Golf...flog

Ho-s and the Vexation of the Apostrophe

2009-05-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

Last night was a gorgeous spring evening, and as I drove home from a late evening meeting, I noted that the ladies of the evening wore their summer togs, i.e., not much. I sent a text to a friend, "The hos are wearing very little this evening."

He queried, "Hos?" I explained that I wasn't speaking of garden implements, and was not quite sure of an accurate spelling.

He replied and told me that "Ho's" was the correct term, to which I groaned and ranted...

"APOSTROPHES NEVER GO WITH PLURALS!" I also very kindly reminded him that we have now HAD that discussion on several occasions. He claimed that since it was slang, it didn't matter.

Apostrophes for plurals and punctuation outside of quote marks are my two chief vexations as a writer. Good writers learn these rule, of this I'm sure, but from time to time, we apparently lose our brains and forget.

I have a short list of stupid things for which I will go to the mat. I bet you do, too. I will throw it down to defend against incorrect use of the apostrophe any damned day.

I'm thinking that the hos need to steal the hard vowel mark from the Vietnamese so that ijit Americans will quit mispronouncing pho and say it correctly as phuh. But, as with the umlaut, the hard vowel sound sign is just not readily available.

Shitgoddamn. Yapping dogs on the pant legs of life. At least they remind us we are alive.

Cultural (In)competence and One Just Purely Odd Thing

2009-04-13T08:24:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, three text messages wishing me happy Easter. One from a relative, one a joke from Trident, and one from a dear friend, all of whom know that I'm a Jew. I gave Tri a ration for her well wishes, then kindly reminded the other two that Jews don't typically celebrate the marvel (or fantasy, depending on one's perspective) of the risen Christ. The relative's comment was, "I wasn't aware."

The friend said, "Really? You don't celebrate Easter?"

I said, "Gosh, no, do you celebrate Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot, Purim, or Yom Kippur?"

"Why would I do that?"

Yea, boy howdy, why would she?

On a different subject, this morning on the way to the office, a car driving down the road with a six foot high prickly pear cactus in a huge basket not at all tied down on its roof. It was a sedan, maybe a Subaru. I tried to get a picture and couldn't get the shot, sadly. I was too far away to holler at the driver. That sucker was BIG. Not a thing I'd want rolling off the roof and down in any direction. Did someone leave it there as a joke? Did the owner of the car run out of steam while moving and just forget? Too many possibilities to fathom.

Happy Monday.

It's in Your Mind...Things that Make You Go Hmm...

2009-04-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

A young friend and I had a conversation last evening while writing and noshing on the best pie in the city. He said that he wanted to enter a deepthroating contest that evening and a party he was attending, but that he couldn't manage his gag reflex. I said, "Ah, it's easy. As soon as you figure out that the gag reflex is in your head and not your throat, you'll be fine. Just let yourself realize that you CAN breathe when you want to, and visualize yourself opening, and you'll be fine."

I was writing this afternoon, tucked in bed with my new niftospifto MacBook and my phone rang. It wasn't Trident so I was surprised, because other than Tri and my sister, folks text, they don't call. It was the heretofore mentioned young friend so excited I could barely make out his words. He asked me if I could guess who won the deep-throating contest last evening. "No kidding?" How big was the dude?"

"Ah, it wasn't a dude, it was a dildo."

"Bummer. Well, how big was the dildo?"

"Fourteen inches. I managed nine and a half."

"Jeezus, honey, that's pretty fabulous. What did you win?"

"The dildo!"

Life. Gotta freakin' love it.

How many dudes does it take....

2009-03-25T12:46:00.000-07:00

My favorite quick market on the way to work IS my favorite because it is managed by a very handsome/lovely dyke. This AM, I stopped by to indulge in a stupid addiction, Cherry Coke Zero. The store was FILLED with SWGs (straight white guys) all of whom swarmed the refrigerator cases. I nearly had to wrestle with two dudes to get through to my soda, and when they realized that I was actually a customer, quel surprise, they were stupidly obsequious, "Can we help you find anything?" Oi gewalt. I let them know I thought I could manage. (They all represented each drink company in her case and were all duking out position rights. Yikes!)

I got to the counter, raised my eyebrow and my pal just said, "It's almost over."

I told her I had no idea WHY they were swarming, but I gave her great sympathy because the store was FILLED with at least four different fragrances of horribly over-applied aftershave.

Once in a great while, women wear too much perfume. It seems to happen with greater frequency that men are plagued with an overabundance of fragrance.

All of that brings up something near and dear to my heart. Directness. A lost art? It's a gift to get feedback from ones friends when one is committing a social faux pas. It is not a gift to be allowed to be a dork unchecked.

Writing in Stereo: SIlk

2009-03-24T12:34:00.000-07:00

I've never written with a co-author before. A few months ago, I proposed a project to a friend and we have been batting the work back and forth since then. We just finished what is apparently the first chapter, having thought at the outset that we would only write one story. But, ah, indeed, the work has challenged us in a good way, and the result, it appears, is good enough to keep us engaged and writing. The characters are getting under my skin. That is so sweet, when the characters begin to drive. They wake me up at night wanting expression, wanting air time, wanting the story to MOVE.

Silk
The beginning of a luscious adventure.

Co-written with Velvet_Hammer

For months there was freezer paper over the storefront windows on the small shop space a few doors away from my favorite brew pub. Speculation abounded among the regulars as to the nature of the next business. Popularly voiced desires for the space reflected the diversity of pub clientele and included a cigar store, a baseball card store (I rolled my eyes at that), and an esoteric bookstore. The new owner was clearly taking his – or her -- time with the inside as another month passed. One Thursday evening, I noticed a classily done stencil just at the edge of the wainscoting where the glass met stone on the façade of the storefront. In an elegant yet readable font, the words, Illusions de Soire, and underneath, Proprietress Mlle. Amandine de la Tour.

"Illusions in Silk," I muttered as I stopped to peek on the way to the pub. Fabric store? If so, it's pretty high-end, as it's not big enough to sell a lot of fabric. Huh. I walked in to the pub and saw Joe, the bartender with the cliché name, who got a Guinness going for me.

"Did ya see the sign on the shop?" I asked.

"Yup, pretty shwa-shwa, ain't it?"

"I'd say pretty tasteful. You may have to get used to a higher class of customer. Might have to clean up your act a bit!" I razzed. "Looks as though the "dude" you were all convinced is opening that place is a dudette! Mlle. Amandine de la Tour."

"Keeerrist! A French woman? Don't that beat all. Oooh, ain't they the chicks walk around in those tight skirts and nylons with them seams up the back?" Joe asked.

"Well, if I had to make a guess, jackwad, I'd say that is precisely what this one might do. I think the store is either a fabric store or some kind of high-end clothing or lingerie shop. The store name means illusions in silk. I can't think what else would create an illusion if it wasn't a stocking."

Joe slid my Guinness across the bar and I inhaled its rich aroma before taking a long draught. Pavlovian to the core, I relaxed the moment I swallowed.

Another stressful work day over and the nightly ritual at Joe's Joint – two Guinnesses and a Dungeon Burger – would get me through dinner and on my way to the gym. Grateful Dead played permanently in the background, and I just loved the familiarity of the bar. Joe was right. Having a fancy stocking joint just down the block could change things. "Well, buddy, here's to the Mademoiselle, may she be lovely, and entertaining, or may her business go right down the crapper!" I said.

A few doors down, Mlle. de la Tour was indeed working hard behind the brown paper on the storefront. As proprietress of the shop, with her name on the sign, she was keenly aware that everything relating to the store reflected on her. She pushed a dark chocolate colored curl away from her face, refolded her crème colored shirtsleeve, and straightened her navy blue skirt. She had been assembling racks it seemed, for the past half of her life. She consulted the schematic again, trying to assure herself that the mess in the shop would actually transform at some alchemical moment to the vision of grace and beauty she held in her head.

She concentrated on the diagram, wondering how anyone ever deciphered such pictures and directions...they seemed to not be written in any language she knew. "Merde!" she uttered, as she picked up a mysterious piece of shelving and tried to compare it to the schematic.

Crouched there, she could feel the stretch of the garters across the smooth flesh of her thighs. Alone in the boutique, no one would enjoy the exquisite view of her stocking tops and straps visible through the slit of her skirt. Dropping the schematic, she ran an exquisitely manicured hand down her thigh as she absently stroked the smooth fabric of her stocking, relishing the feel of the fabric beneath her hand. She felt a familiar tightening of her nipples and the welcome warmth in her woman.

Sighing, she let drop the piece from the kit and rose to her feet. Smoothing her skirt, she tucked another errant lock behind her ear. The contractors would be here tomorrow to finish building and installing the fixtures, electronics and the office furniture. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be torturous as well, directing all the traffic and ensuring that everything was placed correctly. The opening would either make her or break her; of this she was firmly convinced. Even though the area was a bit rundown, it was starting to become gentrified.

"Du vin," she muttered. A bit of wine, yes. That would help her relax. She wondered if that café (bar, she reminded herself, they call them "bars" here) stocked wine. And if it did, was it any good?

With a final glance at the "work in progress" that was her shop, she turned and locked the door. Instead of the organized chaos that it was now, her mind's eye roamed over orderly shelves and racks and a bevy of customers...

She wrapped a scarf around her head and tucked it into the collar of her coat, locking the door behind her. The evening was chill, but Amandine could feel the overlay of spring making its presence known. Breathing deeply, she steeled herself to the walk ahead. Although it was only four doors down, she felt intimidated. As she neared the bar, she slowed, trying to peer inside inconspicuously, and then with a roll of her eyes at her own silliness, she opened the door, which the wind caught, pulling her in unceremoniously and nearly dumping her on the floor.

Amandine stumbled, felt herself redden, and stepped inside, quickly sitting at a booth on the eastern wall of the bar. She faced the bar, and tried to make sense of the 20x15 chalk board above a panoply of bottles. Beers, ales, on "nitro," and nary a wine advertised. The bartender caught her eye and said, "I'll be there in just a sec, ma'am." From my vantage on a stool at the bar, I watched the leggy brunette's travail through the large mirror over the bar, trying to keep from groaning at her discomfort. She slipped off her coat, but she kept her shoulders covered, I imagine because as it was chilly in the bar. Joe was not a big fan of paying the utilities. The brunette sat and crossed her legs, subtly adjusting her skirt for a proper lay. Her seat fully exposed her to the bar, as empty as it was. I imagined she was fully aware of her exposure and that if her coat slid down it would likely expose the top of her stocking, bare flesh and possibly a garter.

Laughing, I said to myself, "One hopes." In this part of town, any leg wear would most likely come from those cheap plastic eggs and be of nylon. I figured this had to be our new store owner. Not too many women around these parts had the taste and the wherewithal to select attire that could set my blood boiling...

One of my favorite features of Joe's Place is the mirror through which I watched the brunette. I can sit here and watch all the action behind me. By sitting facing the bar and on the outside edge of the booth, Mademoiselle simply made it that much more gratifying for me, and easy. I could see the lace of her brassiere between the open collar of the creme silk shirt she wore. Full breasts clad in lace. The four inch pumps just a skosh too high for regular business attire, and the line of her navy blue skirt added value to the package, no doubt. That subtle adjustment, checking to make sure she didn't show TOO much leg, now that sent a charge down my spine. I could imagine my hand gliding slowly up the curve of her thigh, pushing the hem of her skirt higher and higher... Err best not to go down that path right now, I reprimanded myself.

Joe made his way to the table, pen behind his ear, lanky form looking straight down, a grin on his face as he noted the view of her full breasts, and asked,

"What can I get you to start, Miss?"

Amandine regarded Joe and reached out her hand, still chill, "Good evening. I am Amandine de le Tour, the owner of the new show down the way -- your neighbor, I suppose." As she spoke, her shoe slid on the floor, causing the hem of her skirt to ride slightly up. In the mirror, I could catch the faintest hit of a stocking top.

