add for Lucky Strikes. And repeats "Damaged Goods" under his breath now and then to make me flinch.

Public disclaimer, this is a work injury. Master did not punch me. I had a head on collision with a violent kid. I regret to say he does not look any worse for wear... while I... well you will see.

Yesterday I was talking with Master about how a coworker forced me to eat cheese cake (he did literally... he brought it and said "if you don't eat this I will just go get you another piece"... I mean with pressure like that how could I refuse?) (Master has not forbidden me to eat cheesecake. All of my dietary restrictions are self imposed.)

Anyway I was talking about that and Master grabbed me and squished his hand onto my face, growling... "Did he do this?"

He was not careful and caught my sore, sore nose in the mock force feeding. I squawked, "Not the nose!" "Not the nose!!!! Jesus Christ man, anything but the nose!!!"

He apologized.

Later that evening he dragged me off to the mall for a sort of a wander and peer into store windows kind of stroll rather than a real walk. (It has been frickin cold, wet and dark... no walkies outside in ages.) And when I was just a bit uncooperative with the hand holding he threatened to go for the nose.

I said that for the first time I had a hard limit and it is this swollen bruised and painful honker. Last night the black eye grew and darkened. It has turned out to be my first real shiner.

I have been humming "I feel pretty under my breath". When people at work ask me how I am feeling, I answer "smarter".

Not much...

The fact that I have not posted in a while has been nagging and nagging at me. But it seems like not a lot has been standing out from the chaos.

This weekend was kind of a bust... Master did not deliberately wake me when he woke up and got out of bed, but those little invisible bonds are well forged and I did my usual roll over into the warm place he left behind and stretched and snuggled it luxuriously and then slipped from the bed and did all my morning things... peed, made the bed, straightened up a little in his room and gathered my yesterday clothing and wandered up stairs. He was nowhere to be seen, in the bathroom or out smoking, but the coffee was about halfway done making.

I went to my room and got dressed and it was only about when I was pulling on my slippers that I noticed that it was 2 fucking thirty in the morning. FUCCCKKKK!!!!! Fail, total fail. I was up. My head and body said "morning"... grrrr... Master wandered in and gave me a double take. Apologized for waking me up. Then the fucker went back to sleep. I ended up taking two naps during the day and getting nothing done. I did not even make his breakfast.

No spankings beyond a swat here and there, no bondage, the weekly sex has been routine, predictable and satisfying if somewhat uninspiring. He has been fighting a cold and hasn't been very energetic.

The weather has been gray and wet and the shorter days have sapped even more of my energy.

Yesterday at work I made a stupid mistake, a big kid, autistic with severe self harm behavior patterns was violently banging his head on the floor and I moved to put my hand on him... to stop him before the skin on his forehead splits open once again and he lunged up and grabbed me and head butted me right in the face. It HURT. BAD. I am totally pissed at myself. I should not have tried to do that alone. I knew he does that sometimes. I should have been more careful. Now my nose is swollen and has a bruise right on the top. It hurts like a fucker.

Master has been sympathetic. Though he keeps telling me that I am damaged goods now. But the irritation at making a such a noob mistake and the pain have combined to make me even less ambitious.

And I have ton of stuff to do. My parents are coming to visit next week and I have long list of things to get done before they get here.

I have not been writing much. But I am almost done with a rewrite and edit of my last novel. Then I think I will go back to the "The Vanishing." I have some good ideas for where I want to go with that. If I can remember all the delicious stuff I think about as I drive to work.

So there it is... blah... uninspired... tired... sleepy... with a big sore nose. (It was big before... I hate to think how much bigger it looks now.)

Isn't this Beautiful?

At the beginning of this school year, I was stressed and tense and bitchy and... and...

I decided I needed to remember that I cannot fix everything, that I do not have any control over things. I decided I had to let the stress run off my back like the water off a duck's back. I decided I am a duck. For many days I went about saying "quack". It was silly but it did help. I wasn't above leaving a "quack" here and there on other people's blogs.

Then Kelly found this lovely pin and after a little negotiating with Master about revealing my address to an internet friend, she sent it to me... because it was perfect.



I found the perfect frame and put a little left over black suede left over from my leather working stuff in it pinned the broach to the leather. It is just beautiful.



Thank you Kelly

Gravy?

Lol... so soon after the last gravy drama, when I put it to Master to decide what he wanted for dinner he said "Baked Chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy... ZOMG... he didn't say it. He didn't say "gravy".

We were in the car and I teased him a little. I said... "But you hate my gravy."

Refusing to be baited, he nodded solemnly as he drove. "Yes, you are right. Your gravy sucks."

