sunday, late

Come to bed, sweet, come now.

I should have fallen asleep now hours ago, or before now, anyway. The night has grown late, and I wait for you, want you, cannot sleep.

I have found the turquoise nightgown, the old one, vintage, some fantasy from long ago. It charms you, I know, with its ruffles, the polyester lining beneath chiffon, my hair up, now down as you unfasten it, let my dark strands fall onto my shoulders, and you, the kiss of red wine.. I drink from your glass, and yes, it is wonderful. For this I stay up late, just to watch you walk into the room, then turn, aroused by my nightly reading, your hand on the hem of the skirt.

You are quick, my love, your clothing tossed to the ground so quickly, so hurriedly, as I barely have the chance to enjoy the slow exposure of your fine flesh, your trousers bulging in front, your spray-starched shirt laid carefully upon my stack of skirts and sweaters that I might choose to wear this week. Why not put them in the closet, you say, until you open the closet, and see the dilemma, no room, too much, you are not surprised, as you lower your head beneath my legs, nearly immediately, yes, I wore panties, was wearing panties, and you have rolled them down my legs so deftly, now off, and your head is where I dreamed it might be, soon, now, your tongue circling my clit as you kneel in your navy briefs and lick me.

I should sleep, but now am wet, my sweat unavoidable in this room, this gown that, while elegant, does not breathe, meant obviously to please only momentarily before eventual removal, and you have pulled it now over my shoulders, my neck, your cock pressing against the briefs, which I nearly as quickly roll down your ass, and off. I could stop, revel in the luxury of skin, your honey hair at the base of your ready cock, my skin now supple, first, inviting, hot, ripe, as I see your prick bounce as I lick you there, me now kneeling as you stand, run your hands through my hair, then grasp my head, thrust into my mouth first hard, then though you thought you might hurt me, toss yourself onto the bed, pulling me atop.

I should sleep, the hours all the shorter as I look at the alarm, set, must awaken by six o’clock, and it is midnight now, past, now Monday, early, and I want to sleep, want more to fuck you, want more for you to flip me over and send me into sweet oblivion, sweet dreams, your come dripping from my throbbing cunt, my ass, and the dreams between. No, I cannot sleep, not with you in my bed, not yet.

tuesday

Hello, darlin’.

Yes, been listening to that old George Jones, here in the late afternoon, early evening now, later, as I look up and am glad to find you here, your fingers wandering up between my open legs as I lean back and explore the day, the tired day, the end of day that I wanted a nap, or, more than that, you, your cock, much more than I let myself ponder even in late summer, even when I am alone in that dreary office and looking at my horoscope, or twitter links, or whatever the Economist thinks that Angela is going to do about the Euro, or some other waste of time because I cannot take another serious thought, want laughter, oh yes, do that, just like that, want you.

Yes, take a sip, my dear, take a sip, it is the 2010 Gigondas, St. Cosmé, 95 by the Wine Spectator, and I am about to drink this glass myself, but drink, drink, lean into me, and love this, love this day and our mock sophistication. I still love this life, want you. Your cock is hard as you watch me. I know I feel so lazy today, my wants just there, not complicated now as I watch you remove your shirt, your taut arms, and finally I rouse enough to wrestle you down and ease my cunt around you, delicious you.

The fan whirs up above, my head now dizzy as I fall into this desire, this want, this hot, wet need, your sweat, your love, your grinding grunt as you turn me round and fuck me hard, the luxury of your finger winding locks of my hair, heat radiating, your scent stirring me all the more as you let yourself come, now, yes, me, yes, slick skin, hot sheets, drunk wine, hunger, the night beyond.

friday

Did I tell you about the peaches? I saw them there, these Hudson Valley beauties, in baskets, three dollars or so for the entire bunch of them. I stood in the pouring rain, and handed my bills to the woman at the counter. She pushed her hair behind her ears. No, she had never been to Spain, she told the man in the straw hat, who told her that he had just returned, that he was back now, that he was home. She looked away from him. No, she had never traveled to Europe, not even to New York City, she said, but her children had, and her neighbor had, and she looked at me with my dripping hair and took the watermelon from me, placed it on the scale, and then the cantaloupe, and the berries, same price as the peaches, but fewer of them. She said that it was not supposed to rain today, but here we were, the puddles now flooding the parking lot as I ran out with my bags and tossed them in the back, rushed to get in myself, and wrapped a beach towel  around my wet hair, and started the car.