Joe rubbed his hand on his apron and shook hers, stammering, "Uh, hi, Miss Almondeen. I'm Joe. The bartender. This is my place. Welcome to the neighborhood. What is that -- store you're opening, anyway, and what can I get ya?" Joe's normally effusive greeting caused her to slip on the seats slick fabric, added effect was that her skirt rode higher on her stocking tops. I pursed my lips in admiration. Definitely stockings. Definitely garters as I could see the clasps. I fought the urge to count bumps.

Wondering if she had broken bones in her hand, I put my head in my hands in defeat and despair and resolved to give Joe a few quick lessons in etiquette. The generally affable Joe was not at the top of his game with the ridiculously lovely and refined Mlle. de la Tour. I had never wished for Joe's job until this very moment.

Amandine patiently replied, "It's 'Amandine', like your 'Amanda,' not like 'almond,' the nut.

"My Amanda"? I don't have..."

"JOE!" I yelled at him before he could dig himself deeper. "Her name is French, the English version is AMANDA."

"Oh! I'm sorry, miss," Joe managed. "What can I serve you?"

"I have a desire for red wine -- Bordeaux perhaps, but I don't see wine on your bill of fare."

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to bail him out - knowing exactly what was on his mind. A box of his finest red. A box, not a bottle. I stood and walked to the table. Holding my hand out and saying, "Nick Browning, Ms. de la Tour, ravi de faire votre connaissance." I continued, "Joe's Place services beer, soda, and hard alcohol at this point. They have only three local wines stashed away, and Joe doesn't typically remember to list them on the board. The Pinot Noir, while not nearly as complex as a Bordeaux, is more than serviceable. It has good legs and the vintners have produced several prize winners in the last couple of years. They also make a nice Riesling, but I suspect that would be too sweet and uncomplicated for the pallet that prefers a Bordeaux."

I realized that I'd held her hand throughout my rambling, suddenly aware of the softness of her skin and the delicate bones of her fingers and wrist. I said, "Ah, my apologies," as I let go. "Wine is one of several things about which I could go on...I will let you get back to your drink. Pleasure meeting you."

"Monsieur Nick Browning, I thank you for your kindness. I will take your recommendation. I would be happy for some company if you are so inclined." A slight flush of her cheeks at her last comment, a little tremble in her voice, exposing the risk of the request.

"Vous êtes vraiment belle, Mademoiselle," I said and slid into the booth, not sure what to expect, but curious indeed.

"Please, Sir, call me Amandine, and that is most kind. 'Lovely,' I do not feel. Tired and in need of an extra week, very worried and épuisée is how I feel."

"It is the mark, Amandine," I unconsciously caressed her name with my voice; my rich baritone or so I've been told, stroking it lovingly. "Of a true lady that when she feels épuisée, she still looks poised and lovely." I held her gaze until she looked away.

Joe arrived with the wine and Amandine looked worriedly, "You will not join me?" Seeing the discomfort on her face, I ordered a glass. She waited for Joe to return with my wine. We sat quietly, each looking at the other, then into our glasses, and then both at one time, said, "A votre santé."

I lifted my glass and said, "Please, you."

She nodded and said simply, "To kind strangers."

I smiled. Amandine knitted her brow. “What, Mademoiselle?”

She flushed and cast down her eyes. I felt a charge from her sudden shyness. After a few moments, she looked at me, not fully lifting her head. I determined to be silent until she wished to speak. I watched her savoring and assessing, the wine, the bar, me.

"So, what say you?" I inquired.

“Your smile. It changes your face. I think…that you don’t do it enough.” She delivered her observation hesitantly but did keep eye contact, albeit somewhat nervously.

“You are as perceptive, my dear, as you are beautiful. Now, tell me your perceptions of the wine.”

"It is ... interesting, as you say. Ah, there is much to adjust to. It is different. A new taste. For a new life. I like it."

"And, I would posit," I continued, "you also yearn for something familiar, oui?"

"Oui, Monsieur Browning, for perhaps a touch of home."

She was quiet again and I openly stare at the shape of her lips, full heart shaped mouth, large dark brown eyes, and finely arched brow. Dark hair with a few strands of grey. Her face was -- what? Open, incandescent. That bit of shyness, I wondered what that portended. I was ... intrigued. Again our eyes met. I held her gaze for the longest time yet; in the end, it was she who looked away. I could feel the urge come upon me at that point.

"You are very intense, aren't you, Monsieur Nick? You take stock. You watch. Tell me what you think are the chances for a fine ladies' lingerie store to succeed just a few doors down from this place?"

"Illusions de soire," I said.

"You really do speak French!" she said delightedly.

I dismissed my French as the byproduct of a misspent youth and then changed the subject.

"Some dinner, Amandine?"

"No, thank you, Monsieur Nick. I am very tired and tomorrow comes very early. Will I see you here again?"

Smiling, I said, "Only if you come any evening between 5:30-7:30. Let me walk you to your car."

I waved away her money for the wine, had Joe put it on my tab, stood and offered her my hand up, which she grasped as though familiar with the gesture. Most women in the US would look askance at such a gesture. I felt heat with the touch of her hand, helped her up and into her coat, noting, again, the fine fabric of her skirt and blouse, and the slit that allowed her to walk and allowed me a lovely view of stocking clad thigh.

I held open the door and we stepped into the evening. I opened my arm for her and she slipped her arm through. “You are very kind, Monsieur Nick,” she said softly. I had to lean toward her to hear her. We walked casually toward the storefront with the paper on the windows. “I wonder,” she began and then immediately was quiet.

“What is it you wonder, Amandine?” I asked, slowing us down a bit more. “What is in your head?”

“It is nothing, silly. It is late already.”

“Were you going, perhaps, to invite me to see your shop? In which case I accept your kind offer,” I said with a little bit of a tease in my voice.

She giggled, a melodious sound, leaving her appearing very young. It was a delightful sound and I wanted to hold her at that moment. I refrained, and awaited her response. Night had come, bringing with it more chill. I could not help but imagine how the cold teased her nipples, even through her coat, pressing against the sheer fabric of her bra. She shivered as we reached her shop’s door. Pulling a key ring from her pocketbook, she opened the door and immediately began apologizing for the “désastre” herein.

“I see no disaster, Mademoiselle de la Tour, rather, a work in progress. How many days until you open?” I walked in and did a 360 visual tour. The lovely lady has a fine eye, I thought to myself.

"One week, Monsieur Nick. Just one week," she whispered with trepidation in her voice.

Clearly designated spaces for display racks, already-installed shelving on walls, mirrors in lovely frames with the intent, I thought, to make the observer see herself in a picture frame. Painted in warm, soft tones, a quirky mix of contemporary and Renaissance art that impressed me for its sophistication and accessibility.

“Do you have inventory yet, or is it still on its way?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur Nick, all the inventory is in the back, come, let me show you.” She began to walk off but I caught her hand and pulled her to me. I looked into her eyes, and again, she held my gaze but I could feel her wanting to look down. I brought my lips slowly down to her and paused just before we touched.

She closed her eyes and parted her lips, holding me at my waist. I brought her to me and gently kissed her ruby lips, full, soft. "I wonder," I said quietly. I took both her hands from my waist and moved them behind her back, crossing them one over the other holding them both firmly in my right hand. Her only response was a soft moan, and to move in and press herself more fully against me. I kissed her again, smiling into the kiss. I moved my hands down, taking off her coat, outlining her slender body lightly, caressing her waist, then down her hips, feeling the garters and stockings.

I sighed into her and ended the moment with a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Show me now, Amandine.”

“Oui, Monsieur Nick, as you wish,” she said softly and led me to the dressing room. I watched her walking away from me, and I said, "Cervin Champs Elysees, for every day wear? I grow more impressed by the minute, Amandine."

She stopped cold, and turned around slowly, her already large brown eyes wide with amazement. "Monsieur Nick! How could you possibly know..." The utter mystification on her face made me chuckle.

"Mademoiselle, do you think that you are the only person in the world with an eye for such things?" Realizing that I could have sounded harsh, I came to her and held her again. "Imagine my delight at this moment to actually not just see, but actually be holding a woman who not only wears them, but whose beauty and elegance is worthy of them!"

She blushed again and didn't speak. I could feel her heart pounding. I felt her hunger then, calling out to my own. Not yet...

"Show me the rest, my dear," I said and loosened my arms for her to continue the tour.

Where the outer area was clearly in the early stages of coming together, the stock room and dressing rooms were already immaculate and perfectly organized. There were four spacious dressing rooms with raw silk curtains of a taupe color. A good sized triptych mirror with a platform reminded me of a wedding shop dressing room. Amandine clearly intended for her clients to feel as though they were quite special as they chose and modeled their lingerie.

There were two love seats and three chairs in the outer area. She obviously intended for people to lounge and look. There was only one thing out of place that I could see in the entire "salon" as I would come to know she called this part of the shop. One pair of the very same brand of silk stockings, hanging on a rack where I assumed clients would hang articles that they wished to try or perhaps that they had tried and rejected. Two stockings draped over the rack. I picked them up and ran them through my hands, the feeling of the silk doing nothing to stem my fast growing desire.
“What all will you sell, Mademoiselle?” I inquired, truly curious.

“Oh, Monsieur Nick, I’m afraid that I am very ambitious. Real silk stockings, fancy stockings, work stockings, some hold ups. Garter belts, corsets of several varieties, gloves, camisoles, lovely night wear, silk panties, silk robes, silk…”

“What,” I said feigning innocence, “no pantyhose?”

“Monsieur Nick! Panty…pantyhose? You don’t …”

I couldn’t contain myself and laughed uproariously. “No, Mademoiselle de la Tour, I do NOT seriously mean that. I was teasing you. I share your apparent disdain for that remarkably egregious blot on womankind.”

I sat on one of the couches, leaned back and rested my arms on the back of the love seat and offered, “I don’t suppose that if I were to purchase an outfit for you, you might be willing to model for me, would you? I would be most grateful to see a woman with your loveliness wearing Cubans, an eight strap garter, and a certain kind of corset…the sort that displays your lovely breasts in such a way that they are fully presented…”

She was standing near the platform mirror and looked at me, apparently thoroughly scandalized. For just a moment I thought she would bolt from the room. Instead, she leaned against the counter directly opposite the couch where shelves were built into the wall to the ceiling, folded her arms and stammered, despite her air of indifference, “Monsieur Nick, I…I...”

"Amandine, come here," I said quietly. Without hesitation, she came to me. "Take off your blouse." Again, very quietly.

She looked me straight in the eye, no hesitation, no doubt, no fear. The bra was a trifle, lace on most of the cup with just a bit of support from the under wire. Creme colored. Her breasts were lovely C cups. Her nipples were pert little things clearly visible beneath the lace of her bra.

"Good, lovely. Now, the skirt, please." The flush began at her breasts and moved upward. I could see her heart pulsing in her neck. She reached behind to unfasten her skirt, the act helping to display her front assets in a lovely way. I heard the zipper slowly slide down. She stepped out of her skirt and neatly folded it.

She wore taupe stockings with a garter that matched her bra, lace and crème, six straps. Her panties matched the set, with wide lace to ensure no lines. She wore her panties beneath her garters. She stood before me, all silk and lace and loveliness. I stood and approached her on silent feet.

"All evening, you have been fighting to keep eye contact. You deferred to me readily. When I held your hands behind your back, you nearly swooned. You complied just now to my requests without question. Unless I am sorely off the mark, my dear Amandine, you are a strong woman who also has a very yielding side....a side that perhaps longs...to be controlled?"

With the last, I reached inside her bra and brought forth both breasts, caressing the nipples in each until they were hard and large between my fingers. I reached around and unhooked her bra leaving her in stockings, garters, panties and shoes only. I smelled the freshness of her mingling with her perfume, soap, and shampoo.

I continued talking to her as my hands traveled to her stockings, caressing the garter, her thighs, barely touching her woman. "I believe that I am waiting for an answer, my dear. Do you wish to be controlled?"

Still she said nothing, rather, stayed quiet, waiting.

I made a loop in each of the silk stockings I had taken from the rack, having realized they had imperfections in each. I pushed one of the love seats to the middle of the room so that it faced the mirror. I tied the non-loop end of each stocking around the back leg on either side of the love seat, leaving the loops on the cushions.