"Then I might as well just buy a jar again."

His voice was calm, "If you buy a jar of gravy, you better check to make sure it will fit."

I did not ask exactly where he was threatening to put it. He seemed satisfied that I gave him a shocked, speculative look and then deftly changed the subject.

We had a nice quiet Veteran's Day staying home together. We went out to breakfast and shopped around in a couple Good Will/Salvation armies. Then bought a couple things I needed for dinner (no jar of gravy... I am not that brave).

The gravy turned out good. Even Master said so.

Fish kisses

"Fish kisses."

His voice was chiding, dissatisfied. He had me pinned against the wall, his hands enmeshed in mine, my lips under his. I was soft, willing, open... not an ounce of feist or angst or even mock resistance, just gentle compliance and my complete attention to his demands.

I stiffened and pulled back. "Fish kisses????" I laughed and tried to struggle and escape and his hands tightened on me, trapping me. "What do you want? Do you want this?" I fought harder, wailed and struggled, threw all my strength against him. I turned my head sharply away and he laughed with sudden delight as he forced me back, slamming me against the wall.

It is funny, how kisses go. Many mornings I leave packing my lunch and all those little things, turning off lights and coffee makers, combing hair and brushing teeth to the last minute and I am distracted and hurried. I have no time for long lingering good byes. When he reaches for me I frown and pull away, refusing to be delayed by his sudden inopportune advances. But lately I have done better, lately I have it all done long before he is ready to leave. I am packed and combed and ready to go, waiting patiently by the door for my goodbye and permission to leave. And when he grabs me and slams me to the wall and forces his mouth down upon mine, I am nothing but his... compliant, patient, cooperative... and apparently no fun at all.

He let me go and I tip my head and repeat. "Fish kisses????" And I ask with fire in my eyes, "Or maybe like this?" And I grab his ears and am all the aggressor. He is the one being forced back against the wall. His mouth is the one being taken. It was a kiss like I like. A kiss like I am not allowed to have. All tongue and teeth and lips, wet, violent and hot...

I am not allowed to kiss him deeply, not too rough, not too passionate. My tongue is not allowed to touch his lips. For many years I was not allowed to kiss him with my tongue at all. Closed lips were all I was allowed. It was humiliating.

And today as I took what I was not allowed, he was quick to put me in my place. He had my nipple in a vicious pinch within nanoseconds. I was writhing and yelping for mercy. (That fucker has the most evil skills. He can pinch harder than any clamp.) I was quickly reminded that I am not allowed to take such liberties.

Thirty days of.... Help!

On FetLife I am currently participating in a "Thirty days of Kink" writing, thinking, exercise thingy.

The idea is that for each day of the month of November the group moderator posts a question (about kinkiness) and you think about it and answer it. It is kind of fun, but the questions don't often resonate with me and my particular situation.

What does "kink" actually mean to you?

In defining your role within kink, what was your greatest influence?

If given the opportunity... would you live your greatest fantasy? Or let it stay a fantasy?

Me and Master are not particularly sexually kinky. I do not see the Master/slave... Owner/pet thing as particularly sexual (though I tend to eroticize boring or onerous chores to make them more fun... i.e pretend I am chained to the lawn mower, that there is a big mean sadist with a big stick watching and flogging me around the lawn... no such reality... unfortunately). Anyway... back to the original thought. Master and I are not particularly sexually kinky.

But the premise of the group, the idea of the writing/thinking exercise where you examine your attitude, what got you here, how it is now, where do you think you are heading... that is interesting.

I think I want to make up my own questions, Thirty Days of Servitude???

But that means I will need to come up with more topical questions... ones that relate to living it, 24/7... relate to power exchange and mindset and acceptance and struggle to accept. I am going to need some help, so this month as I flounder through the thirty days of kink, and family and Thanksgiving and rain and darkness, I am going to note down ideas for my "Thirty days..." Please feel free to make suggestions, I will need all the help I can get.

Once we get the questions hammered out, we can start... anyone that wants to play along is welcome to join in... either on their own blog or here.

Good Gravy

It had been a lazy, slow, uninspired weekend and one of the results was that I did not write a menu, did not buy all the fixins for making any kind of planned meals. Yes, there was the usual steaks and pork chops in the freezer, the proverbial bag of taters in the cupboard, we weren't gonna starve, but without a battle plan, the idea of making dinner gets increasingly anxiety provoking as I am driving home.