I drove, drove on, forgot the peaches, turned down WFUV now in the driving rain, music now news, cars slow in front, cars fast behind me, the rain slowing, then stopping, then spitting, then sunny on the road that wound beside the railroad tracks, few cars, radio, “She Moves On” sings Paul Simon, little direction, the peaches now fragrant in the back of the car, so enticing that I pulled off and grabbed one, bit into it, bit my lip, juice running down my face in a sudden burst of sweet pain. I missed you then.

I missed you in the hot car, steam running off the streets as the sun hit once again, the corn green and tall here–nowhere else this year–and sparkling now, leaves hanging with the weight of the water, and again those peaches, I would feed one to you.

I would hold the peach so you could take a greedy bite from it, lick the juices from my fingertips, from my mouth, the sticky fruit no matter, in the heat, on a roadside, your salty rough face, calloused hands, shirt rolled up to your elbows, brown brawn, I want you. I want you there, that day, want the heat, and the clenching tight desire in my gut, the sweet lust for you, your lust for me, your company, and yes, sweet flesh, want you dripping down my face.

ramble

I woke up late this morning, morning obscured by clouds and Saturday calm, delight of good rest, promise of the day. Cycling today, nowhere to go, but go, still, the gently sloping turns around trees, greenery full now to the edge of the road in the height of summer, heat deferred in the grey day, pedals guiding me around these paths familiar, but not, the tinge of unexplicable nostalgia subtle as I go on, honeysuckle here, where the lightning bugs came out two nights ago. I wanted to show you then, but thought of it anyhow, and now, yes, I would tell you about the honeysuckle, dripping fragrance obvious, but I would still say something, I always do. I would say something about the soaring sweetness of it, the tree swing flying high above the meadow, my heart beating fast when you have finally caught me again, when you have pinned me down, and smile because you don’t have to, unbuttoned, the rush, giddy desire suspended, extended, delicious. Silence is sublime in the space it leaves, space to think and dream, and wonder, and ramble in the hazy world of Saturday.

shoulders

I was thinking, just now, about your shoulders.

I was thinking about you, alone with me, turned back to me while I kneaded your shoulders, sore, exhausted you said as you let your head hang loose, as I felt my nipples harden at the luxury of your muscles, your smooth skin, your naked back.

My hand wanders, you know, wanders down and round, down to your stiff cock, now down to my own slick warmth, my thoughts wandering, your shoulders now over mine, the effort of holding yourself over me, tease, then, the need, your breath soft against my neck, sinking, the initial gratification, then more, want more, yes more, miss you, miss your strength, miss your shoulders, miss this.

getaway

“You like to tease me, don’t you?”

Louise had followed Gregory’s directions to the estate. He led her past forests, past the long wall, and up the driveway to the home of a good friend–a friend whose family evidently collected châteaux and Maseratis.

Louise stopped beneath the portico, and pulled her car to the side. As Gregory had insisted, she brought nothing but a purse. He said he had taken care of all her needs.

Louise walked to the door and knocked. A small, stern woman answered the door and silently handed Louise a small bag, then brought her through long halls to a large bathroom.

“You may change here, Ma’am,” the woman said. “Mr. Gregory is in the next door to the right. Do not knock. Just enter.”

Louise walked into the bathroom and opened the bag. Ah, how sweet! Luxuries for a lovely weekend!

She looked in: a pair of stilettos and a corset, with a short skirt..

Louise hesitated, then slipped out of her own clothes and put on the costume.

Please feel free to dress in these items, darling, and use the whip as you wish. I am waiting. 

Gregory

Louise walked from the bathroom to the next door, paused, then pushed the heavy oak panel.

“Greg, it’s me. Where are you hiding? I couldn’t wait to see you! I…”

Gregory was naked and face down across the canopy bed. His wrists and ankles were already bound to the posts–the scratchy rope was too tight, already leaving marks though he had little reason to pull them yet. Louise stopped, then slowly circled, tentatively swinging the small whip she had received gently against her hand.

“I think you want me to tease you,” Louise said–her voice more confident than she felt. She brought the whip down against a post, so the leather wound round. Not right. She walked around the bed again, then tried it on the bed between Gregory’s leg, watched him tense at the crack, saw him smile.

When Louise had received the invitation for a weekend away, it was a surprise. She had been seeing Gregory now for months, but he was away so often. Time was so precious, so rare. Too rare, in fact. But now, at last Gregory had managed to book a romantic weekend getaway, time alone.

“No, dear, not tease. What I want is for you to really use that whip. But I am in a compromised situation to demand things from you, I realize.”