I walked back to her, slipped off my suit jacked and loosened my tie.

"Please take your hair down, Amandine."

A gentle smile crossed her face. She took out a couple of hair pins and soon, her dark wavy full hair was down. She shook her head a bit and her hair cascaded down her back, midway.

Again I sat on the couch next to the wall. I leaned back and unzipped my fly. "Come to me, Amandine, right here," I said, showing her that I meant for her to kneel. She knelt before me, unspeakably lovely.

"You must answer my question, Mademoiselle de la Tour, for without your answer, we will go no further. Do you wish to be controlled?"

Fire in her eyes now, heated passion, her voice shaking, soft, "Oui, Monsieur Nick, I hesitate only because it is so vite, what I feel. But that within me that hungers for a strengthening hand cries out to you, Monsieur. Oui, oui, Nick, s'il vous plait!"

I nodded and said, "Merci, ma jolie femme. My hunger has built all evening, Amandine, as I presume has your own. Now, that hunger must be ...." I reached in my trousers and pulled forth my staff, "...satisfied."

She moaned at the site of the stiffening rod, and immediately bent to me and took me in her mouth. The shock of her mouth nearly sent me off he couch, but after several deep breaths, I managed to keep myself seated. I used my hands on her head to control her pace. As I touched her, twining my fingers in her hair, she loudly moaned onto my rod, and took me deeper.

The visual in front of me was a page out of my dreams. Amandine's lush brown hair all around her, breasts bobbing, and silk clad legs and thighs with garters stretching over her round firm ass. I pulled her hair and kept her impaled all the way to my belly. I heard her gag and let her up. I pulled her face up and pulled her to me to kiss. I devoured her neck, her breasts, and commanded her to stand.

I stood beside her, my mouth close to her ear. “Amandine,” I whispered, my hand slipping into her smooth hair. “You neglected one toute petite chose this morning when you dressed.” I grasped her hair hard in my hands. “From this moment forward, you will wear your panties over your garters.” I pulled her hair, forcing her head back and exposing her throat to me. “Am I clear?” I trailed my tongue up the side of her neck and kissed her jaw line.

“Yes,” she whispered softly. Her eyes were closed tightly. With one hand still grasping her hair, I reached up and circled her nearest nipple with a thumb and forefinger. She trembled visibly in my grasp. I pinched her, softly at first but with increasing force. She bit her bottom lip to control her whimper.

“Remove them now.” I said simply, letting her loose. I returned to my seat.

Half-flushed, Amandine retreated to the love seat. Placing one elegant foot on the seat, she leaned down and unhooked the garter of her left stocking. As she straightened, the unsecured fabric slid partially down her leg. I fought the urge to pull them back up and reattach the garters, the whole time stroking her leg. Changing legs, she repeated the process. As she stood there before me, she hooked her fingers in the straps of her panties and slid them down gracefully. I imagined the woman did nothing without style and grace. Stepping free of her panties, she simply stood there, arms at her sides.

“Hook them for me, my dear.”

She read my mind then. Straightening the fabric of her stockings as she attached the garters. With a final caress, she stood before me. Eyes challenging me.

I stood and unbuckled my belt, and stepped out of my trousers, laying them over the arm of the loveseat. I approached her. With a soft hand, I caressed her breasts and shoulders. I ran a hand lovingly up the back of her neck and leaned in and kissed her. A soft touch on the lips. Guiding her by the back of her neck, I had her kneel on the couch. I pushed her legs apart and tied them against the edges of the loveseat. The silk bonds tied 'round her finely turned ankles and the width of her stance, combined with the garter-and-stocking- clad nakedness, called forth my basest instincts.

I reached below to feel her readiness and was gratified to feel that her woman was absolutely dripping. I touched the tender labia, and lightly brushed the pearl, distended in need. I mounted her, as she lay over the low-slung couch-back, holding her hips for purchase, sliding myself into her heated glove of tight wetness.

"AHHH!" she cried as I took her all at once. I stayed buried there, feeling myself pulsing inside of her.

Slowly, feeling her gripping my staff in an extraordinary way, I began to move, wanting more control and more ... more. I reached for her hair, drew her toward me, turning her head to kiss. I kissed her neck, her ears, teased her ear lobe with my tongue, and then played inside her ear, blowing softly.

Amandine was wild, the beautiful composed woman of the evening gone and in her place, a creature of response, sensation, yielding energy. She reached a hand back and I grabbed her wrist, thrusting harder. I let go her hair and began rubbing the alabaster skin of her derriere. Rubbing first, then kneading, watching the red skin. She writhed under my hand and I knew without a doubt that she was a masochist.

I reached for my belt out of my trousers, doubled it over and administered the first SMACK! Whereupon my beautiful toy began clenching against my rod in such a way that I knew I could not ride through. I hit her again, watching her in the mirror. She used both arms now to support herself. She tossed her hair around, her breasts dangling (my god, how they will look bound and clamped!). Her luscious ass featured now handprints and imprints of her garters from my strikes on both cheeks. Her spasms went on and on. I stopped spanking her as she stilled some and quieted. I continued a steady rhythm, nearing my own pinnacle.

"Do you wish this gift, Amandine?" I gasped.

"Oui, Monsieur Nick, please, yes!"

As I began to cum, I pulled out and held my cock, shooting all over her rump, her stockings, her garters, and her back. I walked around to her face and she opened her mouth with another "Oh, yes, thank you!" Her mouth, so soft, sucked me empty.

I kissed her softly and untied her legs. I sat on the couch and held her, stunned. Utterly stunned. She cried, I think, softly. I rocked her and kissed her hair until she quieted.

"I assume you have a very early day, Amandine, as do I. For tonight, however, I cannot bear to part from you. You will come home with me. I will deliver you afresh on the morrow."

She looked at me for the first time since she came into my arms. Her eyes, I swear they have lived a thousand lifetimes. They shone with feelings neither of us was ready or willing at that moment to even contemplate. She said simply, "Yes. Thank you. That is right."

And, it was.

Demon

2009-02-18T17:14:00.000-08:00

I woke up with it again. The hunger. Inside me so deep, I felt like crawling out of my skin.

Mistress told me I pleased her well last night. She said I was beautiful, and that she was so proud of the way I served her friends. It was a black and white party. Mistress surprised me by asking me to wear black and not white. She usually likes me to look sweet and innocent so that my debasement is more pronounced.

My first task was to serve as the table for drinks and appetizers. I knelt wearing just my black garter, black lace panties, and stockings with peep-toed four inch pumps; the ones with the stainless steel heels, and a black diaphanous shrug over my shoulders and back that fastened in the front with a diamond button. My hair fell softly around my face. I held perfectly still as her friends used my back for a tray for their drinks. One of them, Mistress Jade, I think, kept raking my back with her blood red nails, from my neck around the drinks all the way down over my panties and down my leg. It was sooo hard to not move, because I'm ticklish. She knew that, I
think. I never moved, though, even when Miss Kristy laid a piece of hot baked brie right on my back. As soon as she did that, she felt underneath my tummy to see if my body responded to the pain. Of course it did. She teased me and EVEN THEN, I held still. My body ached so much for
release. But, I knew that my job was to please my Mistress and serve her friends.

It was a long night. Mistress' evil friends fondled me and talked about me all evening. Being spoken about as though I'm not there makes me uncomfortable and I love being humiliated that way, even though everything they said was very kind and good for my ego. My face was red most of the night. Mistress says I must learn to accept compliments and to believe all the lovely things said about me. I try hard to do it. But still, I am not like other women.

When Mistress dropped me home, she walked inside, which she rarely does. She sat on the footstool in front of the couch. She crinkled her brow and made me kneel before her, anchoring both her hands in my hair. I smelled the leather of her gloves and a hint of lavender on her skin. She shook her hair back down her. The snaps on her blouse were unbuttoned past her bra. I could see her full breasts, the nipples just outlined in the lace. I wanted to reach for her, to feel that soft skin, to taste her. She saw the hunger in my eyes and smiled a little smile then said, "Lovely, you know that I adore finding the experiences that will quench your thirst. I don't
actually know whether that is possible to truly sate you, but oh, we do have a fine time trying, don't we?"

She thanked me for my service and told me that tonight I should get enough sleep because we had a very busy day tomorrow and tomorrow evening. She said "No hair anywhere on your body, except your head. No wig. And, here, lovely, wear what's in this box. Open it after your bath tomorrow. And, as for your beautiful face, avoid dark colors. Just a little dark eye liner, maybe forest green, yes, that would highlight your beautiful eyes wonderfully well. I want you to be my fresh little girl tomorrow. Make yourself beautiful for me, sweeting." She pulled a blue box out of her bag, wrapped with a pink and yellow bow. She pulled my face to her and kissed me, soft lips against my hunger, pushing herself into me. "Ah, damn, lovely, you are soooo very tempting tonight. But, for now, I must go. I will fetch you at 2030, sweet Emmeline. Bon reves."

Honor bound to Mistress as I am, she trusted that I would not seek my own relief and I struggled mightily to not. She said that chastity devices were for weak souls, and she knew me to not be thus. Still, sometimes I longed to not have to constantly fight the battle of self control. And, I reminded myself that it wasn't as if I really ever lacked for satisfaction, as Mistress truly does have a devious mind and she loves, as she says, "To play with her favorite toy." (That would be me).

The clock struck 2 AM and I went to bed with my makeup and garter and stockings on. I love waking up in the morning feeling the silkiness of my legs encased in fine hose. And the 8-strap garter feels a little like being bound, which also makes me edgy and heated. My dreams were full color, me being used by Mistress, her friends, and strange men with no faces...Mistress pulling me along by leash and collar, forcing me with her hand on my head to suck large cocks and balls, swallow cum, have it splash on my face. My knees were sore from crawling, and the men called me "whore," and "slut," and they jerked me around. Mistress never let them get dangerously abusive, just gritty and nasty and hungry for my eager mouth.

I woke at noon, amazed I'd slept that long. I was sweaty and my body betrayed my morning desire and need. I went to the bathroom to relieve myself and turned on the shower for the water to heat. I used cold cream to take off the remnants of makeup, and stepped into my bath. As the water beat down on my back, I felt my nipples, and could feel ridges of welts that Mistress Jade's nails must have left. I could feel the burn on my back from the brie, and I loved knowing that I had been marked, if ever so subtly, for my service. I wondered what Mistress had in store this evening. It seemed as she spoke about our night that I heard more than average tension in her voice. I had some errands to take care of, and Mistress made me an appointment at the spa for a massage, facial, and nails, so I grabbed a bit of breakfast and dashed out into the misty gray midday.

I had just enough time to make my appointment at the spa and then run and grab Mistress' dry cleaning and dress before the car arrived for me. As I walked down the streets, I felt the weird sort of frisson I always feel when I wake up dressed and then go out plain. I mean, in my boy clothes.

By day, I'm an original-equipment male, if you hadn't already guessed. I have a job and live in the world as a man. But, inside me also lives the heart and soul of a shy and feminine woman. It is that person Mistress knows best and, so she says, adores. Sometimes I feel schizophrenic, my two selves. It's not a simple way to live, that's certain. But, it is me, all complexities and contrasts. I am fortunate that when I am en femme, I pass, easily. So, my experience as a woman is as complete as it can be without having been born one. Well, if you take away the different plumbing, I mean.

Going to the spa for a facial and nails, that was a battle royalle between Mistress and me. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule, and then she showed me one day, by taking me with her and making me sit in the lobby and watch room, just how many men actually GO to spas. I couldn't believe it. She won the battle, and now I am pretty at ease there.

I finished at the spa and raced to get the dry cleaning and zipped home, took another fast shower and saw to all of the shaving and other necessary preparations for an evening of being used, and not knowing how that might happen. The blue box sat on the couch where Mistress left it and I finally picked it up at 5 PM. I sat down on the couch and slipped off the bow, and opened the box.

