Thirty Days of Kink – Final Post – Days 28-30



When In Doubt, Improvise!

If my stage combat teacher knew I encourage improvisation, I think she would kill me. Her advice was always: in a situation where someone might get hurt, never, ever, improvise! There is just one problem: I do not own a flogger.

I need one in my arsenal. I WANT one in my arsenal. But I am far too broke to afford one any time soon. So, what’s a girl to do?

After a long and pleasant walk with Miss Pearl, my House-husband greeted me at the door, naked. He was clearly begging for a scene. Having neglected to cum the previous night, he was in for a beating. I thought that I wanted to use a different hitting implement than my usual ones. This thought stayed with me the entire time I was dishing out his warm up (bare hands, to the beat of the songs that are stuck in my head at the time… unluckily for him, it was ‘Zorba the Greek‘).

As I spanked his buttocks to a healthy pink glow, I thought more than anything about that flogger that I wanted. And then it hit me (pun intended): I had some random stuff in my craft room I could use instead!


Indeed, a few weeks prior, I had purchased a bunch of Dollar Store plants – you know, those artificial, clearly plastic abominations? – for an art project. They did not end up getting used in the end. Among them, there was a bushel of long grass, or reeds, or whatever they are meant to be. In other words, I had a lot of long plastic strands in a bunch (even with a handy handle) that could sting like the devil if used properly. Continue reading

Ruined Orgasms, First Experience

Image source:
(Originally posted on FetLife, April 19, 2016)

17 April 2016

Last night, the last customer of the evening pisses me off.

Actually, no. That is a gross understatement. He insulted me to the point that I bypassed the “offended” stage and went right into that desperate need of breaking something – potentially many things – to alleviate my anger.

I get in my car and screamed loudly. Traffic. Just great. More screaming, my blood past boiling point.

I get home in a huff. My beloved house husband meets me with his usual puppy-like enthusiasm, craving my attention, but I would have none of that. I do not want him getting injured because of my anger. I undress and parade my naked body before him as I look around for my gym clothes. I need to work out some frustration. Hubby pouts – he cannot join me at the gym. I tell him to clean himself up and be ready for when I get home.

I run off some steam and work up a good sweat for about an hour at the local gym. I do not check my texts or even bother giving my boy-toy news of when I am planning to return. I use the massage bed at the gym for a few minutes… I calm down just barely enough to ensure that there would be no real damage caused to my husband.

Post-workout, I call him up. “I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Run me a hot bath and wait for me by the door. Greet me on your knees.” And I set off on my short drive home.

He knows it’s me as soon as I set foot into our building. According to my house-husband, I have a particular sound to my step that is unmistakeable. I take my time up to the second floor landing and up to my door. He opens it from inside, kneeling naked, all too willing and eager. Good.

I step into the apartment. “The bath is run, Miss,” he tells me. I extend my arms in response. “Undress me.”

He obeys my request clumsily, trying to take off my shirt first. I click my tongue impatiently. “Is that the first thing we take off when we come in?”

He looks flustered and blushes. It takes him a moment to realise I mean my shoes. He sheepishly unlaces my runners and pulls them off my feet, followed by my socks. Next, he returns to the shirt, knocking my glasses askew as he pulls it off. “Careful,” I warn him. This will be deserving of a thorough spanking later. He moves on to untie my yoga pants and pulls them off, finding himself faced with the darkish hairs of my sweaty cunt. I smile. He had not expected me to be going commando.

Once I am standing skyclad in my hallway, I regally hold out my hand and wait. Wordlessly and well trained, he gently takes that hand and escorts me to the tub. What follows for me is a delightful treat where he washes my hair, my back, my breasts as I command. I clean my nethers myself. Not yet.

He dries me off with a fresh fuzzy towel and I send him to lie on his back on the bed. Continue reading