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?

ring ring

“Where are your fingers, right now?”

My fingers were wrapped around the telephone when you posed the question, but at your insistence, I unzipped my pants and slid my fingers beneath my panties. As I already knew, your words had made me wet.

“I keep thinking of licking you, licking around your nipples slowly until they become hard. I would suck them for a long, long time, then work my tongue down your belly. I would push your legs apart and lick everything I found there. I would hold you down while my tongue flicked your clitoris and licked up all your wetness. You are wet, aren’t you?”

How could I think when you were doing things like this to me? I was late, but yours was not a conversation that I wished to abandon quite so easily. Let them wait, I thought. And so they did.

“Where are your fingers now?”

“Circling my clit. Oh.. fuck.”

Your deep voice changes when you want me this badly. Your voice penetrates each detailed description of the various and sundry ways that you imagine fucking me. Your voice served as adequate distraction from the traffic and the noise and the hurry of the early evening. These distractions fed me, though: my secret thrill as I wandered in among friends, smiling though I was tired, and yes.. I did flirt. You knew I would. I flirted shamelessly, and every so often, I imagined your firm hand on my shoulder, you whispering behind me that you want me to take you to an empty room upstairs.

But not tonight. Tonight, you sit, cheering on someone you love. And I’ll talk talk, loving children and life, too. Just a little more thrilled, a little more laughing, a little more to tell you later.


“So you are saying that I either need to leave in five minutes or wait another half hour?”

“Well, you could stay even longer, just as long as I can manage to…”

Yes, of course the doorbell rings then, and of course we are naked and still in bed.

I obviously have not quite mastered the art of timing these delicious sexual encounters around the busy stuff of life, but I do know that having you wander out into the hall with no clothes on would probably create a good deal of confusion, considering that my teenage son has not met you.

Of course, it is not my son at the door. It is his therapist, who has arrived early and is talkative. I kick your shoes away from the door and open it. The therapist does talk, talks about my son and the weather and the world and the plans for the day, which to my relief, involve leaving with my son as soon as the bus arrives. And it does arrive, and my son is tired, annoyed, but then pleased to go out. To my surprise, they head upstairs to fetch the hard drive out of a computer. I go up after them them, apologize–“.. just in the middle of a project.”–shut the door to my son’s bedroom and sneak back in to whisper and giggle with you like a teenager myself, then out again as I hear them on the stairs, then down, goodbye. Off they go. I fly back up, at last, at last..


Yes, I am still laughing about it, laughing about finding you lying on my bed, now fully clothed, reading Just-So Stories, or Women In Love, or the Italian cookbook that were all sitting on the nightstand that day.

“Really, I don’t mind a bit,” you smile. And I do believe you, through my frustration, and still…

You ask me where the door from my room goes, and yes, it does lead to a balcony. The other door holds yet other surprises. The possibilities are endless for these sorts of games, but no.. I did not plan this, did not expect that you would be in the corner of my bedroom laughing, nor that I would be downstairs discussing behavior plans and suggesting that my son really needs to get out of the house–he has been so stressed. And I am completely serious, would have suggested it regardless of the circumstances.. and yet…


You make me laugh. I cannot explain why I need that laughter so much, but the week has been long, difficult, fraught too much with the realities of my world that make me want to escape it. Love does linger throughout my real world–oh, I am so lucky for that–but lust lingers in ours, and I need your wanting, your spanking, your eager desire to make me come quickly right off so that you can keep me going for what feels like an eternity.

“I like to make you happy,” you say. You have just held my legs apart, admiring my panties, now wet, wetter. “Do you have a vibrator?”

I pull out the industrial strength Hitachi, and you smirk at me, “Your toys are all big.”

It is true, they are, and you tease me with that toy, with my panties, as you pull at them. The buzzing hits my labia, my thighs, everywhere except where I really want it, despite my squirming.