Inside, the tissue paper had several layers. The instructions said, "Start from the bottom." I took out all of the packages, laughing because they were numbered. Mistress is often guilty of over-planning. On the bottom was a pair of pale patent pink stilettos with a peep toe, with a white heel, trim and bow. The leather was lusciously soft. Next, under the pink tissue paper lay blush Cuban stockings, two pair. Then came the corset, also pale pink and white, very retro fashioned leather, so soft it gave me gooseflesh to touch. It was long lined, with boning on the sides. It was barely a demi-cup on top, designed, I knew, to create cleavage where there was none. The corset had garters attached and it came down between my legs in a V, with a strap that went between my legs then fastened in the back.

In the third to last package, I unwrapped a shimmering gossamer wrap, soft to the touch, so sheer, it felt like spun air. Next, pink and white over the elbow kid gloves, the same leather and pattern as the corset. And, finally, a small box, long and narrow. Inside, braided pink and white with white gold metal coming down the last couple inches on either side, and holding a teardrop shaped rose quartz. Also, matching earrings. The piece, which I assumed would serve as my collar for the evening, was just a little longer than a regular collar, so it was kind of a necklace/collar. I was just about to get up and take everything into my bedroom to get ready when I noticed a card. It said simply, "Emmaline, In hopes that these give you any measure of the delight you give Me. I will be up to help you with the corset. Namaste, Mistress." I gathered everything and went into bathroom to make the outward transition to my other self.

Grey eye liner, not black, lightly applied, a bit of green for Mistress, and then pink highlights. Just enough dark for the intensity, and the pink to stay sweet for her. Pink ribbon in my hair to match the corset.

I laid everything out and wrapped myself in my robe and waited on the couch for her to arrive. Which she did, about five minutes later. I stood to greet her and hugged her, saying, "Thank you so much for the lovely gifts, Mistress. They are incredibly beautiful." She looked incredible, black, as always, leather pants and shirt with tiny buckles that strained at her chest. She wore a deep red silk long sleeved plunge cut undershirt that peeked out. I knew at some point, she would jettison the leather shirt when she got too warm, and the form fitting undershirt would show every curve of her full round breasts. Her hair was raven and long, some of it caught in a clasp in the back, soft curls everywhere. Her knee high riding boots had three inch heels. And, around her neck, she wore a necklace with the same white gold work that I saw on the collar she gave me. Her necklace ended with a deep red ruby in a teardrop shape.

She said as she hugged me, "Your face is perfect, Emmaline. So beautiful. Are you ready to get dressed?"

I blushed and told her I was ready. We went to my bedroom and she lifted the corset out of its packing.

"We had better make haste, lovely, stand facing the mirror and slip this over your head." I did as she asked and she helped pull it down so that it sat in the right place under my chest. Then, she stood in front of me and tucked my boy pussy inside of the V and slid the strap between my legs and attached it in the back, effectively making a chastity belt out of the corset. "Why don't you put your stockings on before I cinch the back, Lovely?"

I threaded my feet into the stockings and caught the silk in the garter fasteners. I stood in the doorway to brace myself as she cinched the corset. She actually put her boot in the small of my back and, when she finished and tied it off, my waist was easily six inches smaller and my heretofore non-existent cleavage was obvious. My small nipples rubbed against the leather, which made me moan. Mistress' right eyebrow arched and she said, "I hoped that would happen." She grinned broadly as my face and chest reddened.

I slipped into the mules and stood for her to inspect. "Timeline, you are stunning. Look at yourself and see. Get your wrap, let's go." I lifted out my floor length black cashmere sweater wrap, loving all the textures on my skin, wincing to not be able to take a deep breath, and followed my Mistress into the evening, more than curious what awaited me.

The night was soft, the air kissed the skin on my face. Mistress opened the door for me and slid in to the seat beside me. Her black glove on the black gear shift traveled off the gear shift and up my leg as she drove. I sat against the seat and closed my eyes, breathing. The hunger gripped my loins.

"Lovely, you know that I have long been interested to see what might reach inside you and give you the kind of physical satisfaction for which you long...And, you know that in our world, we walk in the light and the dark. It is in the integration of the two where we find the most magic, the most power. This evening, will you make a journey where light meets darkness and then travels far down into
the deeper darkness? Will you trust me enough to experience that which you have never imagined? Can you completely suspend your disbelief and go on this journey, knowing that I would never put you in harm's way physically, and will be ever vigilant for the first sign of concern for your mental or psychic safety?"

A chill went down my spine as she spoke. I could not for the life of me imagine what she meant. Farther into the darkness? Suspend my disbelief?

I was quiet for several minutes, thinking about conversations we had, about things I might have said to her that may have inspired this adventure. But, I came up empty handed. I never answered her without complete authenticity. I had to think....was I honestly ready to go someplace absolutely unfamiliar? Could I trust her to watch over me? Even though in my other life, I am powerful and strong, when I am in subspace, I am so far away from the other part of myself. So, am I ready to completely trust? These thoughts raced through my head as we drove.

The top was down. The air was cool. Satriani played on the CD, and Mistress was silent, peaceful. We shared a discipline, some would call it spiritual, neither of us would be so inclined. Rather, simply, training, perspective. Silence, a peacefulness at the core. Focus.

"Yes," I said to her. I grasped her hand, which rested lightly on my leg. "I will go where you wish me to go."

She squeezed my hand and said nothing. I let the sounds of the guitar pulse into me.

We drove out of town, east. I closed my eyes and breathed, centering, feeling her energy. By the time the car stopped, I felt ready for anything.

"Beautiful girl, it is my honor to give you this gift. You honor me, on the other side, by accepting it. May your hunger be sated, for a time..."

We got out of her car and were met at the house, a formal English manor replica in wine country just outside of our town. The doorman took Mistress' keys and we entered. We stepped into a two story library. I saw images of blatant eroticism in statues, I heard a thrumming music somewhere far below us. Books, windows, and a feeling of sex and sensuality that I could only sense. The draw was so strong....Mistress guided me in, and soon, down a stair case, one floor then another. I could feel the air change as we went underground. The darkness was thicker. Mistress whispered, "Stand tall, lovely, all eyes are on you."

The music was all around me, a driving, urgent, strong beat. I felt my body being called and saw a huge room, with a circle of people already standing around. There must have been nearly fifty of them in a tight circle. They stood shoulder to shoulder, Mistresses with slaves at their feet. A few girlz like me...I sought their eyes. They looked at me, proud in that momentary contact. The Hunger surged inside me. A few single people stood by, dressed in everything from tuxedos to ball gowns to leather from head to toe. Mistress whispered to me, "They are all here to see you, to watch your journey." Mistress led me to the center of the room.

I winced and she said quietly, "Stand proud, beauty. Listen to them." I closed my eyes for a moment and heard..."My gods, she is glorious....Oooh, how I'd love to have her...." I saw Mistress Jade, arms crossed haughtily across her breasts, which were bare save for a leather and chain harness, her red fingernails against her milky skin. She raised an eyebrow and ran her tongue over her lips as our eyes met. I blushed and looked down immediately. My heart was racing. All around whispers about me. Mistress, satisfied I had heard, said, "Feel what they say and believe them. And then, ignore them. Just know that I am right here....and, be present in your body. Feel everything, Emmaline."

Sconces held torches all around the room. They were lit and cast a soft dancing light around. I did not look anymore at the crowd. Right behind me, there was a table. It was more of a bed. It was long and had shackles and a split at the end so that the part where one's legs went separated as wide as was necessary. It was wooden and covered with black leather, of course.

Mistress turned to me and took out the necklace with the rose quartz from inside her shirt. She fastened it on my neck and asked, "Do you accept this collar, Emmeline, as a symbol of your service and submission to me?" I bowed my head and nodded. She replied, "And I pledge, as always, to ensure your safety, body, mind, and spirit. And so might it be. Now, my dearling, join me in the circle."

She addressed the crowd, "Tonight, you join me....and this lovely one, on a journey. A journey to a place where only those who are willing to believe that which is unbelievable can go....Go with us or stay, but keep us in your care as you watch...."

Mistress bid me lie on the table. She unhooked the middle part of my corset so that I was exposed. I felt a deep flush, and she put her warm hand on my exposure which throbbed from the promise of the bed, the binding, and whatever came soon my way, softly, saying, "Little slut, soon you will feel more than you have ever felt. Open yourself to this, and unleash your hunger's full force. Reach out with it, let it overtake you. You will be sated. I promise. Now, close your eyes, and just.....feel." A blindfold went over my eyes.

My arms were bound at the wrists with leather straps. Soon, also, my legs at my ankles and knees. The table was spread, widely. It dropped just at my ass, so my exposure was complete. The music shifted. A percussive beat now thrummed deeply.

I could feel the energy of the many surging, focusing on me. I felt infused by their passion, if that was possible. I felt Mistress' presence. I felt the Hunger, fueled by long-delayed satisfaction, last night's party, being teased by Mistress, dressing in sexy clothes, all of it, in this moment. My body wanted to burst its skin, as those around me became more and more heated. We waited. For what? Only Mistress held that knowledge. What had she....

And then. A murmur, a ripple of ooohs and ahhhs through the crowd. Then, the music stilled....I smelled the air. Different. Musky. Like the forest. Earthy. A rumble. A growl? Mistress said, "Yes, she is prepared. Her hunger is piqued. She is ready."

"OH MY GAWD," and versions of that exclamation murmured loudly through the room. Steps, toward me. I body leaning into me where I was separated. Heat. Tremendous heat.

The growling was a low rumble, almost words. Hunger inside me meeting hunger inside this ... Other. A pause, those assembled quieted. Mistress stood at my head and laid her hands on my shoulders. I relaxed a little and tried to move my arms to no avail. The rumbling was unfamiliar, but called up the deep throated guttural sound of throat singers, noise and vibration from deep in a soul's core. I FELT the noise, and then, at my nipples, on each at the same time, tiny fingers? They twisted lightly, then flicked, like tiny tongues. My ears more keen for no eyes, I overheard someone saying, "Oh my god, his nipples just extended like tongues. Look at that!"

I could feel them, tiny tongues, like lizard tongues, licking, flicking, my small nipples, hot, hot, making them swell, and wrapping themselves around mine.

I moaned and strained, wanting to feel what was touching me. The pressure between my legs was scratchy skin. Against my inner thighs. Scaley skin. Abrasive, not -- human feeling. Then, a rope-like thing wrapping itself around my boy pussy. The rope felt hot, and it pulsed as it wrapped slowly around me... snakelike from the base to the tip, leaving incredible pressure at the tip. That alone was enough to thoroughly madden me. The pressure of the flicking on my nipples, the tightness around my boy pussy.

Mistress cooed in my ear, "Oh, my god, little slut, feel it, reach out and feed its hunger! She leaned in to me and raked my arms with her nails, grabbing my hair and pulling, bending down to kiss me roughly.

Then, a darting other tongue, inside me. I screamed, a deep needful groan, against Mistress neck, and still, it echoed in the circle. I don't know what they saw, but they spoke in one voice, when I moaned, they surged, I could feel them, in closer. The heat, their heat, their need, my own.

Mistress said, "Okay, Emmeline, relax, and open..." then, heat, wet heated pressure, at my opening, sharp, not sharp enough to cut, opening me, heat, a spear, in me, slowly, working its way inside...The Other between my legs pushed Itself against me.

"Ah! Oooh! Whoo!" I could only grunt, no words, as this invader entered me. The hold on my nipples tightened, the pressure on my pussy, pulling, pulsing, as I was opened, invaded, plundered, widened....

Then, Mistress, "Open, lovely, open, and let your Hunger flow to it..."

I did. I unleashed all of the pent up hunger I'd ever had, my shame, my desire, my unspoken and longed for need, I screamed it out, pushed myself onto that which opened and filled me, so far as my tethers would allow.

Mistress took off my blindfold and I saw him....it....my invader.

A giant, not human, or not fully so, alien, beast, driving his way inside me, a phallus of man, goat, beast, skin mottled and put on his body like an ill-constructed jigsaw puzzle.

I should have been afraid but it pulsed inside me, filing me, twisting my nipples, applying pressure, heating me. She stood at my shoulders, watching, chaneling her lust and love, it fucked me and used me and grunted over me, this beast, this unearthly thing.