Louise wanted to kiss Greg now. She wanted to tell him about her drive, wanted to cuddle beside him as they used to when they first met. But it was not the time, she saw. She knew well of Gregory’s fantasy, though they had never played these games before. But he wanted it now.

Louise raised the whip, and let it fall on Gregory’s thigh. A light red line immediately appeared. He flinched a little as she whipped the other leg, but she continued. He tensed as the strips of leather hit his legs again and again, but he shut his eyes and a sort of calm seemed to move into the room as she whipped harder.

Louise watched as Gregory moaned and cried, his flesh turning redder all the while. The rope was even tighter now, and Louise stopped.

“Are you hurt?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she saw the welts rise on his buttocks, his face red, sweat streaming down his face. She bent to kiss his bruised shoulders.

“Please,” Gregory gasped, “please more.”

Louise climbed beside him, and kissed his neck, her fingers tracing the red paths on his back. “I care about you, Greg,” she took hold of the rope, began to loosen the knot. “I can’t…”

“No,” Gregory turned, “no, oh, no. Don’t stop! Please, Louise, you turn me on so much. Please, the whip!”

Louise climbed down and whipped Gregory, whipped him hard, as he begged, pleaded her to stop.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.

“No, no!” Gregory panted. “Oh, it’s not the word. Remember?”

Yes. Yes, Louise thought and remembered. It was not the right word at all. She whipped him then until he said it, cried it out once.

Louise loosened the ropes, and saw Gregory’s cock stand as he rose from the bed. He grabbed for it, began to sit, but then stood, then took Louise’s hand and led her to the bath.

Gregory thrust his cock into his hands, yelling out as he quickly climaxed, leaning against the cold shower wall. Come rinsed from his hands as the water poured down from the shower head. He panted, then looked up at Louise and smiled. He reached for a towel and patted his skin.

Gregory fell into the bed and lay motionless, red backside, arms, legs, skin swollen now after all, still, the sting of hot water, the long arousal, intensity of the orgasm Louise had watched. “Oh, thank you,” he said, “it was ecstasy.” His shoulders surrounded her, her arousal stirred for the moment until he let go.

“Gregory, I don’t know…” she kicked off the heals, and lay the whip on the night table. She kissed him gently on the neck and wrapped her arms around him. He was asleep.

Gregory slept the sleep of angels, Louise thought. But she was not quite sure.

The dark clouds and sunlight in the late afternoon cast shadows that made the entire landscape seem more colorful than it really was. It was bound to rain later, which always makes for a romantic evening, Louise started to dream. But not now.

Not ever, it seemed, the promise of romance gone as quickly as it had come. Or maybe the whipping was supposed to be romantic–but she felt a crack in her soul as she hurt him. And yet he seemed to need it so much. Maybe she should have stayed, even if…

But no, not like this. It was not the fantasy that troubled Louise, not the thought of the pain, the delicate balance with pleasure–that, in fact, was the seduction. No, not that she wanted to hurt him, either, but that something was missing. They had barely spoken, before or during. Nothing so intimate should ever be so cold.

As the fairy tale became smaller in the rear-view mirror, Louise felt a surge of relief, driving in the rain, toward the night, through this unfamiliar land, but eventually, finding her way back home.

a short response

Dear x,

You write to me of your “strong urges”. So what sort of strong urge do you have right now?

What do you do with such urges? Do you just forget about them, or do you have to do something to relieve the tension?

I think you have wicked, naughty thoughts that you can’t ignore.I like to think about you stroking your cock, getting harder. I like thinking about your new vibrator, in deep so that one end drives your ass wild, and the other end touches your balls.

Ah, but this week is too busy to meet, isn’t it? We’ll have to wait.

In the meanwhile, you can think wicked, brazen thoughts.  So, think of this:  tomorrow morning, when I would normally be working, I will go back upstairs and spread my legs wide open. My vibrator will take your place if you cannot be here. All night, I will be thinking about it, so when I get back into bed, I’ll need to relieve my strong urges, too.

When my clit is so sensitive, I really don’t need this intense a sensation, you know, even on the slow speed–it is so strong that I can’t really stand it for very long. It makes me come very fast. Too fast.

It makes me want more.

I want your face buried between my legs, your tongue, circling my clit. You drive me wild when you tease me that way, when you tie me down and bring me so close to climax, then leave me gasping, still wanting more. I want to push your face down, but instead my back arches to push against you.

How long would you make me wait for your cock to ram my hot pussy?

Would you keep me tied, or would you flip me over to spank me, then fuck my ass?