So on Monday, it had been another cold, windy, wet and dark day and I needed something warm, filling and comforting and I decided I wanted meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. So I swung by the local Safeway to grab the few things I did not have. Primarily the meat and the gravy mix. Now, I am normally not the kind of person to use premade anything, but meatloaf is a tricky thing. There ain't no drippins, nothing to use to make the tasty base of gravy so I tend grab a package of Lipton beef and onion soup and use that with some beef broth to make gravy.

But, typical for any last minute plan and very typical for my dysfunctional relationship with the local Safeway... the place on the shelf that holds the Lipton soup was empty, zip, blank, nada... shit. Right next, just two steps down I see shiny jars of "GRAVY". I glare at them, I can already hear Master's criticism of many of my attempts at homemade gravy. And the seductive, (lazy) voice in my head is whispering... "Somebody made this gravy and thought it was sooo good they bottled it and are trying to sell it. How bad can it be?" I should have not listened to that little voice.

The meatloaf was good, the mashed taters were awesome... the gravy was horrid. Master bitched me out... as usual. I get stubborn. I remember all the times my homemade gravy got analyzed and found lacking (conveniently 'forgetting' the dozens of times he mmm'd and snarfed up the good gravy). I pout and whine that he never likes my gravy anyway so I might as well just buy the crappy kind. (This is totally inaccurate. I have a bad habit of forgetting compliments and carefully archiving away each and every criticism.) He got really mad. And I got snarky.

We spent the evening giving each other the piss eye. All over gravy.

In the end he made me come into the kitchen and "helped" me clean up. (Translate help into micromanage and pinch and spank and harp and bitch). I remember one time grabbing two clean plastic butter tubs and trying to stuff them under my bra. I mean I was needing some protective equipment. It didn't help much. But by the time we were done, we were both laughing. I mean it was just gravy after all.

Weekend, weekstart...

Well not a single Trick-or-Treater, even with the Jack-0-Lanterns on the front porch and the light on. It is funny, walk over about three blocks and the neighborhood is crawling with little monsters, but here on our little quiet dead end road, not one. Oh well, now I just have to resist the urge to eat the candy Master bought.

I did not see Livie's costume, but I am sure that there will be lots of pictures. She was a vulcanologist. Yes, my grand daughter the science nerd. She stayed Saturday night here with Grampa and me while Dad and Mom went to a Halloween party. We watched "How to Train Your Dragon" and carved pumpkins. We had a fun time. She would not let me throw away the seeds. I am not crazy about pumpkin seeds and yet I sat there on the floor with her and picked out every single one with her.

I am still struggling with lack of motivation. It is like walking through knee deep mud. Not particularly depressed, not irritable, not sad, not even very uncomfortable. I am not plagued with that "I want something, but nothing is quite right" restlessness that characterizes my normal depression. Just slow, sleepy, uninspired... blahness. Master does not seem much better. We are just sitting around and doing as little as possible between naps.

The only thing that stands out is before the Saturday morning sex, he had predictably decided we were going to go for a walk. Then after looking out at the dark gray, cold, constant drizzle he changed the directive and said we were going directly to the shower. I looked internally and seeing nothing there but that same blah, dull lack of motivation begged for him to shock me, to wake me up, to hurt me first. My voice was plaintive, "Hurt me, bite me... wake me up."

He pushed me down, pinning me face down to the bed and began to nip at me, little annoying nips that I could barely feel, nips the tickle more than hurt and I writhed under him, complaining that I hate those kind of silly little bites, that he needs to sink his teeth into me, "reaaaaallly bite me!" But he ignored me, slipping lower to nibble on my most ticklish places and I was lost in a storm of infuriated giggles.

Later that day, I was sitting at the table working on household bills and he leaned down and bit me, another annoying little nip, picking up a tiny bit of skin. I twisted and complained that he was doing it wrong again. "You need to get more of me into your mouth. Bite me with your whole mouth." And he did.

OH MY FUCKING GAWD...

That woke me up. I LIKED that. I practically came. He was a little taken back by the intensity of my response and looking at the imprint of his teeth on my skin, commented that he did not like that. But I must say, that nearly a dozen times on Saturday and then again on Sunday, he tried it again. Pulling my hair to one side and firmly taking that whole corner where my neck meets my shoulder into his mouth and slowly, experimentally clamping down, rewarded each time with a my instant response. I freeze, go absolutely stature still and then groan low.

It makes every hair on my body stand on end. Cascades of shivers run over my whole skin. For minutes, even hours later I can still feel where his teeth touched me. Just writing this makes my panties warm.

And now it is a dark, wet, cold Monday morning, with a week of work stretching out in front of me. Just writing that is a serious buzz kill. Maybe I can get Master to bite me good-bye before work today.