Its phallus, it felt as though it had an arrowhead as a tip. The bulbous knob played at my anus each time he withdrew, almost like licking me when it penetrated again. On fire, my insides, I screamed again and again, "Please, yes! More!" Mistress unleashed my body and I bent up to it, leaning in, to feel its body, foreign, evil, but compelling me toward it.

When I connected with its skin, its arms wrapped around me and held me as though I was a trifle, a sprite, a tiny morsel. I was powerless to its strength, and lost myself in the beast's possession of my body. Invaded, thoroughly, it held me, pushing itself in and out, hands all over me, leaving hot and cold trails, depending on its desire. Like ice and candle wax at the same time, layered sensations, turning me inside out.

The beast's tongue was everywhere on me, licking my face, leaving heated trails, its saliva infused with something that burned and increased my need. Cinnamon, something spicy, it felt delicious, painfully grand.

Faster now, the crowd could feel its agitation, it pinioned me, used me, controlled me. I held the sides of the table, wishing for the restraints. Instead, Mistress stood behind me, bracing me for the assault. The power of its thrusts made my breath spastic, the phallus huge and thickening, opening me wider and wider. I never felt....so small, so utterly nasty and used. It was glorious.

In my periphery, I saw Mistress Jade riding her slave boy, and noticed that the crowd had been affected, most of them, by the beast's raw energy. They moved closer and closer in a circle, and many engaged in all manner of activity trying to mirror that which I experienced.

I felt my own self swelling as my body neared a wild release. The beast began to lose any sense of rhythm, plowing into me, grunting, soaking me with juice from its body. The tentacles on my nipples let loose and I screamed at the release, then the tiny tongues pinched and pulled on my skin.

The tentacles around my pussy loosened. Then, a mouth opened in the beast's belly and engulfed my boy cunt. As a part of the beast impaled me, the other part engulfed. Another scream from my usually silent mouth, my body being turned inside out.

And then, my insides were on fire, he was shooting into me, streams of emanation, each triggering a response from my own body, wild, pulsating, awe inspiring, draining me, paining me. Filling me.

The music stopped.

The demon stood still holding me on it, still with my boy cunt inside it.

Pulsing.

I kept closed my eyes. Feeling it. Shaking.

Mistress stood at my back. I was certain she could feel the thrumming. We were still. I did not want anything to change. Ever so slowly, it shrank inside me. Slowly, it slid out, and released me.

Slowly, I drew a full breath. Mistress stepped aside and the beast laid me back on the bench. Mistress lifted my shoulders and gave me some water.

I laid back down, a thick blanket covered me.

It retreated, left the room.

Drained. I was. Absolutely.

The crowd, panting noises, snippets of "Oh my god, amazing, can't believe..."

House slaves came and wiped me with warm clothes. They unlaced my corset and toweled me off, and wrapping me again in a huge warm blanket. I drank more water. Mistress inquired whether I thought I could stand.

I could and I did.

We walked to a room not too far off the main hall, lit by dim lights, a large bed with a down duvet, a shower in the room. I was shivering hard, and we stepped into the shower, Mistress and me. She washed me, gently, slowly, silently. She peered into my eyes, said "You are well, then." It was not a question. She could see it in me.

Softly, slowly, dream like, we dried one another. I leaned in and we kissed very gently.

We lay down and against my back, she spooned me, holding me fast. I felt safe and drifted quickly to sleep.

When I next awoke, I have no idea what time it was, as there was no natural light two floors below. I only know that she was there and that I felt, honestly, for the first time ever, not hungry.

Exposure, Awareness, and Perspective

2009-02-14T18:25:00.000-08:00

Three things in my head, all linked. As a storyteller/performer, I live a schizophrenic life insofar as my work is verisimilitude AND I am pretty private. I'm learning that when people hear my work, either on stage when I perform, or after they read it, they get a sense that they know me. If they see a performance, they come up to me and speak as though the stories I told on stage were actually conversations the two of us shared privately. Or, when they read my work, they contact me and ask for details about how that person is doing, or when I did thus and such in a story, how did that turn out?

I'm new at this business of getting feedback from others about my work, and holy christ on a crutch, it's fascinating indeed how folks make a leap from a performance or a story to behaving as they know me. I find myself reviewing my own dealings with folks whose work I admire and praying that I never made that leap. The assumption of familiarity is bizarre.

This process makes me also incredibly aware of how important boundaries are. As a performer, I'd damned well better NOT expose any part of my life I don't want to have dissected. And I need to realize that it will likely happen anyway, if I'm fortunate enough to do well. All I can do is be careful and keep my need to scandalize in check. Being a whore for comedy can be dangerous!

In a dotted line-related sort of way, this stuff also reminds me of several conversations my girl and I have had lately. In her search for a male Dominant in her town, she touches base to let me know of her latest adventures and misadventures. It is squirmily instructive to me to hear how words I'm certain have come from my mouth in the past sound coming from another's lips. For example, one D recently told her after having had coffee with her and asking her to do some writing, that he now considered her his submissive. And, she was to engage with nobody save himself and me. When she told me that, I realized how arbitrary that bit of control was. Why should he care? What would it matter, so long as she gave her best to him in the time that they were together? I have done that very thing on several occasions, and hearing it from another made me aware just how silly it is. Control for its own sake. What good is that? Just because we can, we must? I think not. Control, when asserted in context, is a luscious device. Used capriciously, it weakens the controller and needlessly burdens the controlled.

I suppose the connecting thread here is that viewing our lives through other eyes can be highly instructive. As always, different perspectives are cause for great learning. Whew, good damned thing.

Toxicity and HI-larity

2009-02-05T20:50:00.000-08:00

My girl and I were speaking on the phone a few nights ago. I'd called to apologize for having been a shit to her the night before and the conversation that ensued, as many of our grown up conversations do, started with disclosure on both our parts, got us to and through the learning and then into the laughing. She began telling me the story of the lengths to which she went at one point when I moved out of her house to cleanse me from her heart, mind, and psyche. She was hurt by the fact that we would not be having the Capital R relationship for which she longed, and the fact that I was in love with a new boy also ripped her up. So, she regularly recounted all of my sins as she went about her day, and she focused on how toxic I was for her.

A Dominant male with whom she was engaged suggested that she take a course of vitamins meant to help cleanse her liver, which she did for a couple of weeks, hoping that getting the toxicity out of her physical self would purge it from her other self. It apparently didn't work. I was still there inside her.

So, she finally just decided to call me.

And, when she did, that time, I heard the change in her voice and knew that she'd traveled the path she needed to travel and that maybe we could build a friendship that wasn't based in her dependency.

But, boy howdy, when I learned that someone had gone to all that trouble to get me out of her system, I have to say that I was flattered. And highly amused. I groaned to remember a similar time in my life, when I tried everything I could to unlove someone. It was not fun. It took me a LONG time to heal. Nothing I did externally mattered. Duh. Another inside job.

When she told me that she actually took VITAMINS to get me gone, I was laughing in a major way. I said, "Honey that is HI-larious!" Then she told me I was a jackass, and what the hell was HI-larious about it and why the hell was I saying HI-larious?

I explained that the word, "hilarious," is not intrinsically funny, but when you twang it a bit and put a big emPHASis on the HI part, it's a damned funny word, and the fact that the vitamins didn't work and I was still there, well, dang, that IS HI-larious. I think she should ask for a refund.

And then, she was compelled to confess something that made me nearly wet my britches. When she went online to purchase this panacea for toxicity, she had credit card fraud on her account, which resulted in someone else stealing from her account. Now, THAT is toxic...AND Hi-larious.

Male Dominant

2009-01-25T00:37:00.000-08:00

On further reflection, the term is a non sequitur.

Sorry, dear...

2009-01-25T00:12:00.000-08:00

My girl is searching for a male Dominant in her town. Now that I am not serving in that capacity, she misses serving, and she wants to find her own space in the D/s space without my overarching presence. Finding a male Dominant who is worthy of her, who speaks from integrity and not ego and in whom she wishes to invest is a laborious and challenging task.

She mentioned a new D prospect the other day. She said that he interested her and that they planned to meet. I didn't ask a lot of questions other than those that would help her make sure (and help me make sure) that he seemed safe and sane. We are both invested in her gaining independence, and that requires me to stay out of the way...not particularly easy for either of us, but we are working on this dynamic change.

Speaking with her evening before last, I have no idea why I started to wonder, so I asked her his last name, which she provided. I immediately flashed on the times when he and I and an old lover of mine and another femme lover of ours were together. He wasn't a D then, and never mentioned BDSM at all. I told my girl that I knew him in the biblical sense and she said, "But he didn't recognize your name!" I reminded her that I changed my entire name in the ensuing years.

She was monumentally frustrated that seemingly yet again, I'd gotten someplace first. I said, "Ah, but honey, you are the first to get him in the kink sense!" She was not mollified by that. She told me that she needed to start keeping an Excel spreadsheet of my exploits. I said that would be easy, as the names I can remember are only those who make a lasting impression, and they are few.* But, heck, at least her D made THAT list!

She was then vexed at the prospect of whether to tell him who I am. This mystified me (and still does). I suggested that she bears him exactly ZERO responsibility to confess her lovers, former or current, and the fact that there is some slop over between the three of us is absolutely of no import. I asked if he had confessed his partners to her and she said no.

As always she will make her way, and I hope for her happiness and her safety. I also hope that this man treats her with respect and that he is worthy of the gift of her submission, should she choose to give him the honor of the gift. He'd damned well better treat her well.

The JC Pyramid

2009-01-24T21:26:00.000-08:00

The thing about being a freak is that freaks don’t feel freakish to ourselves. From the inside out, I’m just me, plain ol’ person I’ve been hanging out with for fifty years and change.

I don’t look like a freak…unless I try. I don’t walk around wearing BDSM buttons, no sign on my body says WASBO, HASBIAN, BI and PROUD, STRAIGHTISH, or MY GIRLFRIEND IS MY SLAVE or In My World, men are always boys. I do a reasonable job of passing in the world. A pretty darned good job, I think.

I’m not an asshole. I am direct, and I do mostly speak my mind, especially around politics and issues that require a critical analysis, and where someone is giving someone I care for a bad time, and most always if someone is beating up (figuratively or literally) on someone who cannot properly defend him or herself. I can get animated in my vexations, but I barely EVER direct them at an individual. I rail against ignorance and stupidity. I am assertive when dealing with people but I seldom cross the line into dickishness. At my core, like Hillel, who said about the Talmud, Do unto others, all else is commentary, I believe in the Golden Rule, and I work diligently to live by it.

Given that, I am perpetually amazed and typically amused when people fear my reactions to situations. I worked for an organization that was hiring a marketing director. As director of development, this hire would be my counterpart, my partner. I was deeply invested, as was the entire management team, in making the right hire.

The fourth interview we conducted was with a mature woman who wore a conservative navy business skirt suit and an American flag on her lapel. Picture the Pillsbury Dough Girl meets Betty Crocker. The interview was a group affair, executive director, director of admin, me, clinical director, another upper level clinical person, and our exec admin assistant. The clinicians and admin sat across the table from me. ED sat nearest the end the table where the interviewee sat. My pal, the director of admin, sat next to me. After some preliminary questions, I found myself screwing up my brow. I realized that the woman whom I’ll call Yvette didn’t seem to be answering any question directly.

All assembled noticed the same thing. My boss observed that she brought some material with her and asked about it, thinking that perhaps when she had the opportunity to speak about her work directly, perhaps she would be clearer. She passed around a couple of press clips with articles she did not write. Huh? I asked about the initiative that inspired the articles and again, her answer made no apparent connection with my question.

Finally, I said, Can you tell us about ANY initiative with which you’ve had success?

Oh yes! she said. This was the JC Pyramid. I was working with a group of doctors and I realized that they were very egotistical. So, I taught them about the Pyramid.