Let me know if you have any further thoughts on this subject.

xxx

L.D.

grass

The curtain swelled in the breeze, and the chugging chugging down below let into a pause, then another chug, and a whirr, and my peace was broken in the warm morning. The clock said ten a.m., which was impossible, I thought, the neighbors disturbing my morning so early, not so early, not the neighbors. It was you. You, tracing along the edge of hostas in the only shadows of a hot day, the tall grass lying in clumps as you circle my yard.

I am not supposed to be here, not now, not supposed to watch you bending to wipe your head with the bottom of that wet t-shirt. The grass has held the last days’ rain, now the sweet ancient scent of weeds, and summer, and the grass, small blades stuck to your calves and sockless ankles. Tea from the jug on the back porch, melting the ice as I pour it, and you look up. I didn’t bother to dress.

Grass rinses down the shower drain, soap smooth as I lather your chest, your tight back, familiar paths, the sliding mm, swell tightening, slick lather speeds my hand. I cannot help but grab you, you near bursting beneath the hot water, dirt rinsing from your neck, irresistible astringent, you Tarzan, I kiss your shoulders, your rough face, your tongue warm and soft while you pin me to the tiles, kick my legs open, the water beading in my hair, waiting, waiting, I gasp. You smile, and kiss my cheek, reach for two towels, hand me one.

You are silent as you bend to dry your feet, arousal on hold.

You are face down now, waiting for me this time, waiting for what? a whip? a kiss, a finger, my call, grass, delight, once, twice, three strikes, my, your red shoulders, the t-shirt, then when you will have gone, a ghost, a gift, a moment, a wait, a great desire, to sleep again.

betrayal

I was thinking today about that apartment on the fifth floor, the walk-up with the kitchen exhaust fan that surely saved our lives in the humid evenings when hunger finally outweighed exhaustion, when I finally lit the gas burner and tossed the steaks into the pan.  Your landlord told you to stop grilling on the balcony. The mosquitoes had discovered the patio below. You never grilled.

Your skin must still glisten in the low light now–even a table lamp seems to add to this kind of heat. We drew the shades all day back then, turned the fans to blow the air out of the small dark rooms, lay motionless in the small dark world until the sun set, until I startled at the hour, reached over you for my panties, pulled them on as I stood into my sandals and walked into the kitchen, zipping my dress along the way. I stood in front of the refrigerator, pulling out cucumbers, carrots, the two steaks, poured the last quarter bottle of chilled chablis into the wine glass on the counter. I answered my calls, talked while I chopped, and life returned, nightly, a radio flipped on, the air at last cooler than our flat, fans turned in once more, your drunken cold pecks landing on my hot neck.

I fucked you slowly then, slow the only way to survive the days, the long days. I slid slowly over you beneath the shower, in oceans, in beds at home, in holiday inns beside lakes up north, in the cool lack of privacy, the bickering want for ambition, my want. I dreaded relief in those hot days, slowed days down as if to hang on longer, dreaded the strength that might return when the haze lifted, when the phone rang, and it was someone else, something else, something clear, and crisp, and full, and faraway.

Your muscles tightened beneath your skin as you lay upon the hot mattress through those idle months. I hated you, your unemployed cock still hard, shameless, your body fit, maintained in all the hours, morning hours, long hours with nothing more to do but to adore it, to adore yourself. I hated the hours you had to spend, motionless, your passion seemingly endless in the abyss, passion without a cause. I hated the flowers you gave to break the news to me, your gift to yourself, your selfishness. I hated the rumble of an engine, your liberty, you said, your life, unexplored, really, as if lying in these small rooms with me really ever was enough, if only I’d stay there with you, bound by the ring on my finger, only you, no friends, no landscape beyond, as if you thought I wanted nothing more in this life than you, as if wanting more was to betray you. I betrayed you.

I loved you in that room, you know. I loved the heat, radiating, loved that dizzy feeling that nothing else mattered, loved the mind-twisting illusion, your blind jealous red eyes, loved the cool knife pushed oh so gently into my flesh, my senses slowed, dulled, loved the lull, the gradual loss of myself,  longer, loved the mirage, the promise of more, you, there, just a little farther beyond.

cake

It was the meringue that did me in, I said, love, the bite into browned edges, the yielding to soft sweet foam inside. Favorite things. Luxuries like chocolate mousse between the layers, the génoise, the peonies surrounding the plate.

Cool sheets, dark room, the scent of your skin, your cool tongue teasing my lust left ajar. The contrast of textures,  kindling of a kiss, wet, desire, yes, aching, restless.

I lied when I said it was about the cake.