let it snow

Looking out my window high above the streets, I watch the swirling white clouds of snow against the pink sky. It is a blizzard, they say, and my legs are still cold from walking in it earlier, my hair still wet on the edges not covered by my hat. I watch, watch, and think that somewhere I see you trudging down the sidewalk, your cap bobbing along as you make your way here, to my front door.

Yes, it is snowing still, still will be as the wind picks up and roars, and you are here now, here, your fingers cold as they grasp greedily at my hair, my face. I push you away now, want you to wait for better things.

I want to go back out into that raging storm with you, walking with you the two of us out in the state of emergency, walking down streets deserted and cold, and the warmth of you right there and yet unattainable, beside me like a candle’s worth of light and heat until we can come home and light a fire inside. It is the anticipation that is the most delicious, perhaps, the waiting and the smile, the postponement and the vague uncertainty of every moment that I cannot touch you.

I want you, yes. I feel you in every moment beneath warm covers on a winter morning. I feel your hands as I dreamily run my own hands down my body, down to satisfy the intense longing I feel in that slumberful daze of early day, my sheets wet with my own excitement as I grind into my fingers that tease, as you tease, that plunge in and move out, as you might, as you might following some sleepless night when you watch in the new light to see if perhaps my eyes might open, when you wait to move closer until you think I might want to wake up. I want you, in dreams, in daylight, your cock tense and ravenous for my touch, a sigh, and snow below, beyond, on a quiet December morning.


Dear readers, I fear that I have might have much to confess this Christmas morning.

I tried to be good this year. I really did! But I apparently have not succeeded.

Oh yes, dear readers, my stocking was filled with coal!

Filled right to the brim, which I suppose could be a good thing on a cold morning. But given the traditional symbolism of such a gesture on such a day, it is clear that Santa really must have been watching, and knows without a doubt exactly how naughty I have been.

A couple of days ago, as you know, I implored the elf to define naughty and nice. I feared that many of us around here might be getting coal, and frankly, I had hoped for a clearer definition to share with you on this Christmas day. Still I am not entirely sure of anything, except that I have done something.

Oh yes. “Lady D.,” he says, “you have been a very, very bad girl.”

All right. It is true, I am sure. Yes, true! All of it is true.

But how much does Santa know?

And coal is all fine and dandy, but what more does this mean? Oh, Santa, tell me! What becomes of naughty girls?

Does Santa just give coal, or does he punish wicked girls, too? Does he bend them over that red velvet lap of his, and spank? Does he bend them over and hold them down while lifting their skirts, while lowering their panties? Does he hold them down while they squirm and plead and cry? Does he leave their white cheeks all red and hot, their pussies swollen and hot, and wet?

Oh, Santa, no! Not that!

Oh, no. Probably not that.

Now, given the fact that the rest of the day has been rather pleasant–a copper pan for cooking risotto popped up under the tree, for example–I might assume that Santa only wishes for me to know that he knows.

But things are never as simple as they seem. Yes, he will be jovial–all ho ho and all that–and act as though everything is perfectly fine. We will ignore the topic of coal in the stocking, until later tonight, when he asks me about it.

“Oh, Lady D.,” he will say, “what did Santa leave in your stocking?”

And that is the part where I will have to admit to him that I noticed the coal. And he will ask me, I imagine, why I think I might have gotten coal.

And this is when I am supposed to confess, I know.

And to be honest dear readers, it is difficult to know what to tell when I still do not know which part of my fun Santa has deemed naughty. I do so fear the punishment that Santa may ultimately dole out.

So… let me think.

The holidays this year have been festive, ’tis true.

The party last Saturday was a joyous affair. Perhaps my flirtations may have gotten a little out of hand. Anything outrageous was unintentional–at least a little. I confess that I could have stopped earlier.

And it is true that bawdiness was not completely out of the question any other evening last weekend. I did behave myself! (well, at least in public).

And it is true, yes, oh yes!, it is true that my little dinner parties are so rarely altogether innocent. I confess to some level of debauchery. Do I really have to tell more? Do you really want to know?

Oh, Santa! Do I have to admit to all of my pleasure? All of it?

I cover my rear in anticipation. I back off, try to think how I can get out of it, how I might tell part of the truth that Santa already knows. I try hard to fathom how I might phrase things to make them seem less… less… slutty.

So… realistically… I leave it to you. Readers, how could Santa really know that the muffled whimpers and sighs and outright screams are anything more than my own exclamations of the joy of the season?

And it is joy, I am quick to say, that should indeed extend throughout the entire year.

Does Santa need details?

And yes.. yes… I have already said this: I fear that Santa may have more in mind than the coal.

And yet, one friend has already suggested that my deeds–misdeeds-may indeed be more meriting of a trip down the chimney than anything else. But I know all too well that Santa is very likely to be collecting his switches, now that the season of lap dances has ended. I know that he intends full well to use those switches on me, to leave me marked up and excited, to tie me down and watch me squirm in misery.

And ecstasy.

What is a bad girl to do?

Must I tell all about the sensations and the flesh, the feelings, the flush of cheeks? Must I tell everything!?

Oh Santa, as I mentioned here days earlier, yes: I embrace the coal. I accept your gift in all its smutty goodness. Thank you Santa. Thank you.

Will there be anything else?

naughty or nice

Dear Santa,

It has come to my attention that you know when I am sleeping. You know when I am awake. You know when I have been bad or good. I do not know how you obtained this information, but your methods may well be illegal, Santa. For the purpose of discussion here, though, I am ignoring that for now.

So, as I contemplate the likelihood of receiving coal in my stocking this year, I ask you, Santa: define good.

Define bad.

Define naughty and nice.

Ah… yes. If we are maintaining the conventional standards, I assume that means coal.

Well, then, let me embrace the coal.

Yes, I embrace the coal, the gritty black honesty of it.

I embrace coal, and earth, and wishes and passion. Really, this is all I need.

And then I ask you, Santa, what really matters in this season of hope and love?

With love,

lunch hour

Beads of sweat drip onto my forehead when you hover over me like that. Just like that. Oh yes. Exactly. Like. That.

I love it when you meet me here, full of rage and desire, hurried, half wondering if I will really show up.

I might.

I might show up on my lunch hour, then return to my office a bit rosy-cheeked, a bit disheveled. No one will notice. No one will ever suspect.

Or, then again, they may believe I have taken ill and send me home…


How much do you want to know?

What details do you want to hear about the days and the nights–oh, the nights!–when you are away from me?

Do I wander lonely beneath the moon, searching searching? Or do I curl up somewhere warm, lapping up milk and cuddling beside a fire?

Do you want to know about the flashing black eyes that watch me from around the corner? the half-hidden smile?

And do you imagine that it is my shadow that you glimpsed in the alley, a silhouette there, walking past a light late in these longest nights?

é luxo só

There are luxuries in this world, adventures, extraordinary wonders just there, if we reach for them.

I think this on a windy Sunday night, watching rain pour from my window high above the street. I love these nights, wandering out into them, the driving rain, my wet face, cold, the front door, hot bath, the tea beside my papers, my soft warm bed, dreams.

Skin. Kisses. Yes. I do want you, love you gently here, now, deep inside me, rocking me now to dreams, lulling me now in my blissful state, pushing me far past it.

And I think of songs, sun in the morning. I dream, throughout the dark windy night, the sun, that luxury beyond.