As she said The JC Pyramid, I thought I misunderstood her. She said that she taught the docs they are on the base of the pyramid – she made one with her hands, forefingers tented at the top, then thumbs connected, making a triangle. The docs were at the bottom, where they served the people. The people were in the middle. And JC was at the top. The JC Pyramid.

I was frowning the kind of frown you get when you’re mightily confused. I looked across the table at my coworkers as I interrupted Yvette. Their eyes showed deer in the headlights as I opened my mouth. I was further confused by their response. I just needed to understand what the hell this woman who would be my partner MEANT. My Jewish ears hadn’t even grocked the initials, JC, much less have a clue what she meant. I thought maybe she’d said JC, but my brain went to JAYCEE, as in the service club – the Junior Chambers of Commerce. What the hell are they doing on the top of a pyramid? How’d I manage to miss THIS bit of the heterosexual hierarchy?

I said, I need to stop you so you can go back and clarify for me – did you say JAYCEE? Like the service group?

Her first response was far and away the most eloquent. She turned purple from as far down her shirt as you could see with a modestly opened blouse. That flush enveloped her in the most luscious aubergine I’d ever seen on a human. She said, Well, it could be Allah or Buddah or…

At this point, ALL eyes in the room were on me. Each woman around the table, excepting Ms. DoughgirlCrocker looked at me as if to beseech my good behavior. WHAT THE HELL DID THEY THINK I INTENDED TO DO? I was purely trying to get the information we needed to make a good hire. And post JC Pyramid revelation, all I was trying to do was to keep from busting a gut.

My boss was first to recover from the JCP revelation and she cleared her throat and asked me, “Do you have any further questions?” I had already put my hand on my forehead and was looking steadfastly down at my yellow pad. I simply shook my head in the negative.

As she made nice with Ms. DGC, and walked her out of the room, I had to bite my lip. Hard.

As soon as she left and they were far enough down the hall that nobody would hear us, there was a thunderstorm of guffaws, cackles, and screams. By the time my boss returned, we were well into snotty nosed snorts and pants peeing. After my boss had disgorged her own cacophony of merriment, I got serious and said, ‘WHAT THE HELL DID YOU ALL THINK I WAS GOING TO SAY?”

Those whimp-asses got all embarrassed and not one of them would admit that of which they feared. What could they say? I fear your wild reaction because I believe that you are a freak?

No matter, I will always have the JC Pyramid to guide my way. I am inoculated forever more from petty ignorances such as theirs.

Do YOU have the JC Pyramid in your life?

Have You Tuned Your Trandar Lately?

2009-01-14T21:06:00.000-08:00

A friend observed the other day that I've developed good "trannydar," which I edited to trandar. Sometimes when I see a man, I see his face with makeup on and I'm possessed to ask him whether he's ever considered dressing. I don't guess that is a common question. However, I've never one time been blown off when I ask. And so far, never been told "no." Of course I'm selective, but the affirmative answers makes me really wonder.

Sliding along the gender continuum is a helluva lot easier for women* than for men. A female can wake up in a negligee, change into jeans, a button down shirt, boots and no makeup, walk out the door and never get hassled. She comes home, takes a bath, and dons Versace, all sequins and slits and leg, perfect stockings and garter, then tucks into bed that night in boxers.

Were a male to try the same range of outwardly oriented gender display as expressed through clothes and makeup in public, he would very likely incur the wrath of someone. Even if he dared wear some black eyeliner (in which most men look scrumptious!) while wearing his regular work apparel, eyebrows would raise and he'd likely suffer consequences, particularly if he worked in a blue collar .... no, hell, forget that, no matter where he worked, unless he was a hair dresser or a rock musician ... he would be derided or much worse. (I know, I know, there are no doubt exceptions). And, of course, there are exceptions for women. Some would suffer repercussions for dressing in a manly way. Still, not the same.

I wonder, if we weren't so freakin' judgmental about differences, how much more slippery would ALL our places on the continuum be? How much more would you slide back and forth along that vast panoply of choices in lifestyle, gender, and sexual expression if you had no fear of reprisal? How differently would you live your life? I would love to know.

*Lemme just say that I am very aware of the struggles of transgendered folks, and my observations about the ease with which women can move without reprisal in no way is meant to make light of the internal struggles of an MtF as she struggles to express that which is within. I'm only speaking of the permissiveness afforded women (because women are generally seen as less important, hence less of a threat) than men in our outer expressions, not of the inner struggles of gender which any of us holds.

Office Crack Up

2009-01-06T08:51:00.000-08:00

Sales guy comes into my office and tries to get a bunch of names and locations of folks to solicit. We chat, I give up zero info with a smile, and he looks on my desk for the ridiculously often standard engraved name plate, seeing none, says, "I'd love to say thank you for helping, but I can't find your name." I say, "you may just call me Oz, the all knowing." Yuck yuck. I say, "My name is Jesse." He says, "Gee, that's great. I haven't had a Jesse since..." I'm totally going to let that line go, it's work, afterall, and I have a modest commitment to not making too much sport at the expense of others when I'm workin' for the Company, but he gets totally PURPLE and chokes all over and then I'm really laughing. He's walking out the door, fast, and says, "Well, gee, some people make people happy by coming and others by leav...I MEAN...OH HELL..." as he RUNS out the door.

So happy I could help....

Filling Up Space

2009-01-04T19:00:00.000-08:00

We fill up space: with stuff; with noise; with busy-ness.

Having only what we need; hearing the power in the silence, we can live unadorned. Life lived inwardly breeds integrity.

When we face our addiction to stuff, when we learn to sit in quiet, we shift focus from externalizing, from hoping that someone or something else will fill us up.

It's an inside job.

And we die alone. No matter how much stuff and how much noise surrounds us.

Learning to be peaceful with little, with deep quiet, with our aloneness, such a powerful gift.

We can only give this one to ourselves.

My Ongoing Amusement, Craigslist

2008-12-31T21:46:00.001-08:00

With my girl on the bed enjoying a book and my endless narrative, I find this headine and ad...nothing more to be added. uckin' a, that's funny.

8:30 lets meet up and uck asap - m4w - 28 (Port-Bvt Area)

Reply to: blah blah
Date: 2008-12-31, 8:27PM PST

Well Im pretty chill laid back love to puff 420, Im into all type of girls so race and age dont matter as long as u look good.

Late

New Year Story for a boy

2008-12-31T19:53:00.000-08:00

This evening, I am hosting a small gathering of intimates. Since my girl is visiting, we are at a hotel, as I've just moved and haven't settled in. In the suite, friends, a mix of women and men are talking, noshing, generally being the smart, entertaining nutballs they are. I put this group together with an eye toward the best comedy among my crowd, knowing that I would sit back and laugh all night. I have my computer up, and as they are used to me taking notes, it is of little consequence and not intrusive or rude.

I am imagining you here, to help us bring in the New Year. I know that the men friends will leave early, off to pursue more vigorous celebrations, leaving Mari, Ami, Amelia, Kat, and me. All these friends would know the particulars of my life and so you would be serving through the evening. As the men left, I would tell you to undress and put on your apron. Each of my women friends is enlightened and, while neither Mari, Ami, nor Kat is an FLR proponent, they are certainly appreciative of the male form, and they love me and always learn from the coloring outside the lines of my life. When not serving, you would be kneeling by my side. I would notice that Kat had a sore ankle, and direct you to her to rub her foot. She would be very loquacious at your strong hands and appreciative of your efforts. I would smile to see her pleased.

Mari is my dearest friend of lo, these many years. Ami is a few years our senior, and we've known one another since college. The two of them are straight and vanilla, also very strong and independent, brilliant and beautiful. Ami is Irish and one of the most hysterically funny women I know. A linguist, she regularly spices up a conversation with a brogue that switches into a country twang, and then I'm back at my cowgirl roots and we are off on another tangent. Through this, I would ask you to lay your hands on Mari's neck. I could see her hunching her shoulders and know that she has yet again worked at her computer until she can't un-hunch. your fingers would work out her knots.

For company, the CB6 would be off, and you would wear pink panties, which would highlight your erection at every contact. I would touch you discretely when you passed me, just keeping you excited. amelia would be some vexed, not quite knowing where to be or how, as the recent change in our relationship still has her struggling a bit for her new space. Not slave, not submissive, although still wanting both, nevertheless, she would look admiring at you and see the smile on my face and she would be pleased.

Near the midnight hour, I tell you to please go to the table and take off your apron and lie on your back. Perplexed, you comply, of course, not before noting the wicked grins on Kat, Amelia's and my face, and the blush on Mari's and Ami's.

Naked on the table (laid with a black cloth for the evening) you wait. amelia comes in and brings fruit and begins laying it on your belly. Kat brings chocolate sauce (these are women, there must therefore be chocolate, although I do not share that seemingly universal love), and decorates the fruit. Ami brings berries, adds them to your belly. The fruit is cool, the sensation bring gooseflesh. Each of us sits at the table and I pass champagne to each of them. I raise my glass and say, "To my beloved women, may 2009 bring you shalom -- the peace that derives from ha-o-lam, from wholeness. May you enjoy high adventure, low brow humor, and absolute health. And, right now, please enjoy your dessert off my fine platter. Je vous salute!"

They toast, drink, and begin sopping up the chocolate along your skin, teasing you mercilessly. amelia is boldest and dribbles chocolate on your manhood, then leans in to taste it with her tongue. (she has served as the dessert tray many a time and is delighted to be one of the diners rather than the tray). Kat is soon licking your nipples as Mari and Ami contain themselves to the fruit. I am standing at your head, watching my friends enjoy their dessert, mind steps ahead to the dessert that awaits me.

The women are full of champagne, fruit, and chocolate. you are sticky and stiff. The ladies take their leave, heading home to beat the craziness on the roads. I tell you to shower and come back to me. This is the 10th day since last I allowed your release. In that span of time, you have been teased by my friends, have serviced me with your tongue on several occasions, and I have played with your backside to near release every day. you are battling your brain, thinking surely tonight.....but, you have learned that even though I plan and you can sometimes guess outcomes, my quick devious Gemini brain loves to surprise. So, you try hard to not imagine when next....

Out of the shower, you come to me, and before you kneel, I slip the PA out of the tip of your manhood and tell you to get on the bed, on all fours. I bring the blindfold because I want you to focus on sensation, not visual stimuli. you hear me stepping into my strapon and you try to relax. I am glad to be tall, but wish I had a couple more inches of reach. you are required to wear your hair long enough for me to be able to grab it when I wish. I am not natively Sadistic, evil from time to time, yes, but pain is a thing about which I am circumspect. Forceful firmness, absolutely. I want to control you, simply, and for you to feel overpowered. I begin narrating as you feel me at your backside, lube, fingers, slowly opening you. "pet, feel My strength....try to get away....struggle..." you do not. I smack your butt and say, "STRUGGLE!" you try to get away, flattening, and immediately, I'm on top of you, have you in a camel clutch. I only hold you for a moment, not wanting truly to subdue you, simply to make certain you know that I could..."good boy, love, now come back up." you are breathing hard and now, I notice, fully turgid. I lightly rub your manhood and go back to my former place at your backside. "open for me, boy, take me inside you...." you feel My cock opening you and soon, you feel me against your prostate, teasing, driving you crazy. I can FEEL you warring with yourself, wanting to not achieve release this way, wanting a deeper connection. I bring you close several times and back off, you moan softly, sweating lightly. Finally, I slowly withdraw. "turn over, pet," I whisper as I take off the blindfold.

you comply and I lay the length of you, softly playing my hand across your chest. I love to play you, and spend a lot of time doing so. Tonight, though, away from the busy-ness of our lives, I want to mark the passing of the year, our first together. "may I serve you, Ma'am?" "no, john, just be still. Kiss me, pet." The kiss is the beginning of a conversation, the first step in the lovers' dance. I am taken with how well you've learned to listen, and that shows in your kiss. The call and response of my tongue to yours, I lick your lips, nibble them, pulling gently, then begin thrusting my tongue rhythmically in your mouth, slow, then steadily faster, deeper. As I do so, your pelvis begins to rock softly, and I feel myself engorge. I am hungry for you, pet. without breaking the kiss, I swing on top of you and take you inside of me, pushing down onto you. you reach up and we embrace hard, you half sitting up as I ride you. I am very careful to not ride too fast, although that takes a Herculean effort. I separate from you and put my hands on your shoulders and my breast in your mouth, cooing to you, "That's good, boy, harder, yes, good..."

