May 8, 2011
Dressing Room – A Story
You call me and tell me that in one hour I must meet you in a dressing room at Macy’s on the designer suit floor; “Armani,” you tell me. You tell me to wear a short skirt with no panties and high heels. You tell me to ride the train, not take a taxi, and that I must do so while wearing the largest buttplug I have. You tell me I must not let my knees touch, regardless of whether I am sitting or standing, nor may I close my lips except to swallow. You tell me that I will enter the dressing room and I will kneel with my back to the door and wait patiently for you. If the dressing room is full, I will wait outside until it is empty and then enter it. I will not lock the door; it must be open.
I tell you I will, of course, do as you wish, even though it means that I must clear my schedule. I begin to ask a question. You tell me, “Do it.” And the phone goes dead.
I ride the train as you will me to do so. I am very aware of the brevity of my skirt and that one false move will show everyone on the train my pussy. I am afraid that if I sit I will leave my wetness on the seat, but I know that standing I am equally exposed.
Continue reading . . .
May 5, 2011
this is how I want you next
In lingerie like tonight. Black stockings, seamed. Strappy sandal heels. Fresh red predicure. Pushup bra.
But unlike tonight: hair tight up off your neck. A clip would be good, chopsticks would be better. A wrap-around dress with no buttons, only ties.
Greet me at your door like this. Have my drink ready — you know what it is. Be ready to bend over for me. Be ready to get on your knees. Be ready to say please in that lovely aching way you do — with desperation, longing.
April 26, 2011
What I Would’ve Done
Since we didn’t, since we couldn’t, let me tell you what I would’ve done.
First, I’d want you on your knees in front of me. I’d want the back of your head in my hand. I can still taste the back of your neck from when you sat in my lap, leaned back into me; still feel your haircut, those short hairs around the edges of your ears, under my fingers.
I’d want to unzip unbuckle unbutton slow and watch you watch me. Like you did on the couch, I saw you. Strawberries in your mouth. Bourbon. The shrimp I didn’t try.
Honestly, I’d want to know what you want. I’m a gracious top that way: my favorite scenario would be the one where you tell me what you’d want done to you, and I’d do it. I’d put my own flare on it, you can bet – but you’d get what you asked for.
So what is your fancy? What do you want? Here this is the quiet piece in me, the one that sits back and watches you, the one that takes photos and sucks the cap of my pen, that is all aflutter to know.
But I don’t know. You know I don’t. We operate communicate with a guise of lust and girl-intuition that takes us along the narrative just fine, but we’ve never had that kink/sex conversation over coffee. Likes, dislikes. Secret fantasies. Perhaps we never will, it isn’t really that kind of thing between us. And though I can have at you through your writing (honestly, what comes – ahem – to mind is cocksucking, something I would oh so happily oblige, you know, if I must) I still don’t really know what you love.
So.
Given that I don’t know, I will do what any top would do: improvise, and take.
It becomes about me, quickly, in this scenario then. But that’s okay (it works for me, at least). And I have found, underneath most fetishes, the underlying desire is often the same: we all want to be wanted.
And you know I’m a top. You know how I seek to take. I said it last night (to you) but I’d (eagerly) say it again: I know how to take you. And you’d want that, wouldn’t you? You’d give me your (eager) permissions, that look in your eyes in your face open willing coy submissive and that’s all I ask for, that’s all I need to set my own desire in motion, that tiny moment of permission and submission.
And oh what would I do to you?
Oh what I would do to you.
April 15, 2011
Cream Dream
The dream begins with a slim blonde woman kneeling over my face. My view is the elongated skyscraper of her body. Her thighs nestle around each of my shoulders, and I gaze up up up her body, the angle making her hips a foundation, her belly a tower, her breasts a parapet, her head a dome, her face smiling down at me, a giant and detailed caryatid.
Her pussy, then, perched on my sternum, becomes her grand entranceway.
She is not yet very excited. Her pussy is a closed slit. It warns a careful approach-it extends no wet welcome to my tongue or my fingers. I pull her hips toward me and slowly separate her slitty lips with my tongue. My nose nuzzles into her pudendum, and I inhale her; she is muskysweet ocean pale.
Continue reading . . .
April 11, 2011
Little Miss X
To be honest, I don’t remember her name. I have only the vaguest recollection of what she looked like. I remember that her hair was shortish and pixie-like, but given that it was 1984, that would hardly differentiate her from most chicks, myself included. We were almost all of us sporting asymmetrical choppy hairstyles that relied on generous applications of copious polymer-based hair products.
Her hair was slightly red; she was, I think, a strawberry blonde. Her skin was pale, and when we kissed, I had to bow slightly to meet her lips.
I don’t remember where we met. I do, however, remember our first date, which was a date that neither of us realized was a date, but this black dude at the bar recognized it for us. He turned to us, all of us sitting in a row at that heavy-wooded, nautical themed, low-ceilinged bar and said, “It’s nice to see two people who enjoy each other,” and he grinned, his eyes going all evil-twinkly.
He saw something in us that we didn’t quite recognize: we were hott for each other. Miss X and I sipped wine and slipped oysters, and the world fell away in this pleasantly buzzing fashion. Though it wasn’t until later, when in her tiny floor-flung bed and fumbling with each other’s bras, that we realized that it had.
April 8, 2011
On How I Came To Come
I started masturbating at around twelve. As far as I can remember, my orgasms then were kind of like a box lunch: contained, satisfying, pleasurable, sometimes even surprisingly so, but nothing to write home about. I certainly enjoyed them enough to rub myself raw in the process of procuring them. I enjoyed them enough to learn how to masturbate in such a way as to orgasm undetected while sleeping in a bunk in a roomful of other sleeping girls at camp (face down, breathing huskily into my pillow, pelvis pressing on my finger that ran ragged circles on my clit).
But these orgasms pale in comparison to the orgasms I have now when I masturbate, and they whimper and cower in the face of the orgasms I have with my lover. These were fledgling comings, and inasmuch as I knew nothing else, they were fine.
Continue reading . . .
April 7, 2011
Of Queens, Red & White
On the other hand, fucking whilst menstruating is the deep primal bomb, baby. A point so crystal in its firm resolution that its contention is to me unfathomable.
Season two of Entourage’s episode entitled ” The Boys are Back in Town” opens with the boys return to L.A. and Vince’s manager E trying — unsuccessfully — to mate his girlfriend for the first time in three months. She puts him off by saying that she has her period, and E, ever the gentleman, demurs, only later to bring up the matter as a point of discussion for the boys.
“That’s disgusting,” says E as the four of them are walking into their agents’ office building, “you mean you guys have done it?”
“You should, alter boy,” replies Johnny Drama, “because it’s a known fact that a girl on her period is much hornier.”
From my experience, he is right. Of course, I have never been a girl other than myself, but having been this girl who has been menstruating for almost thirty-two years and fucking for nearly thirty, I can say that the period of the period is the period of the most unbridled lust.
Continue reading . . .
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