“So, where do you really want it?” You don’t wait for an answer before you push the vibrations down onto my clit as I squirm now to get away from the searing intensity of it. I cannot, I cannot, and I realize that I can–you have handed the vibrator to me while you are sucking my nipples, biting, yes yes yes yes.

You send me into quite a state with that vibrator–you know it, don’t you? You pull me on top of you, and smile when I pull off my panties and push your cock deep inside, riding, galloping, deeper, farther into a world that I only know like this, so rare.

And now you push me off and over, roll the condom down your hard cock, lube my ass. I did nothing to prepare for it this week–“This is where you really want it? isn’t it?”–and you squeeze in, as I feel the burn, then the release, and finally the melting thrill of it. You fuck me there, nicely, dig your fingernails into my buttocks–me, completely vulnerable and fulfilled. Yes, this is what I want. I should be spent after sitting on your cock… so hard–I still cannot quite fathom how you stay hard for so long–and you tell me you like it as you reach up to grab my breasts, tell me you like it as I grind my hips down farther onto yours, when I am in complete control, so that I decide when your cock hits me in the spot that makes me completely lose control of myself and of you and of the world.

My toy? I hardly consider you that, though I like to play with you. I like to push your buttocks apart and find you more relaxed still than last week. I push my slick fingers gently into your ass, feel you sigh and pant as I push one finger, then another, up, higher, as you get used to this, to what it is doing to you. “That’s enough…” but I do it again later when you have fucked me well, when you have held back for long enough, when you need–badly need–to come.. I lick your balls and finger you, feel your legs tense tenser, then relaxed, your body throbbing as come spills out over your hands and belly, your cock still shaking.

“This started out as a purely intellectual conversation, and now it has become purely physical, filthy screwing.”

“Well, you can still talk to me, if you like.”

So we talk. And talking is nice with you, too. I like it when we screw, when we talk. I like it when we talk about ordinary things, and then your voice becomes deep and you remind me that you can completely overpower me if you want to.. I am surprised to feel myself melt when you say this. I want you to overpower me, want you to tie me up and push me to the edge, over it, want you to do everything, if only for a few minutes of my life.

I like it when you slap my ass hard and watch me bury face in the pillow, near tears but not making you stop… only to wait a moment before you roll over onto your back. “Your turn,” you seem to say. Yes, my turn, and I want to take the reins from you, tell you filthy stories and think of how far I might take you, how I might let you let the world slide away, as well..  I think of what strange and glorious place I might take you to soon with the toy you brought today.

I wonder sometimes about this, what it means. It means splendor. It means wonder. It means I like to see you wander back into your life a bit happier, too.. dappled sunshine illuminating the color in a sometimes-grey world.

endings, beginnings

“What, darling, what is it?”

I know your tears all so well, see them far too often now.  They nearly are you.

I want to tell you to lie beside me, to take my hand, to thrill me as you once did in happiness.

I want to tell you to hold on for the ride of your life–it will be grand!–but I feel your grip loosen as I swing higher. Finally, you let go.

I miss you. I feel a joy in life that you seem unable to find, anywhere, and I worry about you. And yet, I cannot let go of life in the way you seem so resolved to doing.

Ubi nihil vales, ibi nihil velis.

This you tell me–“Where you are worth nothing, there you want nothing.”–and I wonder where you will go. Where could you possibly be worth nothing?

“Live!” I want to say to you, and in one space I fear that you will not live, or that you wander among the walking dead, breathing and moving, but never again touching love, touching life.

Desire defined us. I thought that the closeness of fantasies realized would bring you happiness, but instead it brings you despair, as though you feel that the nearer you come to that sublime, sunshining moment, the more remote it becomes.

Or perhaps I have it all wrong. Perhaps you find the sublime in the longing. Perhaps you swing even wilder than I do, clinging to despair, venturing into the underworld now forever.

Oh, my love, my love. I miss you, but I am tethered to the hope and happiness in this world–I reach for the sublime in feeling the limits of being, not in nothingness.

I love you, but I live.

I live.