I then lean and take your nipples, each in turn, in my mouth, teasing and sucking them. you groan and push against me, and I stop, again, trying to prolong the coupling. I look down at you, flushed, sweating, and find myself with tears in my eyes that wash down over you. I am still trying to wrap my brain around the reality of you. you catch the emotion and smile softly. I say, "john, thank you for your service, dear pet. Happy New Year." leaning in again to kiss you, this time, I tighten on you and ride hard, fast, and begin to shake as your manhood plunges again and again inside me, triggering my own release. you feel the spasms gripping you and I say, "Yes! Give Me your gift, boy, NOW!"

Kissing you, you scream into my mouth, shock wave after shock wave rocking your body.

Until finally, spent, heart racing, you relax.

I straighten out lying still mostly on top, feeling you slip out, sighing.

I wrap my hand around your manhood and we fall asleep, sated, in ways that neither of us could have imagined.

Eroticism of Sound

2008-12-28T10:03:00.001-08:00

Chain clanking against metal as a restraned arm struggles and tests
SMACK as palm meets bared ass
Rhythmic thud as the flogger repeatedly hits its target
A tremulous "yes, Mistress" whispered in the middle of the night
A deep throated groan that turns to a scream in orgasmic release

Sound. The bass line of an erotic dance.

As A Rule

2008-12-27T09:33:00.000-08:00

Life provides reminders when we pay attention. A recent reminder is a simple, simple one.

Always do my best.

When something that I deeply desire presents itself on my path and I have an opportunity to get it, will I organize myself well and mount a full court press, or will I fall back on my arrogance and make a less than stellar effort? In watching another of late in a situation similar, I scratch my head and am almost embarrassed by that less than stellar effort. I resolve hereby at this moment to keep sharp and bless the clarity of vision I have when I have it.

Gifts come with responsibilities.

May we all keep sharp and do our best, as a rule, not an exception.

Winter Solstice

2008-12-21T10:03:00.000-08:00

I don't remember a Solstice that looked this wintry -- certainly not in the nearly two decades during which I've resided in the northwest. The snow drifts form an irregular pattern on the yard -- like a restless lover's bunched up blankets my bed.

This shortest day yielding to the returning of the light is the favorite day of the year in this quarter. The simple analogy of darkness yielding to light, and the blessed reality, the returning of more light in the long winter compel me to gratitude.

Understand holidays, leastwise those based in the retail environment, eludes me. Weary head scratch. The Solstices and the Equinoxes wherein something actually happens that isn't human created -- are the days that evoke deepest contemplations.

Yin/Yang

2008-12-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

He is strong, deeply intelligent, engaged in the world, well spoken and well traveled, firmly suited in his maleness. She is beautiful in the way that stops you, and incredibly shy. All femme, she is, but for a bit of plumbing. When I look at him, I do not see her, and when I look at her, there is, perhaps, a flash of him. When I go inside the male, I feel her; when I touch inside her, I feel them each as well.

En femme, she is coltish, younger than her years. But for the shyness, she would be commanding and graceful, despite her submissiveness. Her style is hip and cheeky, as though she wants to flaunt tradition and combine several styles. The result is ... delightful. She REALLY gets makeup. He is blessed with a face that, sans makeup, is absolutely male, with eyes that are witchy in their intensity. Her makeup takes about as long to apply as does my own. Fifteen minutes to make a transition. Stunning.

I freely admit a deep interest in and fascination with cross dressers. Gender bending, androgyny, drag; the increasing fluidity with which sexuality is defined by every person who engages in the exercise is an incredible opening of our sense of possibility.

My angst is in the still institutionalized and heavily practiced misunderstanding and condemnation of those who blur up the lines. I wish everyone who has another person living inside who screams to be freed is able to give voice -- and life -- to that part of ourselves. It is my Pollyanna idealist self who thinks that every one of us can help soften up the edges of fear and misunderstanding by simply articulating our comfort with fuzzing the lines. A girl with a surprise under her skirt is ALWAYS welcome here.

Call in Straight.Ish

2008-12-10T07:52:00.001-08:00

Today is Call in Gay Day, to honor queers and to show how our absence from the community would MATTER, and of course, to protest the passage of Measure 8 in CA and homophobic laws in AZ and wherethehelleverelse.

Since I'm bisexual, I called in for half a day.

Some Notes About A Girl

2008-12-09T17:56:00.000-08:00

She has been in my life now since 1992. That's quite a stretch of time. She has been my girl on the side, my lover, my slave, and my friend. I've watched her grow from being a tough, very rough around the edges butch-dyke kid to being a capable, lovely, sweet, intelligent feminine woman. Ours has been a rocky, rocky path. I am incredibly hard to live with (and I don't just mean co-habitate), and very unforgiving of boundary breaches. Somehow I have made space for forgiveness with her on several occasions, as she has for me. I don't believe that there has been another soul in the world to whom I've granted such impunity. There's just something about this girl...

To look in her eyes and see the magnitude of her love is purely daunting, even still. I cannot keep looking there, because it is not in me to fully return that kind of love -- not, I believe, to anyone. My independence keeps me isolated, demands that I hold back from full engagement. She pays a price for this dance, this I know. And yet, she is still here. To be loved unconditionally, without reserve, it is not a thing for which I'd ever ask or seek. But, it is the gift she gives me. She will no longer let me hurt her heart, as she has grown into the fullness of her adulthood. For this, I am deeply grateful.

For my part, I give my best. I try to share my life without inviting her in to places I know that I will regret letting someone share. That's a thing I am slowly learning. As a solitary being, I have to work my discipline and NOT open places where I know, ultimately, I will want to keep private. She has suffered my clumsiness in this regard. That is my own journey with grace. How does one live a private life without unwittingly offending those I love by keeping private? A definite work in progress.

She is coming for Christmas. Neither of us celebrates Christmas, but we will celebrate one another during these sweet days as we partake in whatever adventures I concoct and in which she is happily complicit. I'm looking forward to sweet sleepy muzzy mornings with the crossword puzzles and her soft body, so ready for my touch. She's a gift, and I love her.

Listening Through the Silence

2008-12-09T16:41:00.000-08:00

As a verbal, wordy, reasonably articulate person who is blessed and cursed with clarity most all the time (with notable lapses!), one of my biggest communications challenges is relating to those for whom words are NOT the effortless form of expression I know them to be. As a Dominant, in an intimate engagement, I rely on my ability to get inside someone's head, their heart, and deeper still if our energies work together to make that possible. Certainly, words are an essential vehicle to facilitate that drive. But, when the other cannot call forth words...?

There are a LOT of ways to listen. I pretty much do the world through my ears. Taking words out of the equation, I am forced to employ my weakest sense, my eyes. I always pay some level of visual attention, but truthfully, my visual acuity is laughable. In the silence, however, my eyes wake up. I see textures, I watch (in addition to hear) breathing. I scrutinize facial expression.

My second most finely tuned sense is my visceral/kinesthetic sense. When words go away, I deeply rely on my gut. I love operating with this sense as primary. It is amazing, so long as the person that I am "hearing" is energetically on a wave length onto which I can grab, that's a gift. I appreciate the challenge of the silent language, and I confess my worry that I will miss something.

As a D, confessing an insecurity is vexsome. There's a balance between imbuing a feeling of security for one's s and in speaking a truth. Setting expectations is important. "I need for you to stay at least present enough to give me some mileposts along this journey. I know words are not going to hold you in good stead, so you need to find another way to speak to me. If you do not, I will stop." And so the dance becomes much more subtle. A touch of a hand on my arm, very light, a flex of muscles, toward me, away from me. A call and response, asked and answered. Sweet.

Still, I am edgy to HEAR the words. And always, I am grateful for the lesson.

I STILL Can't Help Myself...

2008-12-06T22:53:00.000-08:00

A followup to the last post. CL headline.

Man in plutonic marriage seeking woman in same situation

Can't Help Myself

2008-12-04T08:31:00.000-08:00

Craigslist is an amazing resource. Sell stuff, buy stuff, find jobs, services, lovers, you name it. It's also on my short list for entertainment. The creative use of language is a never ending crackup. Today's grin:

You Must Be:

Over 30
Have Car
Have Job
Clean
And Able To Host A Fun Time At Your House At Your Discrepancy.

Truth is most always funnier than fiction.

Life is good.

boy

2008-11-26T13:53:00.000-08:00

"Come, boy."

he turned from the sink, wiping his hands on the bright white dish towel, dutiful servant. he wore a white apron with a bib and ruffle and nothing more, save the 2" black pumps and Aneros insertable that nobody would know was there unless they watched his face battling to stay focused from the chronic stimulation, knowing he would be punished if he dared give in to the pleasure.

his expression as he turned, what can I say? It was beatific. Taller than Me by five inches if we each are barefoot, this evening, I equalized a bit by wearing six inch platform patent leather strap-ins, making the difference only marginal. he came to Me, knelt, legs spread, palms up on his nicely developed thighs.

"Worship."

he carefully unzipped My black spandex pants, not knowing what he would find. he gasped in a ragged breath as he extracted My perpetually turgid favorite black cock. his hands went immediately behind his back, and Mine to his head as he opened his mouth wide to take Me in. I held fast, letting him have a moment to adjust, to lubricate My rod before forcing Myself through his throat sphincter.

"That's it, pretty, make Mistress happy. Mmm, take Me..." Pushing his lips all the way into My belly, rocking back and forth, knowing he could not breathe, right to the edge, and then letting him back off. I tilted his head up to see him, eyes watering, rich spit flowing from his lips to My phallus. his eyes shone, and I said, "you do please Me, boy. you worked very hard this week, I have a gift for you. Please do your obesiance and then come with Me." he wiped My phallus with his apron, kissed it, and zipped My pants, and said, "You honor me, Mistress. Thank You for allowing me to please You."

I turned and went down the hall to My bedroom and stopped at the door, blocking it. he began to kneel as I stood, but I stopped his descent, seeking his member under the apron. Fully erect, as I anticipated, I felt his girth and the heat emanating, and grinned evilly. I pulled him to Me for a kiss, finding his tongue, dancing, nibbling his lips. his hunger telegraphed itself to Me, yet his disciplined restraint never slipped.

I stepped away from the door and he saw the suit bag hanging in front of the closet sporting a large red bow. "Go ahead, pretty. Open it." I lounged on the edge of the bed and watched as he reached to unzip the bag, carefully folding back the cover to expose black silk. A jacket and slacks, with a cut that was distinctly different, soft almot cowl neck collar on the jacket, tucked in a bit at the waist. The dense lush black of fine silk, with silk lining, a deep forest green.

"Please take special note of the construction of the trousers, boy." The slacks also exquisitely tailored, made for his long frame, with one delightful difference: the zipper in the fly did not end, but went the entire length of the seam, so that a devilish Mistress who desired access could unzip from the back, taking Her boy in all manner of opportune and inopportune occasions. He found the odd construction and immediately turned bright red.

I laughed and said, "The rest is here, boy," pointing to the boxes on the bed. The look on his face was worth the expense. He knelt next to the bed and opened the box with the shirt, pure white, soft deep cuffs, soft collar again, form fitting.

The shoes, of course, were men's opera pumps, naturally, with a heel slightly higher than was traditional. Soft black patent.

"Mistress, if i may?" "Speak."

"It is beautiful. It is a men's suit but....not. Softer, feminine, but not so that..."

he struggled for words and I interjected, "It is a suit sewn for a proud submissive boy, My dear. you deserve it. your obedience and fealty do not go unnoticed. And, besides, I thought you might want something nice to wear when, with our friends around us, you formally accept this."

I handed him one last box, smaller than the rest, keeping his gaze for a long moment. Those eyes, reflecting back the love that I felt fiercely, My boy, dear slave.

he opened the wrapping, exposing a black velvet jewel box. Hands shaking, he opened the box to expose an antique white gold finely worked thin torque, with an emerald in the middle and a clasp that made the piece a solid collar.

he touched the torque and brushed away a tear. I let the moments pass in silence. he moved so that he knelt directly in front of Me not looking up, tears flowing now, shoulder shaking. Such a sweet moment, this, the fruition of much time passing, challenges faced, many victories, some losses. And here we were, a question in My heart, an answer in his.

he took a deep, deep breath, wiped his eyes and looked at Me, started to speak, then stopped. Started and stopped. I smiled at him, took his face gently, and pulled him to Me, enveloping him. I felt his strength and his openness, his vulnerability. I reflected briefly on the warp and weave of our lives and thought about how his service made the fabric of My life unspeakably richer.

"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered. Clearing his throat, louder, more steady, "Yes, Mistress, i will humbly and so proudly do this thing you ask, all of it, kneel before you surrounded by our friends and accept this beautiful collar. Yes!"

On Closets

2008-11-24T13:12:00.001-08:00

I posted a comment on a wonderful blog (http://submissivemale.blogspot.com/)recently about being out of the closet as a Femme Domme and was amazed to realize that My comments engendered discussion. One of the things that I found most interesting was this, "When you are completely comfortable with who you are as person you have less need to tell people about it - rather you just go about living your life in the way that makes the most sense to you."

So, if we live a life that is non-mainstream, one that still is the subject of a gross amount of ridicule, discrimination, ignorance, and misunderstanding, so long as we're comfortable with ourselves, we get a pass on doing anything to change the world's perceptions? Huh. I missed that chapter in Responsible Living 101...not to mention the joy of the comic potential in the learning process for all involved.

I remember a long time ago when I was 20 and the VP of the local chapter of the women's political caucus. We were interviewing a candidate for sheriff. He was the currently elected sheriff running for re-election. He said something that became a key to my life. "When I answer the phone and it's the 12th woman experiencing domestic violence I've spoken to in that day, I CANNOT bring forth my angst and frustration at all that happened in the previous eleven phone calls. I have to be all there for her at that moment."

In My life I've had a seemingly endless number of closets out of which to navigate. I just don't believe we get a pass. Every time we do the work, there are lessons, profoundly positive lessons, for us -- and others -- to learn. Contentment and complacency just don't make for a full use of the air we breathe.

Habitudes

2008-11-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

I am searching for a new place to live. My dear housemate soon inherits a room or more full of stuff and the room in which the stuff will reside is the one in which I currently occupy space. The notion of finding a house in which to lay my head and hopefully to make a bit of a home is daunting. Who will have a one with as many adjectives preceding my name? How much information is enough to share and when do I get in to the TMI danger zone? Will I scare someone off the first time they hear the repetitive thud of the flogger or is it better to warn them ahead of time? Likewise, how much do my future housemates need to know about what exactly polyamorus means? Shall I furnish them with a list of definitions for all those troublesome adjectives?

Crap.

Off to craigslist I go to find people looking for housemates.

I answered this ad:

Looking for open minded female to share a SE home with male. High speed internet washer dryer and dishwasher. Please be a mature non smoker with no pets. thanks (sic)

After momentarily wondering what was an internet washer, I decided this seemed innocuous enough and I dropped a note.

I'm a mature (51) female who is a non-smoker, non-drinker, very open minded, equal parts brainiac and nutball. Very self-contained, quiet as a housemate, a writer with a day gig.

I received this reply.

You sound like a very nice lady. I am not far from where you work, so this would be close for you. I am a intellectual guy interested in many things and a few years older than you. At this time I am doing software development and I have my own web site where I sell my products. I would love to share my home and bed with you lets talk.

Remember what I said recently about life being good or good material? I read it again, yup. ...share my home and my bed with you... I live for moments like this. I ripped off an e-mail to my circle of maniac friends and we all had a fabulous laugh. They asked what I planned to do, and I said I intended to meet him, the house looked great!

I rang up later and he complimented me on my sexy voice (gack). I asked him where exactly his house was, and he assured me again that it was very close to my work. When I reiterated the question, he told me. The ad made it sound like he lived smack in the middle of my target area. But, he lives far south and not even in my city. He got more defensive as I pressed him, and I finally said, It was one thing for you to not be upfront in your ad about looking for a sexual partner in a roommate. That was at least entertaining. But, when you just lied about your location, now THAT pisses me off. Thanks anyway.

Golf...flog

2008-11-10T08:13:00.000-08:00

I got infected with golf from a dear friend who was at that point in my life my lover. I took one lesson, hit one great shot, heard that perfect thwock, felt and saw the ball fly, sweetly aloft, and I was sunk. I am a guilty golfer, of course, as it's irresponsible to NOT note the environmental ridiculousness of the sport. Chemicals, chemicals, chemicals, water, water, water, and a just stupid use of land. But, sigh, I guess that's why it's called an addiction. Just the prospect of the next amazing shot...

Kink has been a substantial part of My life for a stupid long time. If I had golfed as long, I'd be a helluva golfer by now. The day that I realized that the two mirrored one another letter wise, I'd just finished golfing and racing home with My boy for some intense hours of handballing. The parallels cracked Me the hell up. Every time a golfer plays a course, no matter whether the same day or same month, the conditions are different. When I play a body, it's no different. The conditions are complicated, the course is every changing. There are soooo many ways to get to one's intended destination, and being at top form demands focus and discipline. (pun not intended).

I believe it is incumbent on kinksters everywhere to take up golf as Y/your sport! Just imagine how much fun it would be to scandalize this profession that still operates with sexism as a principle....oh, joyous day to see collars on the course!

On Being a Circus Oddity

2008-11-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

My life is decidedly outside the mainstream, as are the lives of many I know and love. It doesn't feel weird to me, it's just me in my skin doing what I do. To others, my being a polyamorus kinky bisexual Dominant former lesbian now straight.ish, seems often to be cause for curiousity. Sometimes close friends sometimes are impatient for my next adventure. I don't mind that so much, as I love to tell stories from time to time, especially those wherein I'm an idiot in some way or other. But, I do not much like to feel as though I'm a circus act. That purely chaps my former cowgirl hide.

Last evening I met a man who basically interviewed me for an hour and a half before I finally said NO MORE. Getting to know someone -- I seem to recollect that works best when it's a dialog, not an interogation. I get that we learn from others' experience. Naive and unchecked curiosity is tedious. Do your homework on a subject and learn online or something. Or, at least make sure you're not talking with a curmudgeon who, despite being freakish, prefers to choose with whom and how much she shares her freakishness.

Velcro versus Teflon Brain

2008-11-04T16:25:00.001-08:00

Ever had a conversation with someone and having no context for the content of their words, felt them hitting the wall of your brain and sliding right down to pool on the ground? Damn that Teflon. On the other side of the brain, conversing wherein you share consonance and context, even the most deliciously abstract concepts bury themselves in those little Velcro tendrils, nevermore to stray. Bliss.

My brain seems to enjoy a happy schizophrenia between the two hemispheres, Velcro and Teflon. I continue to try hard to remind myself to manage to my Teflon side, and seek context. Likewise, when speaking, I work to remember to provide context. Sometimes, it's just not possible. When I'm speaking at a graduate level and my listener hasn't started school on a given topic, yea, I can hear the blobs of prospective knowledge hitting, SPLAT! and sliding down, down, down.

The angst I feel when I have a Teflon moment inspires me to continue my commitment to seeking and providing context. If only we all had the patience to unpack those things about which we speak.

Yea, not likely.

Really Bad Sex

2008-11-02T15:03:00.000-08:00

Last night, I had the worst sex in recent memory. It made me call on my mantra as a comic writer: life is either good or good material. I will say first that, despite the bad sex, I had a great time, because the perpetrator of the badness was a nice guy, completely unaware of his lack of competence. (Note to self: write SOON about the hilarity and the synergistic affects of unconscious incompetence).

First, the kiss. Kissing is elemental in the sexual/sensual dance in my world. It is the first place wherein we learn how our partner (or prospective partner) listens, adapts, leads and follows. We also learn how much imagination the individual employees, and how aware of his/her body s/he is.

Boy du jour got started by not making any attempt to kiss me or to make physical contact on meeting. Given that this was a sexual hookup, I found that odd. Although I'm a Dominant in the BDSM world, when I'm in a vanilla space, I tend to hang back a bit and watch to see how people orient. It's a little bit like a vacation, I just want to see where someone wants to go. I don't always assume I'm driving. He continued to not touch me as we laid on the bed. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted, he was just clearly clueless of how to behave. That's the point at which I refuse to save someone. Incompetence is not something I reward. I was already amused.

An hour later after long funny conversations, I began nodding off, so I assume he caught a clue. Coming in for The Kiss, he resembled a drive by shooter, swooping in with a blast of tongue wiggling and then racing off. I couldn't get him to engage with lips or mouth with any kind of flow. Like dancing with someone who has both no sense of rhythm AND is hearing different music in his head.

Poor guy also neglected to tell me that he has some E.D. issues. High blood pressure, and poor health overall, I'd guess. Continuing to laugh inside...much attention to his manhood yielded no good result. I take that personally, not being able to help in that respect! After more driveby kissing, he decided to please me with his hand. (Isn't that sex 101?) He could not kiss me and use his fingers at the same time. Kinda like the organ, I can't manage two hands and a foot pedal.

How the heck can someone get to be an adult and still be THAT poor a lover?

Don't answer that. I don't want to know.

True Believers

2008-10-28T15:29:00.000-07:00

"The constant assertion of belief is an indication of fear. " Jiddu Krishnamurti

One week before the election and the fear from the conservative side of the aisle, at least from the fringe wing continues to mount. The "true believers" are out in force.

Likewise, progressives. We are petrified to lose this one. The stakes are high, indeed.

If we follow Krishnamurti's path, we will ALL live in the moment and we will all be without fear. Notice, do not fracture through analysis. Breathe and be.

Fuzzing Up the Lines

2008-10-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Why are we so afraid of fuzzy lines? Humans seem propelled to want strict definitions of our realities. We spend an extraordinary amount of energy trying to be clear, to understand, to create consensus. No matter whether it's work, play, or personal lives, the desire to define and understand is great. No sooner do we define than we begin coming up with ways to cheat the definition. Monogamy comes to mind. It is not news that there is tremendous angst about this social model. Every time I encounter someone struggling within its bounds, I ask about why they don't enter into a discussion about fuzzing up the lines. Invariably the answer is some derivation of "S/he would never be able to handle it." When asked if the subject has been broached, the answer is frequently, "I wouldn't do that." Instead, the person to whom I'm speaking would prefer to quietly step outside the bounds of the arrangement. I wonder, of the millions who do engage in stepping out, how many of their spouse/partners truly ARE clueless. When one's partner's energy becomes other-directed, is it most often not noted by a spouse? Seems doubtful. With subtle undercurrents operating, how long does it take to begin eroding the core of the relationship?

Relationships are meant to be built to withstand hard stuff, right? Why, when at a crossroads for such a discussion, do people avoid he conversation? Huh. Compensatory behaviors are expensive in the end. Conflict aversion trumps honesty a lot of the time.

The land of non-monogamy requires a deep commitment to full disclosure; to recognizing that jealousy is a mask for fear, fear for anger, and that the only way to deal with that package of behaviors is through getting right into the middle of them. No shortcuts, dive in. And trust that the work done to date to build a strong foundation will see you through. It's not as though non-monogamy requires anomie. Indeed, it still requires a clear commitment to simply a different set of rules. The lines are just fuzzier.

Energy Drills and Intentionality

2008-09-28T17:26:00.000-07:00

We seek not rest but transformation.
We are dancing through each other as doorways. ~ Marge Piercy

As we walk through the doorway of a new person's life, whether we stay in their house for a moment or a very long time, that gift of potential is humbling and not infrequently, the start new adventure. I recently met someone who, unbeknowst to him, inspired me to begin an exploration of a subject matter into which I've never delved. One exchange and I'm mucking about in a whole new universe of transformative knowledge and awareness.

Life is cool when we pay attention.